Nearing the Hour of Ronan, Day of the Huntress, 4th day of Lumnea, 5121

It was late when Mirkk went to his secluded spot to rest for the night. He had been on edge all day, and it had taken its toll on him. This spot near Sylvarreand was a comfort to him in its seclusion. Aside from Mirkk, rarely did anyone trespass here. Still, the leaves rustled differently tonight and he could not understand why. And then he heard it.

The sound of several longbow strings being pulled taught was all he needed to know. He had been reckless recently - he had said too much to too many people. Though he was always careful when he came here. How did they find him here? Did she…? No, she did not. He recently spoke openly about this place, so they could have overheard. He did this to himself.

“Mirkk Timbertree of Bourth,” a voice called from the shadows.

Mirkk grinned slightly, his hand gently touching the pommel of his longsword. “I suppose it depends on who is asking,” he replied.

He had to be careful. His blades would not be able to stop the longbow arrows. He counted at least four bowstrings. There may be more.

“Mirkk Timbertree of Bourth, our orders are to escort you back to your uncle Donnavan. Back to Gallardshold, where you will be kept as a … guest of the Greensmen of the Deep.”

Five shadows emerged from the surrounding trees. Mirkk let out a slow, deliberate breath. The five Greensmen moved closer toward him, and one had ropes in his hands.

“Guest of my uncle, I presume?” Mirkk asked flatly.

“A guest of your uncle, aye,” said the one with the ropes.

At that moment, a blue-eyed white tiger leapt from the shadows, gripping the arm of one of the longbowmen in his maw, shredding the longbowman’s arm. The man cried out in pain and fell to the ground. Two of the other men turned their bows toward the tiger. Mirkk gave the tiger a glance and the tiger understood. The tiger complied with the request reluctantly and darted into the woods, but not before a bowman released an arrow, striking the tiger in the front right paw. Mirkk winced.

The presumed leader of this squad bent over and picked up the ropes from the ground. “Somebody clean him up,” he said to the other men. He cautiously approached Mirkk with the ropes. “Let us not spill any more blood tonight. Our orders were to bring you back unha-“ he paused. “In one piece.”

Mirkk slowly backed up and felt the limestone behind him. He deftly pulled a piece of folded paper out of his pocket and placed it on the altar, and then extended his hands to the man with the rope to not arouse any suspicion. He hoped she would find it there.

The group’s leader punched Mirkk in the gut, doubling him over in pain. “That’s for giving us so much trouble these past few days,” he grumbled. The leader used the opportunity to force Mirkk down do his knees and bound his hands behind his back. He then took Mirkk’s longsword and short sword out of his swordbelt and tucked them into his own.

Mirkk looked up, still trying to regain his composure from the punch, only to receive a swift kick to the jaw, knocking him out cold.

“That is for Jensur. He’ll probably lose that arm and never use a bow again.”

————————————————————————————————————————————

Stars. Stars through the trees. One bright star out shined all the others. That is all Mirkk saw as he raised his head with a groan. He was being carried on someone’s shoulder. And then he saw different stars as someone clubbed him over the head, drowning him in the unconscious.

Mirkk shifted slightly. He felt the presence of cold stone beneath him. He could smell the scent of straw and the thick air weighed on him. His head hurt too, but he wasn’t sure why. He opened his eyes slowly. Iron bars came at precise intervals from the right, meeting the large, flat stone surface on the left. Beyond was another cell. And then what looked to be another. 

Pressing his hands to the floor beneath, he slowly raised himself to a standing position. He wasn’t ready for it and became lightheaded, forcing himself to grip the bars and lean into them to steady himself. He closed his eyes and the moment passed. Opening his eyes again, he looked around the room. He was in the first of four cells lining the far wall. Three more cells stared gloomily back at him from the other side of the room. Directly across from him was a doorway with stairs leading up. Next to the door, hanging from a peg was his satchel. He saw no sign of his swords. At the far end from him on the wall was a single torch, and underneath it was a man sleeping in a chair. The man had bandages on one arm and he was missing a hand. 

Turning around ever so cautiously as to not get lightheaded, he examined his cell. There was a thin opening no wider than his hand on the far wall. Beyond it, was more stone. Underground, he thought. He moved to the small opening and realized he was just below ground level, and that he could see the sky from this thin vertical window. He pressed his face hard into the cold stone wall, trying to look up.

<The stars. If I can just see them…

He pressed harder into the stone but saw no stars. Dawn was about to break and the sky was getting lighter. He grunted pushed his head even harder into the stone, desperately trying to look up to the heavens.

<Just one…

“Looks like somebody is awake,” a voice said from behind. 

Mirkk sighed and closed his eyes, easing his head away from the wall. He turned and opened his eyes. It was the presumed guard, the man with the missing hand. 

“I’m sorry about your hand,” Mirkk said in reply. The guard said nothing, only sneered and spat on the ground. "Will I be seeing my uncle soon?"

The man with the missing hand responded, "Your uncle is unavailable and will not return until late tonight or tomorrow morning. Best get comfy in your new accommodations."

"If you wouldn't mind - would you get the quill and paper out of my satchel? I'd like to write him a message for when he returns."

Mirkk watched the man with the missing arm glance between the satchel and the cell, uncertain. Then, with an aggravated demeanor, the man moved to the satchel hanging on the wall and rummaged through it, producing a quill and a single piece of paper. Mirkk backed slowly from the door of his cell as to not make the man think he was up to something. The man set the paper and quill cautiously on the ground and slid them under between the bars with his foot and backed away.

"Thank you. Would you be so kind as to hand me the stick of wax?" Mirkk asked with a smile.

The man spat again and, rummaging in the satchel said, "What wax? This wax?" and proceeded to take the wax over to the torch and let it melt slowly onto the floor. Mirkk sighed. At least he now had the paper.  The man gave Mirkk another glare and sat back down in his chair and closed his eyes. Mirkk waited a few moments until he was sure the man was asleep and scribbled a few lines.  He folded and addressed the paper and then quickly moved back to his tiny window to the stars, but by now it was daytime and he could hear folks moving about.

<There must be a street above me.

He pushed his hand as far as it would go, hoping some kind passerby would notice his hand. As a reward for his actions, his finger was stepped by some street urchin who ran off. Mirkk winced, but muffled his cry of pain as to not wake the guard. He heard someone quietly snickering behind him. He turned and saw what appeared to be a young monk standing in the doorway holding a tray of food. Mirkk rushed to the cell door and begged the monk to come close. The monk obliged and Mirkk whispered a message in the monk's ear. The monk nodded once and Mirkk slipped him the note. The monk took the note and slid it into his robes and gestured for Mirkk to stand back. Mirkk walked backward slowly to the back of his cell and sat down on the hard stone floor.

