Rattles learned much from the dwarf while they talked. He learned that her name wasn't something that she liked to share, and that names weren't really something most of the druids in the circle answered to, either. He learned that most of the circle referred to each other by the form they preferred to wear most often, if they had to use a name at all. There were some exceptions, but they were just that, exceptions. People who preferred to be referred to by a name were respected for their choice, though.
He learned that when a child raised by a druid in the circle would come of age, they would be asked to choose a name, and present it before the circle, before either leaving for another circle or their own paths, or else remaining in the circle thereafter.
He learned that there were other circles of druids, guarding nature in other parts of the world in their own ways. Some would live with and within nature, acting as its appendage, some would safeguard specific sites, and some would live in civilization, acting as emissaries and advising the civilized races on their interactions with nature.
He learned that the dwarf who he was speaking with would sometimes answer to Badger, if a surrogate name was strictly necessary. It was also explained to him that this circle chose a new leader every gathering by a rite of strength.
Rattles looked at the dwarf in surprise. "Father Heron, strongest?"
Badger grinned, looking up at him. "He's been using magic the most of all of us, and stayed up for a day and a night and a day doing it. Don't be fooled by his age or his scrawny human frame, he's far and away the strongest of those left."
"You mean those left after..."
Her expression suddenly became very somber. "Yeah. That accursed lich took a lot from us. He won't come back anytime soon, though. We've made sure of it."
"Wait, you mean he's not dead?
She shook her head ruefully. "Liches are very, very hard to kill. If you slay their physical form, they regenerate from an object called their phylactery, which most talented liches keep in a safe space far, far out of reach. If you add to that the fact that, as undead, they need very little to get by, as well as the fact that they're always very powerful spellcasters, then you have a menace that will return time and again unless made unable."
Rattles was shocked. He thought about what he'd heard about the lich so far, and realized that the only words that had been used so far to refer to Malost were that he'd been banished, or driven out, or made to leave. After a moment's hesitation, he quietly asked, "How long did it take you all to get rid of him?"
She looked out into the dark, her expression grim. "Weeks. Weeks of fighting off his mindless undead minions. Weeks of a war of attrition between the forces of nature and those of undeath. Weeks of losing our friends, our family, to his spells and traps. The lucky ones died swiftly, and the unlucky ones died slowly, rotting away on the inside for weeks of their own."
"... The ones still alive aren't lucky?"
She looked up again at him, a small, sad smile on her face. "We have to live with the memories of what happened. Trust me, none of us will ever be fully healed from what we had to see, what we had to endure." A determined expression set her jaw in stone. "But we would do it again, for this forest."
Rattles sat back, again struck by how odd it was that the druids tolerated his presence. If Father Heron was to hold the blame and hate they felt towards him... was that okay? Rattles didn't want to come between a group that so very obviously cared for each other very much.