Tileryan
"You want to know where I'm from?" Asks Tortilla, the dull-green and ever-cracking with age, Tortle to his new friend Eothyn Wylderrym. "I hail from a town as you would refer, which we consider a village, called Tileryan, much like I imagine your elf-kin is accustomed to.
Deep in a forest, mayhaps a little closer to a marsh than you would prefer? A swamp... I think? A grotto... perchance? I'm not quite sure, I know much of many locations, yet I have tasted the waters of none."
Epistle chimes in suddenly, perfectly timed at the next inhale of his friend.
"I can take it from here Tortilla, I'm sure my words will paint a smoother picture, and my exhumation of such will not quite draw a sweat as loud as I see growing on your brow."
Tortilla nods and succeeds the stage to the pale white elf. Letting pressure off his magically emblazoned wood staff, rolling back onto his shell to rest like he's done every year in his long life.
"Their village is that of ancient mud huts passed through generations of hands, taking great care not to disturb the fauna and flora. About five or so miles in circumference, always slowly expanding yet in a meticulously, cyclical pattern so as to keep the feel of a community. Thatched roofs, some slanted, some circular. All deteriorating, patched and bleached of colour, gaining that stark, green-algae hue the further from the centre you look. Few of the houses featuring and benefiting from the massive, 5-foot wide trunks of various heights, growing only through the circular roofs. The cobbled pathways of muddied bricks, from millennia of Tortles tracing their usual paths going to and fro from workshop to smeltery to armoury to domici-"
"Myrtle's hut, which was right down that path!" The Tortle interrupts, "two rights from the Chieftain's."
"Yes, yes, Taheton, we'll get to her later," Epistle says in a much softer and sympathetic voice.
Sonorous Tylassien, up until this moment, has been dead quiet, soaking up as much information as possible, much like his profession demands. Strong and mighty, humanoid and amphibian, holding a warrior's stance, yet posture bending like a willow closer towards the two friends speaking. He lets that last spoken sentiment hang and rest for as long as he feels it deserves until he breaks it.
"I'm... I'm so sorry, but I must ask a question that I think we both have." Looking over to the puzzled face of Eothyn to his right. "I thought the Tortles on this side of the Chainwounds were a peaceful and secluded race? Why would they ever need a workshop and smeltery, let alone an armoury?
Both Sonorous and Eothyn squint their eyes and hold that contact until turning to face the pale elf for an answer.
"Tortilla here, or Taheton, as I met him, is from the Razorback Tribe. But, by far and away, the most aggressive and untrusting of the three tribes, if unaware, are the previously said, Softshell and Desert Tribes.
Each tribe favouring their environments and thus personalities - trust me - to dictate their positions and strengths in life. I've known, loved and shared many tales with this tremendous and snoring Tortle here."
Epistle says, shooting a quick but meaningful glare to Eothyn before looking as if addressing a crowd of people.
"There is so much yet to tell you two, and we've a long path ahead of us to reach Skyward Sprout. But I've talked enough, and I vastly prefer the telling of the tale from his turtle tongue as to why this works."
Epistle draws a flat-faced arrow from the quiver strung along his back and lightly taps on the dark and ever-cracking shell of his friend, stirring him awake.
"I thought... I told you, please do not touch my shell."