The monk walked over and placed the tray of food gently on the floor next to the gaurd. He gently placed a hand on the guard's shoulder, and the guard startled awake. The guard muttered and nodded to the monk, and the monk turned to walk out. Before heading out the door and up the stairs, the monk glanced in Mirkk's direction and gave one swift nod of his head, and then exited the room.

Mirkk looked at his captor and asked, "Is that for me?" The man with only one hand looked at him and laughed.

<So much for hospitality.

No daylight peeked through the small hole of a window now. The noise and commotion of the passersby had died about an hour ago.

<It is probably more for ventilation than it is anything else.

Mirkk raised from his position along the adjacent wall and moved over to the window. He pressed his head firmly into the stone wall and cocked his head so that his left eye could gaze up into the celestial expanse. And then he saw his shining, eternal star.

His sense of hope and resolve was renewed in that very moment. He had not lost faith - not at all- but rather he recommitted then and there that he would make it back. He would make it back home. He gazed at the star for a long, long time. It was now well into the night.

The lack of sleep the past few days along with the lack of food started taking its toll. Though he struggled, he could no longer fight it. Ronan, the god of dreams, overpowered him and his will, and he slid to the floor and fell into a slumber.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

‘Wakey, wakey,” was all he heard. Something was poking him firmly in the ribs. It did not hurt, but it was enough of a discomfort to wake him. He started, and sat up, turning to the direction of the irritation.

Through the cell door he saw the man with one hand poking him with a long stick.

<Jensur. That was his name.

Mirkk smacked the pole away and slid back to the far wall of his cell, unwilling to take the provocation any longer.

“Awww. You’re not ready to get up?” asked the man. “Big day for you today, sleepyhead. Your uncle is back, and would like a word. You’ll be joining him to break his fast.”

<How long was I asleep?

Mirkk would normally never sleep past the first coos of the mourning doves at dawn, and that was if he was sleeping late.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Within the hour, two men Mirkk did not recognize came down the stairs. They were both dressed as Greensmen and armed with short swords. One of the men motioned to Jensur to unlock the cell. Jensur did not hesitate to do so, but did bring his pole to prod Mirkk back as he opened the cell door. Mirkk stepped forward and the two men nudged him forward toward the doorway. He started walking toward the stairs across from his cell and took them slowly. He did not want to move too fast and lose consciousness. He knew he was weak. The guards followed closely behind him.

At the top of the first flight of the stairs was an archway and the two men instructed him to proceed down a long hallway. There were no windows along these walls. Mirkk wasn’t sure if that was because they faced out toward the Wyrdeep, or if they were interior walls that forbid the pedestrians from looking in. They passed several large doors along the left side of the passage until they came upon a large maoral doorway with doors already opened. Light shone through. Mirkk had to shield his eyes until they adjusted. As his eyes became more focused, he could begin to see a large fireplace with a heavy stone mantle along the left wall and windows along the back wall that stretched upwards to the high ceilings. The sun shone down on a large, floral patterned green and crimson rug. On the rug was a long dining table that had several bowls of fruit, baked goods, and sausages placed in dishes at the near end. Seated, oddly not at the head of the table, but just to the right of it, he saw his uncle Donnavan who was breaking his fast.

The men pushed Mirkk forward and both took up their places as sentries flanking the door. Mirkk stepped forward toward the light of the sun and toward the darkness of his uncle. He stopped about six paces away from where his uncle sat. His uncle Donnavan had aged over these last twenty or so years. His beard was now almost fully grey with only a few spots of dark brown left. His hair was also grizzled, but still there was enough there for him to slick back, and he kept it long enough that it started showing its curls along the back of his neck. He was wearing a heavy green cloak with a ruby clasp. He looked healthy after all these years, just older.

Without looking at Mirkk and between bites, Donnavan said, “Have a seat, boy. Eat.” Mirkk continued to stand. Donnavan stopped eating and sighed. Finally, he raised his head and stared at Mirkk. “I need you healthy for training. I need you to eat.”

‘Why am I here?” Mirkk asked in reply.

“You are here because here is where you belong. Not out playing rogue or whatever it is that you do with whomever it is that you do it. You have a duty here, remember?”

Mirkk couldn’t help but laugh slightly. He turned his gaze out the window and said, “I do not have anything here.”

“You are incorrect,” Donnavan said calmly. “You have a duty to your people here. By all rights, Viridian should be yours and you should be a bannerman for the Caulfields.”

<So that’s what this is about. He wants to grow his own power and influence, and he wants to use me to do it.

Mirkk snorted. “Whatever you think, you’re wrong. That was just some silly story a mother told her son before bedtime that-“

“Your mother believed it!” Donnavan interjected. “And your father knew it. For whatever reason, you have decided to not do your part for the barony. And so that is where I come in. It is my job, as your uncle, to make sure you stay on the straight and narrow and fulfill your duties and responsibilities."

"Responsibilities to the Caulfields?" Mirkk asked. "The same Caulfields that raised their banners 500 years ago and slaughtered thousands in the name of the Empire? And not just soldiers, but women and children! No thank you, Uncle. I'm not interested in playing out whatever fable or story you believe."

His uncle slammed his hands on the table loudly! "Boy, do not think for one moment that I do not have ways to convince you," he sneered.

Mirkk looked away from the window, bypassing looking at his uncle directly, and looked at the fireplace. This time of year, there was no fire. Leaning against the wall between the fireplace and a servant entrance, he saw his two swords wrapped together in his swordbelt. He turned back toward his uncle. "There is nothing you can do to convince me."

A dark smile crossed his uncles lips. "Greensmen crossing into Elven territory to grab one of their own is one thing. We know about the woman. We have been watching you for some time."

Mirkk's instantly felt a knot in his stomach.

<That doesn't make sense, though. Even he would not risk a war with between the Empire and the Elves over me. And he knows that would be viewed as a hostile act.

This thought brought Mirkk a sense of relief. His uncle was bluffing, and he knew it.

He changed the topic to steer the conversation how he wanted it to go.

"So then, when does this training start?" he asked his uncle.

