The soft whisper of the Vallenwood's leaves filled the sacred glade as Othorion
Sha'evlas stood before the gathering of elves. The sun's golden light wove
through the ancient canopy, dappling the priest's robes with shifting patterns.
Before him, scales glistening in the dappled light, stood Ghaoshen'ite, the
Great Crystal Wyrm, Jurist of Kwainin, of the Crystal Court. Her massive form,
though coiled with grace, exuded an undeniable presence. Her request hung heavy
in the air. 

"The Vallenwood has spoken," Othorion's voice was measured but firm, carrying
weight beyond his own will. "Your request cannot be granted." 

A hush fell over the gathered elves, their silvered eyes flickering with
curiosity and concern. Ghaoshen'ite's crystalline eyes remained unreadable,
reflecting the light in prismatic splendor, but the subtle shift of her wings
betrayed a deeper consideration. 

"Priest of Zandreya," her voice resonated, like the chime of wind through
hollow crystal, "we seek only an accord that would benefit both our peoples.
This would set a precedent for how these cases are dealt with in the future,
why do your people deny the request?" 

Othorion regarded her in silence for a moment before stepping forward, his
fingers brushing lightly over the bark of the ancient tree that stood beside
him. The warmth of the wood thrummed beneath his touch, the pulse of nature
itself, a reminder of the traditions that had guided his people for centuries. 

"This is not a matter of diplomacy or compromise," he said with quiet finality.
"The traditions of Shalonesti are woven into the very heart of the Vallenwood.
To disregard them, even in the pursuit of harmony, would be to uproot what we
are. Your request conflicts with our customs, and so, by our laws and by the
will of the land, it must be denied."

 Ghaoshen'ite's great crystalline tail coiled ever so slightly, the only outward
sign of her reaction. At last, she inclined her massive head. "Then the
Vallenwood has made its judgment. I shall respect it"

 Othorion watched as she unfurled her wings, the refracted light painting the
glade in countless shimmering hues, and took to the sky. Only when the rush of
wind and shimmering glow of her presence had fully faded did he exhale, his
fingers still resting against the tree's bark. The judgment had been given, and
the Vallenwood's wisdom upheld. But even in the sanctity of tradition, he knew
that denial today would not mean the end of tomorrow's trials.