Although the Sage did join his ward at the table, his digits seemed to take far more interest in being intertwined than in the food before them. It was customary, if not altogether ritualistic, of the elf to join Cirilla only to later slide whatever was in front of him over to her. After all, Avallac’h could survive for an impressively long time drinking only water and eating even more sparingly despite his constitution. The time they’ve spent together has taught Cirilla that he favoured fruits above all else, preferably those that made very little mess– such as apples, for example.
Aware that Zireael would first lose her voice than change her mind, Avallac’h spared her the trouble with a prolonged sigh that signed his defeat.
“Yes. But only in leading us to Tir ná Lia, where Eredin and his Red Riders currently reside.” As well as Gwynbleidd, he thought, believing that, by the look in her eyes, Zireael thought the same. “Every successful hunt brings them back to their homeland, after all. Celebrations are in order… and it is in the night of one such celebration that we must strike.”
After Zireael was finished with her food, Avallac’h passed over his untouched share of bread to her, then stood up to unfold a parchment on top of the table. At first, it looked empty, until a spell with the mere touch of his digits filled it with lines that mapped out Tir ná Lia’s from the Easnadh to Tuathe.
“It is in the Royal Palace’s inner courtyard where their merrymaking takes place. Just south of it is where prisoners are kept.” He motioned each and every location precisely, paying no mind to the crumbs that fell from Zireael’s every bite. “I must warn you: if it is true that Eredin has, indeed, captured your friend, it is unlikely of him to be the same person you once knew. Are you certain that you wish to see this through regardless?”