His uncle leaned back into his chair and grinned. "I reckon it will tomorrow afternoon. We'll see if you are still as good with the bow as you were as a boy," his uncle replied.

"So be it," Mirkk said as he reached for an apple from the fruit bowl nearest him on the table. "And this will be all I wish for breakfast this morning, Uncle." The last word he emphasized with a biting tone.

<I know a horse that would like this apple..

Donnavan, now having what he wanted, nodded his head and said in an affirming manner, "So be it."

"I do have a request."

"What is that?" his uncle asked.

"I would like to have my things back, my satchel at least. And a change to my lodgings would please me."

"You'll get your satchel, but not your blades. And no gold rings, to be certain. As for your lodgings, you'll stay in the cell until you prove your willingness to cooperate."

Mirkk nodded once, turned, and started to walked out of the doorway, followed by the two guards. As he did, his uncle said clearly, “Do not think I will not accept the risk with the Illistim elf.”

“Gosaena take you,” Mirkk shouted as he turned back toward his uncle. The two guards grabbed him and and forced him back into the hallway. He could hear his uncle laughing in the room he just left.

At the bottom of the stairs, the two escorts handed Mirkk back over to Jensur, then both turned and walked back up the stairs. As Mirkk was walking into his cell, Jensur said from behind, “Oh, there is one more thing.” Mirkk turned around and stared at him with anger filled eyes. Jensur grabbed Mirkk’s right arm, pulled it out straight, and with all the force he could muster with his leg, kicked the cell door, slamming it into Mirkk’s right arm with a loud CLANG and the sound of a crunch. Mirkk fell to the ground in pain.

“We’re not even close to being even,” Jensur snarled.

Sitting in the long grass with her back against the altar, she nibbled pensively at the end of her quill. The limestone was cool against her skin, in contrast to the late spring sunshine permeating the leafy canopy of haon and oak trees. She turned her face skyward to bathe in its warmth for a moment and allowed herself a brief smile.

The last few days had been difficult for many reasons but since she had received word from Mirkk, she was a little less anxious. What had he said? Do not fret for me. She was trying not to but such restraint did not come easy to her.

How can I reply without compromising him or putting him in danger?

Tapping the feather of her quill against her lip, she pondered the blank sheet of lilac paper resting on her bent knees. Her concentration was broken by a rustling sound to her right. As she turned instinctively towards it, a small rabbit broke free from the undergrowth and hopped a little closer. Standing on its hind legs, it observed her for a few moments with a gaze that implied she was intruding.

"I’m sorry, he’s not here but I am hoping he won't be away much longer."

Spying a dandelion, she picked it and offered it to the rabbit by way of an apology but it seemed to be satisfied with her vocalised response. Scampering away, it disappeared from sight with a flash of its white scut.

She giggled to herself and returned to the task in hand. Quickly penning a few lines on the paper, she folded it, kissed it, and slipped it into her pocket.

---

An hour later...

Walking along Sea Turtle Lane, she inhaled the heady fragrance of magnolia blossoms. The lanes of Eastern Harbor were quiet at this time of day so she was surprised to see someone walking towards her. With a soft smile, she greeted the shaven-headed man and bade him a good afternoon but gave him no further thought as she continued on her way.

Reaching her destination, she slipped the lilac paper into place but was surprised to see another sheet already there. Retrieving it, she held her breath and unfolded it.

Looking up from her tome, the governess coughed lightly. The giggling had gone on long enough and it was time that her two young silver-haired charges resumed their studies. Both sisters looked suitably remorseful after the gentle chastisement though, so she let the matter rest there.

"What was the year of Chaston's Edict?" The governess quizzed, barely masking her amusement at their playful antics.

The elder sister's arm shot up in the air and she answered immediately, "4310!" Her smaller sibling huffed a little and began to doodle a feather on the empty sheet of parchment in front of her.

"And what are the dates of the conflict resulting from the heinous acts of Gallard Wilke?"

Again, the older elf's hand reached high as she bounced up and down in her seat. "4599 to 4610," she blurted out before the governess could even finish her question.

"Excellent," the governess responded with a broad smile, giving her eager pupil a nod of approval whilst glancing at the quieter child, who now seemed to be filling the whole page with feather drawings.

"You’re not interested in imperial history, little one?" She gently inquired, to which the young elf nodded enthusiastically.

"Oh, yes, I am! But I know all of this already." Reaching down, she picked up three small books from beneath her chair, each stamped with a Turamzzyrian Empire crest, and deposited them on the table. "I read these yesterday."

Her curiosity piqued, the governess came over and lifted one of the books from the pile. Turning it on its side, she read the title on its spine and smiled down at her ward.

"The Wyrdeep Forest is certainly a good place to start."

---

The whinny of a horse snapped her back to the present day. The sun was low in the sky and her equine companion was clearly getting restless.

Keeping her promise to come back every day, she found herself once again in the glade and savouring its tranquility. She had spent the afternoon reading from a well-thumbed book. The cover bore the impression of three trees ringed by five feathers and the faded title on the spine read, "Tales of the Wyrdeep." A neatly folded sheet of silver-edged paper lay across the open page, marking a passage of particular interest. The makeshift bookmark had since been decorated in feather doodles and she smiled at the memory it had prompted.

"How apt", she thought, picking up where she had left off from her favourite story: "The Hunter and his Nyin'niel."

Discovering one of her favourite books from childhood tucked away on a shelf a few days ago had given her such joy; being reminded of her sister at the same time had tempered it somewhat. Finding a note tucked inside that same book, however, had caused her heart to skip a beat.

Her heart had also skipped a beat earlier that day when she heard his voice whispering her name on the wind. She had reaffirmed her promise to keep the candle lit until his return, so, here she was, keeping vigil.

Another hour was soon lost to the story and the horse resigned itself to grazing the long grass; she clearly wasn't getting an apple anytime soon.

Settling herself down in the long grass, she opened her book to the marked page and began to read. She had rushed her chores again that morning, eager to retreat to the solitude of the glade; to her only connection to him.

She was only a few lines in when she heard it - her name - carried in on an errant breeze. Instinctively, she looked around for him. The gentle zephyr caressed her cheek, lifting her hair and leaving behind the words, “I’m sorry.”

Then nothing.

An eerie silence pervaded the glade as everything simply stopped.

No birdsong, no leaves rustling in the trees, not even the sound of her own breath as it caught in her throat.

Turning to the candle burning on the altar, she watched in horror as the flame flickered one last time and died.

All hope had gone.

