Elandriel Sil'vane frowned as she felt the painful echo of an inhuman cry, reverberating and yet unheard, in the arching and airy grove that served as the temple for her kindly goddess, Diune of the Healing Hands. Somewhere in the nearby forest, she knew, some creature was in pain, was being hurt for longer duration than what happened in the natural course of things. There had been such a cry last night, and again earlier this morning, when the dew barely wet the grass.<br/><br/>She could not in good conscience ignore or endure these cries any longer. Something wrong had come into this part of the forest, and was causing harm that she should prevent. A silver knife at her hip, almost hidden against the glimmer of her robe, she moved from the grove and slipped from treetrunk to treetrunk, following the vibrations of torturous pain that called out to her.