On the sacred island of Entrana, Nyssarra, a half-elven ranger of Seren, and Jahn Stirling, a Saradominist paladin stripped of his armor, share a quiet, probing encounter that challenges their beliefs and plants the first seeds of mutual respect amid silence, stillness, and the unspoken weight of future conflict.
Seafoam and Silence
~ ~ ~
The boat to the island of Entrana was quiet. No steel rang on deck. No curses barked by crew. The waves lapped gently against the hull, and every breath of salt air felt like a prayer. Nyssarra stood at the bow, cloak drawn tight, crystalline pendant faintly glowing as it always did near sacred places.
Behind her, monks in brown robes whispered to each other and smiled with serene detachment. She was used to being the outsider. A half-elf, a ranger, a follower of Seren—Entrana was not her home. But it called to her all the same.
She was here to seek stillness. The balance she had long ago learned to chase. What she found instead was a man seated cross-legged on the shore.
Jahn Stirling looked nothing like the armored paladin Nyssarra had heard rumors of—though perhaps that was the point. Barefoot, clad in a simple brown Saradomin robe, he was older than she expected—weathered like a worn statue—but his posture spoke of discipline, not weariness. A thin scar ran from his jawline to his collarbone, and his hands, resting palm-up on his knees, bore the roughness of long campaigns.
“You’re not a monk,” she said as she approached.
“No more than you are,” he replied without opening his eyes.
Nyssarra tilted her head. “But you are Saradomin’s. I can feel it. It clings to you like the sea clings to ships.” He opened one eye and smiled faintly. “And you walk with Seren’s hush. Interesting company for a war god’s daughter.” Nyssarra’s hand rested near the satchel of crystal shards at her hip. “Seren is not a war god.”
“No,” Jahn said, rising fluidly to his feet. “But you came armed.”
She looked down. True, the small utility knife on her belt hadn’t been noticed or had been tolerated—but weapons were not welcome on Entrana. She unclasped the knife and handed it to the monk watching from the grove nearby. He accepted it silently and vanished into the palms.
“I don’t suppose you surrendered your sword?” she asked. Jahn turned, walking slowly toward the temple gardens. “Of course I did. I believe in Saradomin. If I can’t walk a single day without a blade, what kind of peace do I serve?”
She followed.
They walked among the wind-stirred white petals of Entrana’s sacred flora, the ocean breeze whispering through arching trees carved by wind and devotion. Jahn guided her not like a host, but like someone rediscovering the paths himself.
“So,” he said at last, “why is a ranger of the Crystal Goddess seeking peace among Saradomin’s children?” Nyssarra brushed her fingers over a pale blue flower. “Not peace. Stillness. A moment to breathe. I spend too much time in borderlands.”
He considered that. “I thought your people lived in harmony.”
“My people don’t live in Gielinor anymore,” she said. “Just echoes. I am half of what was lost, half of what remains. It makes balance… delicate.”
“Balance is overrated,” Jahn said without venom. “I prefer justice.”
Nyssarra raised an eyebrow. “And who decides what’s just? Your god? Your sword?”
“My conscience,” Jahn replied. “Guided by truth. Anchored by faith.”
Nyssarra smiled faintly. “Faith that the world can be made right by force.”
He stopped walking.
“And you?” he asked. “Do you believe the world rights itself if you simply listen hard enough?”
There was no cruelty in his voice—only challenge.
They stood among the swaying garden paths, two philosophies circling like birds overhead.
“Perhaps,” she said after a breath. “Perhaps justice doesn’t need to be declared. Perhaps it grows like a tree—patient, quiet, inevitable. You don’t shout a tree into being.”
“You don’t argue with a wildfire,” Jahn said softly. “Or a tyrant.”
She met his eyes. “We see different enemies.”
He nodded. “But the same wounds.”
Later, they sat by the inland spring. Nyssarra let her fingers skim the water’s surface, watching the ripples dance across the lilies. Jahn sat beside her, gazing at the reflection of the sun through the leaves.
“I once believed there were no other ways,” he said quietly. “That order must come from the sword or not at all. But I watched a village burn because I made the wrong call. Too swift. Too certain.”
Nyssarra said nothing, but the silence between them softened.
“And you?” Jahn asked. “Have you ever wished for less stillness?”
“Every day,” she said. “Stillness isn’t silence. I’ve learned that the hard way. The world speaks, Jahn. Even when we want it to stop.”
“Then I’m glad you’re listening.”
As the sun dipped low, turning the white stones of Entrana to gold, Jahn offered her a hand to help her rise. She took it. His grip was strong, calloused, but kind.
At the boat that would return them both to the mainland—separate paths, separate duties—he paused.
“You know,” he said, “it’s customary to offer a blessing when parting ways on Entrana.”
She tilted her head. “Then by all means.”
He raised a hand to her shoulder and said, “May your arrows fly true, and your balance never falter.”
Nyssarra placed her hand over his heart, feeling the soft rhythm beneath. “May your sword always know when to stay sheathed.”
They parted without promise. But not without understanding.
And somewhere, in a future yet unwritten, they would meet again.
Under darker skies.
With heavier weapons.
But the seed of respect had already taken root.