The longbowman stood there in silence, dumbfounded by what just happened. He and several others just stared in the general direction of north, toward the targets, saying nothing. To the east just off to his right, a monk could be seen walking calmly but surely down the grassy slope. He shifted his gaze toward the monk and watched.

<What is he doing?

He watched as the monk startled a hare, sending it scurrying toward the forests edge, where it froze. The creature stood there for just a moment, then darted east along the edge of the forest before disappearing out of sight.

He turned his eyes back toward the monk. The monk? Something was different. It was the same monk, but with long hair… And pointed ears? This didn’t make sense. He watched this being lift the body that was lying on its side to a sitting position. He watched as this person slid his arms under the arms of the body, clasping his hands just below where the arrowhead pierced through.

<What is going on?

The man watched the monk, back now turned towards the forest and facing Gallardshold, start to drag the body toward the woods.

“Hey, stop right there!” one of the other men shouted as he started down the hill. The man watched three more men follow and decided he should join them. As he started his run down to the target area, he continue to hear them in ahead of him shouting for the monk to stop. The monk continue to slowly drag the body toward the woods, unconcerned about the rabble of men bearing down on him.

The man saw his fellow longbowmen close in on the monk and then they froze at the edges of the forest. As he closed the gap and met them, he saw them slowly raising their hands and backing slightly away. He didn’t understand this. It was only one monk, who is now just inside the first edges of the forest. The man squinted, searching among the trees.

<We can still catch him. If we just…

And then he saw.

Just inside the treeline stood a host of Elvenkind- long ago descendants of the great elven houses, and half-elf alike- all with bows trained on them.

Three of the Elvenkind lowered and slung their bows, quivered their arrows, and helped the monk with Mirkk’s body.

Once they were out of sight, two-by-two the rest cautiously but deliberately disappeared into a forest that was now catching only the last rays of the afternoon sun.

Jensur walked down the corridor on the second floor of the keep. There were several store rooms with weapons and provisions. He entered one.

<A strange place for a meeting.

In the room on the far end was Donnavan, who signaled him to close the heavy oak door, which Jensur did.

“Yes, sir? Do you want to see me, sir?” said Jensur.

“Correct,” said Donnavan. “I need your expertise in a particular matter. It needs to be... discreet.”

Jensur nodded. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

Donnavan continued, “I need a form of insurance, in the event things go sideways with my nephew.”

Jensur nodded, unsure. “Okay…”

“I need the woman… from Illistim.”

Jensur gave him an incredulous look.

“You have been there before and you know how to find her. I need you to take three or four of your best men. I need you to bring her back to Bourth. Not here. Somewhere she will not be found.”

“And if things go sideways on me?” Jensur asked.

“Then kill her and anyone who bares witness. This could start a war and cannot come back on us. Do this, and you will be handsomely rewarded.”

Jensur’s lips curled up into a wicked smile. He nodded once and turned to open the door. Donnavan stopped him by saying, “Take no long bows, or green cloaks. Nothing that can tie you to Bourth.”

There is a certain pain in death. It is not a physical pain- no, that part is over and done with. It is a mental and emotional anguish that comes from separation from the ones you love and care about. It is a spiritual pain.

---

Mirkk was in spiritual pain. Time was immeasurable in this well-lit blackness. His only companion - the imposing black gates that seemed to beckon him.

Out of frustration, he shouted, "Let me out! Get me out of here!" There was not even an echo in return. He looked back toward the Ebon Gates. They seemed closer now.

<Did they move?

He was beginning to question things.

"Get me out of here! Please! Raise me!" he pleaded.

Nothing.

He ran away from the gates for what must have been a quarter of a mile before he stopped and shouted again, "Is there anyone there? Release me!"

Silence.

He turned and saw the Ebon Gates still right behind him. It was almost like they followed him. Silently they stood, bidding him to take a closer look. He took a step toward them. And then a second.

<Why has no one helped me? Am I beyond all hope of return?

In death, his faculties were escaping him. He screamed!

Stillness.

He stared at the gates, which in turn stared back at him with an eternal patience. He fell to his knees and closed his eyes, summoning all the fear and anguish and pain and spirit he could muster, and shouted as loudly and powerfully as he could, "RELEASE ME!"

---

"Did you hear that?" one of the elves said to the other, as he nudged him awake. "Did you hear it?"

"Hear what?" the other one with blond hair responded grumpily. It was not his turn to watch the body.

Four of the elves had been instructed by the Elder to stand watch over the body. Two would sleep or eat or run errands, and two would watch. Always two watching at all times were the instructions. And they would take turns, pouring the white flasks into the body at certain hours of the day. But never had it said something.

"It sounded like it said 'release me' or something, but it was very faint," the first elf with long, brown hair said to the second. The second seemed unsure. A third elf appeared in the doorway of the room where the body was being kept. "Who wants some fresh baked bread and tea?" the new arrival sang.

"Shhhh." said the blond elf. He inclined his head and listened.

Then, faintly, the words "release me" could be heard coming from the body.

The blond just stared in awe at the body. "What do we do?" the first elf asked. He waited for a response and, when he didn't receive one, he leaned in and asked a bit more emphatically, "What do we do?"

"Go get the Elder," the blond elf responded with a sense of urgency. "Quickly."

With a countenance of Zelia, Mirkk opened his eyes. In the brief moment before he cried out, he thought he had heard her. He thought he had heard her call out to him.

Was it her? Did I hear her?

Don't be foolish. There has not been a sound in this place since you arrived...how long ago?

He turned his head to the left and gazed into the infinite, afraid that this all may be eternally his fate. His eyes were bloodshot and pink around the eyelids- that kind of crazed look of hopelessness to them- and he was beginning to question everything.

Will anyone come for me?

It doesn't seem like anyone will come now, does it?

Does anyone care?

No, nobody cares about you. Not enough, anyway.

Did my uncle perhaps hide my body somewhere so that I may never be brought back?

That would be in his best interests, wouldn't it? Seems likely.

Do I even still exist?

Only in this space. This is all that is left for you.

It would seem so.

Yes it does seem that way, doesn't it? And how can you change that?

He felt defeated. Broken. He had made many mistakes in life, but he thought he had done some good in this world.

Have I not done enough that no one finds me worthy to bring back?

You know the answer to that by now.

Mirkk hung his head as moments slipped away, belonging now to the vast emptiness around him. He didn't know if these moments were days, weeks, or years. He had been away once before and lost everything he thought he loved. Rowing on a Krolvin slave galley all those years, he kept hope only to return to find all he loved or cared for was dead or had moved on, nowhere to be found.

Am I to suffer the same fate as before?

I should have never let her know it was me writing those letters. She would be none the wiser now. I would suffer alone. Now I have this burden of guilt for what has happened.

He didn't know if she knew he was dead, but she knew he was captured at the least, and at this point she would not ever hear from him except from the grave. The grave.

Even the departed get to come back once a year to see loved ones at a festival for...

He turned his gaze to the gates before him.

Is it not better to see the ones you love once a year than to be stuck in this place never to see anyone? I will see her again.

Slowly, he rose to his feet. He stared at the black gates with a look of grim determination. Five steps and he would be through the gate. Four steps and he would be able to touch them.

He took one step. His leg felt heavy. There was a cold that seemed to emanate from the gates.

Another step. His other leg was slow to move, but perhaps a little easier than the first step.

He took a third step and started to feel lighter. The air seemed to begin to warm around him, as if ready to accept him.

A fourth step. Floating now and the warmth wrapped his body and soul. It almost brought him a certain peace. He was close enough to touch the Ebon Gates, though he didn't. He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, and thought of seeing her again.

---

Mirkk opened his eyes, but nothing was in focus, only a piercing white light. His lungs burned as they had not had air in them for some time and he found himself stunned, unable to fill them right away. He couldn't speak. He could only lie there in the moment. He heard hushed voices.

As things gradually came into focus, he saw an older man - no, an elf- with long brown hair showing signs of gray, knowing green eyes, and wearing robes of flaxen, brown, and deep green.

"Mirkk. Mirkk..." the elf called to him. "You are alive and with the elves in Wyrdeep. I am Orómar. You are safe."

Mirkk found himself on the floor. As soon as he was cognizant, he had tried very quickly get out of bed, became lightheaded and fell to the ground. Two elves helped him back into bed.

“You are still very weak. You need to rest for a while,” Orómar said. “Ilizzaro will look after you, should there be anything you need.”

Mirkk looked over to the corner of the room and saw the other elf standing there quietly. He looked very similar to the elder, with long brown hair and green eyes, but much younger. He also wore the flaxen and brown and green colors, but in the form of a tunic and trousers.

Suddenly, another elf entered the room, seemingly unaware that there would be others in there. He looked surprised. He was dressed in the robes of a monk.

Mirkk stared thoughtfully at the monk for a moment. He looked familiar in a strange sort of way.

“You have already met Cainoyen,” Orómar stated as he gestured to the newest visitor. “Cainoyen was our… man on the inside for many years. Since before… Well, it does not matter now. He now serves in a different capacity, and is happy to be out of Gallardshold for a while.”

Cainoyen stepped forward and produced a sprig of bleeding-heart, which he placed on a small table next to Mirkk’s bed. Next to it, he set a silver-edged folded piece of paper. Mirkk looked at it and read the words, “Oialea Elen, Part 3.” Mirkk looked at Cainoyen with a pained and confused look. Then, Mirkk feebly took the paper in hand and touched a corner to the flame of the candle on the table. He held it until it had satisfactorily caught fire, and placed it in the tray of the candlestick holder. The paper burned fully, flickered, and went out. Cainoyen glanced at Mirkk, nodded once, and stepped back.

“Did you deliver part two?” Mirkk asked Cainoyen.

The monk nodded.

Mirkk rested his head against the wooden headboard and appeared lost in thought for the moment. He then turned back and said, “May I have my satchel? My quill and a piece of paper?”

Ilizzaro nodded and stepped forward from his corner, walked to a peg near the door and removed the satchel that was hanging there. He walked toward Mirkk and gave him the satchel. Mirkk did not see his swordbelt anywhere.

“Of course you may write to whomever you wish. You are a guest here and are free to leave whenever you like,” Orómar said.

“What is this place?” asked Mirkk.

Orómar responded, “You are in one of the oldest settlements of the Wyrdeep. Soon you will see it with your own eyes, but for your and our protection, you must not know the location or the name. I hope you understand.”

Mirkk nodded.

“But you must rest now. Hopefully in a day or two, I will be able to walk with you. There are things we will need to discuss,” said Orómar.

“Of course,” said Mirkk. “And thank you. Thank you for your hospitality,”

Orómar nodded and turned to walk out. On his way out the door, he said quietly to Ilizzaro in an old form of Sylvan, “He must rest. Let him recover slowly on his own. This is best.”

Ilizzaro nodded and watched Orómar walk out the door.

Mirkk was not familiar with Sylvan as much as he was High Elven, as some referred to it. He saw Cainoyen turning to walk out the door, but stopped him.

“Lord Cainoyen! If I might request one thing…” Mirkk said.

The monk turned around and nodded.

“He doesn’t speak. He took a vow of silence years ago. It made it quite frustrating, since he was our spy in Gallardshold,” chuckled Ilizzaro from the corner.

“If you would deliver another note. I cannot promise it will be the last, but if you can deliver this one, please!” Mirkk was begging at this point, but that was not needed. The monk nodded in agreement.

Working from memory, Mirkk hastily jotted down a few lines on the paper in what was probably his worst handwriting. He did not have beautiful calligraphy like Rohese. He got by with decent handwriting, but with a broken right hand, it was all but impossible to keep it tidy. Somehow, he wrote down all he needed to, folded and addressed it, and handed it to Cainoyen.

“If you could put it in the same spot, hopefully she will find it.”

The monk took the paper, nodded solemnly, and walked out.

“I will be just outside. Call out if you need anything. Again, I am Ilizzaro.” The tall elf gave a half-bow, turned, and walked out the door, closing it behind him.

Mirkk closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and tried to whisper the name, “Rohese.” The still air hung in the room, carrying nothing in the wind. Mirkk sighed in frustration, but couldn’t open his eyes. Exhaustion and weakness took over his body and he fell asleep with quill still in hand.

---

“Degmir!” shouted Donnavan.

“Yes, sir?” the soldier said as he entered the room. “How may I assist?”

Donnava stared down at the paper in front of him with a quill in his hand. He placed the quill down on the tray next to the paper and read it again. It read:

Dear Lord Caulfield,

Provided below is the military update for Gallardshold and eastern Bourth:

Nothing else was written.

“Degmir, what news from our men at the Locksmehr? Or Kragsfell? Have they seen anything yet?”

“No, sir. No sightings yet, at least from Kragsfell. Locksmehr has not sent word as of yet,” stated Degmir tactfully.

“And…and Jensur? Any news from our men in the east?”

“No, sir. Nothing from the east.”

Donnavan nodded. He had a look of frustration on his face, but did not take it out on Degmir.

“Thank you, Degmir. Please let me know soonest if we get word. That is all.”

Degmir nodded, rendered a salute and faced about and exited the room.

Donnavan was already a day late providing an update to the Baron. He wanted to provide a good update. He wanted to provide one knowing there were no loose ends. He needed Lord Caulfield to feel confident in his abilities to take care of things without drawing any attention to the barony. Donnavan had his men in other baronies now, and across the DragonSpine. He was in a precarious situation.

Memories

She stood at the edge of the Cysaelotar glacier, it’s mirror-like finish capturing the night sky in all its celestial glory. The pale blue of the ancient ice was light in the center, yet near cobalt along the edges with skeins of white frost creeping across its reflection and darkening it to azure. Cradled in her right hand was silk-sailed windracer.

Pressing her fingers to a locket concealed beneath her gown, she whispered a name into the sails and carefully set the windracer down on the glassy surface before stepping back with a shiver. Almost instantly, it surged across the ice as the air current that coursed through the area caught its bright sail and sent it racing over the cliff, only to be lifted by the wind and into the sky where it disappeared from sight. She gazed up at the stars and whispered a second name into the biting cold wind, still hoping to hear a response. Nothing.

The Ceremony of Remembrance earlier that day had seen her place flowers into the flames of the bonfire in memory of all those she had loved and lost. The thrumming of the aelotoi’s wings during the circle ritual had drawn the attention of a cluster of jeweled dragonflies. They had hovered above all their heads for some time but one – a pretty gold one with iridescent wings - had settled upon her hair and was still resting there now. It had oddly brought her comfort so she was loathed to disturb it.

Memories. That’s all she had now.

Memories and the flowers that Sighisoara had brought to her each morning. Memories and the more recent slips of silver-edged paper filled with beautiful prose. She had purchased a pretty binder from one of the local traders and had decided to spend some time filling it with pressed flowers and penned verse as a keepsake.

Light snowflakes had started to fall, settling briefly on her eyelashes. Pulling her coat around her to ward off the chill, she settled herself upon one of the stones at the edge of the nearby waterfall. She pondered the gently cascading water for a while, losing herself in its crystalline beauty. Thoughts flowed through her mind like the babbling, crystal-clear waters before her; cleansing her of any sense of guilt, purging her of regret, and clarifying her uncertainty.

It seems I am destined to be alone. So be it.

Her mind made up, she toyed with the engagement ring on her finger and exhaled. There was a letter that needed to be written but first...opening the binder, she slotted in the first page and began to decorate it with forget-me-nots.

So many memories.

---

Without intending to,
You broke me into pieces
And shattered my soul,
Yet somehow you're the most
Gentle love my heart
Has ever known

Midst the Mighty Oaks

Mirkk could tell he was on the mend, as he had woken up with the cooing of the mourning doves somewhere outside his máralda. He had dressed himself as he did the night before, and stepped outside to meet Ilizzaro. Ilizzaro was standing outside, ready to greet him. This was the first time Mirkk had seen this place in the daylight. He was not sure what to expect after the fireflies of the night before. He was not let down.

As he stepped out onto the platform, he realized he was at least one hundred feet in the air. The boards of the platform were masterfully cut, leaving only enough gap between them for rain runoff and the expansion and contraction during the seasons. This platform wrapped halfway around this tree. This tree? Mirkk realized the tree was not really a tree at all, but was rather the remnants of a tree – a tree with no base trunk or roots at all. Two massive branches extended from the tree at the same level as the platform, as if the tree were extending her arms toward her sisters on both sides. The large branches of the two other trees had been grafted together with the branches of this tree through the process of inosculation. This tree is receiving its nutrients through the branches of the other trees. Mirkk stood at the base of the platform and stared down below, looking at where a trunk should have been. He then gazed up and saw that the tree had continued to grow up toward the sun, but that this white oak was not as large as the surrounding trees of this grove.

He took a moment to look around at the rest of the grove, which seemed to be comprised of six or seven massive oak trees, larger and mightier than any tree he had ever seen before. Many of them had grafted branches between them, creating bridges from one to another. In the middle of the grove stood what was likely the most ancient and mighty tree of the grove, and perhaps even of all the forest. It stood at least one third larger than all the other oak trees.

This must have been cultivated over hundreds of years, maybe even a thousand years.

He stood in awe until Ilizzaro asked, “Ready to see the place?”

“Yes. Please. Just give me one moment,” Mirkk said.

He pulled a quill and piece of paper out of his satchel, and jotted the beginning of his letter. After a few moments of hastily writing, he put the paper and quill back in the satchel and gave a nod to Ilizzaro, who chuckled in return.

“This way,” said Ilizzaro.

They made their way northwest, crossing one of the grafted branch-bridges. Mirkk noticed the bridge could easily fit four humans or Elves across, or perhaps two giants, at the same time. The mighty branches were certainly sturdy enough to hold giants. While the majority of the branches were intact, the bridge was carved on the topmost portion. As with his máralda, the bridge was a single carving of oak. The smooth surface of floor stretched to the next oak tree, but was recessed to provide the carvings of handrails. Intricate carvings of harpy eagles on the ends in flight rested on the ends of both handrails, wings spread and talons clutched on the rails themselves as if the eagles were holding the bridge in place. All of this was carved into the branch, a single carving of wood.

Moving across the bridge, Mirkk noticed a slight transition as the wood changed from white oak to black oak, though he couldn’t tell exactly at which point the transition occurred. At the northwest end, two matching harpy eagles, this time carved from black oak, carried the other ends of the bridge. They were now standing on the platform of a massive black oak. This oak’s platform wasn’t as wide, but circled the tree completely, making it slightly larger than the previous hanging oak’s platform. Several máralda were carved into the tree, but several more were built onto the sides of the tree. Many had peg steps curving slightly up or down the tree to their doorways. Mirkk made note that, although these trees were the largest he’d ever seen, even larger than the ancient trees near Melghoren’s Reach, the leaves and bark were similar in size to the oak trees he was used to seeing. They’re the same species, just much older.

“Why are some máralda built into the trees, and others onto the sides?” he asked Ilizzaro.

Ilizzaro chuckled, as was his typical response, and said, “Space, for one. But the other is that you can only cut so much into a tree before you kill it. We must leave most of the bark and inner tree undisturbed so they continue to provide for us.”

This made sense to Mirkk. The old woods and the old Sylvan Elves would have learned each other’s balance a long, long time ago. He nodded, indicating he was ready to continue. Ilizzaro nodded in return, and headed southwest across another branch-bridge.

This bridge was carved from two extremely large branches of black oaks. At the entry to the bridge, there were no mighty eagles, but rather stags flanking the entrance. Mirkk looked at them in awe, for one because they were again carved along with the bridge from a solid bit of black oak, but also that if such stags ever existed, they would be the mightiest of stag he would have ever seen. Additionally, as they moved across the bridge, he noticed the carvings on this one had several other forest creatures along the handrails, to include rabbits and various owls and other animals.

Emerging through the next platform was another black oak. This black oak served as a junction, with the stag bridge heading back to the northeast, a suspended rope footbridge heading southwest, and an extremely wide bridge heading southeast.

“Go on, do it! Don’t be scared!” Ilizzaro shouted, snapping Mirkk back to reality of standing on the platform. He turned to see what Ilizzaro was shouting about. Several young elves, seeming to be adolescent, were daring each other to jump off the footbridge into the deep waters of the river below. The river flowed from the northwest in a southeasterly direction, under the footbridge and continued down under a second footbridge Mirkk could see down the way, ultimately leading to what appeared to be a dam. The dam made the river a bit deeper and wider than it naturally would have been. This must feed into the Tempest.

Mirkk heard the shout and turned back to watch the final moments of the drop of one of the youth plunging into the river. Mirkk held his breath, perhaps out of habit. He finally exhaled when the young elf emerged, took a deep breath, and shouted to his friends, who shouted in excitement in return. Mirkk looked down again. We must be at least one hundred feet above the ground!

“A test of bravery,” Ilizzaro chuckled. “They do this every now and then. It is fun to watch.”

“It certainly is. I don’t know if I would do it,” Mirkk grinned as he was jotting down a few more lines on his paper. Once he was finished, he nodded again to Ilizzaro. Ilizzaro nodded, and headed southeast across the massive bridge.

This bridge seemed much different to Mirkk. For one, the black oak gave way to another oak, but Mirkk was not certain of the species at all. It was oak, certainly, but what oak? The carvings along the wide bridge also did not have animals. These carvings took a more somber tone, with the first parts of the bridge showing a story of an empire and cities and castles. Toward the middle of the bridge, the carvings showed large groups of Elves leaving the cities, moving toward the end of the bridge. He could sense other passersby coming and going across the bridge, and absentmindedly dodged them as he continued to study the carvings along the rails and sides. At the end of the bridge, the carvings displayed a forest with the Elves arriving at some very large trees. This bridge is telling the story of Chaston’s Edict, and the Elves settling here.

Having been lost in thought over the carvings of the bridge, Mirkk had not realized he was now standing on the platform of the largest of all the trees. He looked up and was startled to see how large this tree and platform were, and that there was a hustle and bustle about this place. This is the heart of the city. He gazed up and saw this tree extended well beyond the canopy made by the other trees. He looked back at the platform. There were máralda, certainly, winding their way around the tree. There were also many other things. For starters, there were shops and other máralda mixed along the edges of the platform. He looked across the platform and saw a smithy, with the blacksmith hammering away. He looked left at the tree and saw a twelve foot tall carving in the southern side of the tree of what looked like the Arkati Phoen. Beneath the carving rested candles and wreaths and flowers. Along the platform, as streams of light defeated the canopy of the leaves and made their way down, planter boxes were everywhere. Anywhere there was light, there was a planter box, some with vegetables, others with small fruit trees, and some with nut trees.

“Just in time!” said Ilizzaro as he beckoned Mirkk to follow. As Mirkk walked across the platform toward the smithy, the platform took a different feel under his boots. It now had flat slate underfoot. That must be how they have the fires here without risking burning it down. Ilizzaro stopped at a bakery that Mirkk had smelled halfway across the platform. Ilizzaro shared a word with the baker, and the baker handed him a piece of warm flat bread. Mirkk broke the bread in two, and handed the other half back to Ilizzaro and said, “Thank you, my friend.” Ilizzaro accepted with a grin, and ate his bread.

Ilizzaro took him around the platform, explaining to Mirkk that each side had a name. The southern side they referred to in Elven as the “sun side” because it received the most sun that the trees would let through. This side was dedicated to Phoen. Along the west of the platform, there was a large carving of Tonis, which they called the “sunset side.” To the north was the “dark side” that they had dedicated to Ronan, which also had a carving of the Arkati inset into the tree. This side was interesting to Mirkk because they had a series of low-light plants, mosses, and lichen growing. He realized all the more that the Elves truly maximized their space and lived with a balance here. The last side on the east was called the sunrise side, and had a carving of Lumnis. Mirkk stopped in his tracks. He did not have much on him, but he reached into his satchel and pulled out a dried pink leaf from a dogwood tree. He placed it at the foot of Lumnis and whispered a few quick words. He looked up, glance at Ilizzaro, and then reached again into his satchel and pulled out his quill and paper and frenetically wrote a few more lines. When done, he raised his head again and nodded to Ilizzaro.

They made their way back toward the general direction of the smithy, and Mirkk saw another bridge heading to the southeast. This bridge was just as wide as the other bridge leading to the great tree, and the carvings seemed to be the same. Anyone crossing these bridges bear witness to what happened to the Elves.

Ilizzaro was showing him the water wheel that was down close to the waterfall, and how it used pulleys and buckets to bring things from the river’s edge up to the trees. Mirkk thought it was a mechanical masterpiece, and very efficient. At that moment, a young Elven boy ran up and tugged on Mirkk’s ruhan, giggled, and ran off back to what was presumably his sister. He hid behind her skirt. Mirkk grinned at the boy. He looked around and realized that, despite all the hustle and bustle of this central tree’s platform, many of the Elves were looking at him, some whispering, some of the maidens giggling. He suddenly felt very awkward. He did not like attention.

Then, in unison, all whispering and giggling and working stopped and all the Elves turned their heads south. There was a profound silence and Mirkk looked at Ilizzaro, who seemed to be looking at something far off in the distance. After a brief moment, and just as suddenly as it had started, everyone returned to what they were doing as if nothing happened.

“There is more we can show,” Ilizzaro said with a smile. “But, we have some time. We do not want to wear you out all in one day.”

On the walk back, Ilizzaro had told Mirkk of a boathouse below the waterfall, and that the rope bridges were there in the event they had to cut them down and use the river for protection. Everything was starting to make more sense to Mirkk about how this place existed. The forest was here because it had to be. The Elves were here because they had to be. They both relied on each other in one way or another in harmony. The Elves would defend the forest, the forest would protect the Elves.

Upon return to the máralda in which Mirkk was staying, he finished his letter to Rohese, folded it, and asked Ilizzaro if he could get someone to send it to Illistim.

“I think we can arrange that, easily,” Ilizzaro said with a grin. He waved, and walked off. Mirkk sat back down on the bench outside the máralda, once again lit his pipe, and just looked in awe at the trees.

——————————————————————————

Oialëa Elen,

You are all that I hold dear. I want nothing in this life or the next than to be with you once more, if only for the moment that is given to me. I wish to tell you that I am alive and with the Elves in Wyrdeep.

Rohese, I wish you could see this place. Outside of you, it is the most beautiful thing nature has bestowed upon my mortal eyes. I shall do my best to do it justice, as many words, both common and Elven, cannot describe what I have seen today.

First, allow me to tell you that this settlement is built among the largest trees I have ever seen – mighty ancient oak trees of several different varieties! Through them, below on the forest floor, two of the rivers that feed the Tempest River flow. It appears to me that the trees running from the utmost north of this settlement down the southwest side are of the black oak variety, and from nearly northernmost and running southeast are of white oak. Once both sets of trees meet the river, they changed to a willow oak species. Central to this is the largest of the trees, which I will describe later. Its species I cannot determine, though it seems to also be some sort of oak. The Elves have dammed up the river, which flows from the northwest in a southeastern direction, and use it for fishing and drinking water. A smaller, but equally impressive river flows in from the north and meets the other river just before the dam, and the two rivers create a beautiful waterfall, at which point those able waters continue to flow to the Tempest, and ultimately to the sea. The waterfall creates a mist around it which conceals several paths to the bottom of the waterfall where they keep several long, narrow boats. I have not yet seen the lower levels of the waterfall, nor have I seen the boats. Ilizzaro tells me they use them to move up and down the river, usually at night to ensure not being seen by Gallardshold.

I am sorry, I forgot to tell you of Ilizzaro. He is a young elf, if ever there was such a thing to a human. He has long brown hair and green eyes and the colors of the forest in his clothes. He hears things from this place that are happening at the far edges of the forest, and I feel when his eyes look at me they are so keen and bright that he can see just as far. He has been assigned as my escort. He is a lighthearted and jovial Elf who never seems to take too much too seriously, but when given a task, carries it out almost as disciplined as a soldier.

So that is it for the rivers. Across them they have rope bridges. Oh Roh! The bridges! There are only two rope bridges spanning over the larger of the two rivers at about one hundred feet above. One bridge stretches from the black oaks to the willow oaks, and the other from the white oaks to the same row of willow oaks. Some of the more daring Elves challenge each other to jump off them into the deeper parts of the river below. I have watched this twice already and, even though the rope bridges sag a bit in the middle, I cannot say I would dare to do such a thing! But the ­other bridges…

The other bridges, equally high, are the most amazing things. They are the immense branches of oak trees – black oak, white oak, willow oak- that have been bound together over the centuries with rope and tightened until they form one single branch through a process that I have seen only once, and only on much smaller, flexible trees, called inosculation. From these inosculated branches, the Elves have carved stairs and bridges that link all of these trees together, with the exception of those two rope bridges I mentioned before. Each of these bridges between the oaks is carved with a different animal. The bridges on the black oak have stags for one, and owls on another. The both bridges leading to and from the hanging oak have harpy eagles that are carved in such a manner as to be holding the bridges up in their talons. The one closest to the dam on the white oak side is carved with beavers. Everything here has had hundreds of years of thought and patience placed into it by the Elves. I have not been across the river to the willow oak side yet, so I do not know about the bridges there. All in all, there are about seven of these mighty oak trees surrounding one central tree that is clearly and by far the oldest tree in this oak grove, and maybe even this forest.

This sentinel tree is at least a third larger than all the other trees, and it is as if all the other mighty trees are circling it to pay homage. This ancient oak (as I call it) has two paths leading to and from it through these mated branches from other trees, but these paths are so wide, two horse-drawn wagons travelling side by side could cross them! (This, of course, assumes one could get horse-drawn wagons to this height.) At the main level of this oak, which is still at least a hundred feet above the forest floor, is a large platform that circles the entire tree. The Elves have what they call the “Sunrise” side which faces east, the “Sun All” side, which points south and gets the most sun of the day as it peaks through the canopy above, the “Sunset” side that faces west, and lastly the “Dark” side, which faces north and gets the least amount of direct sunlight. Carved into the four directions of the tree are solid oak sculptures of Lumnis, Phoen, Tonis, and Ronan, respectively. This oak also has a large staircase that circles it, one set going down to another level that appears to be the bottom level about sixty-five feet above the forest floor, and another that goes up into the treetops. I have not been able to venture these paths yet.

I am so sorry, my prose is all over the place. I am so used to writing neat, rhyming lines in meter for you, and I realize you must think I’m a follower of Zelia (rest assured, I am not) with how I am writing you right now.

This mighty oak not only has máralda(tree dwellings, I have learned. Houses. Remind me to tell you about these, also!), but also they have found ways of having a blacksmith up here by laying slate stone on the wood platform, as well as a bakery, among other things. (Ilizzaro handed me warm flatbread this morning and it was delicious.) They keep the smithy close to the waterfall, likely to mask the noises of the hammers when they are working. This platform is the busiest of all the trees I have been able to visit, and many of the passersby have either never seen a human before, or are quite peculiar of seeing one here in this place. The children run up and tug on my clothes, the maidens look, whisper, and giggle (You have nothing to worry about! My heart is taken!), and some of the more distinguished give a curt nod but keep a watchful eye on me. I must be quite the spectacle!

Much of this ancient tree’s platform is lined with illuminated planter boxes where they harvest vegetables and have some small fruit trees, and these planter boxes are placed advantageously as to get the best light of the day. Ilizzaro tells me they are moved throughout the year as the light from the sun changes its course with the seasons. On the dark side of the tree, they grow low light things such as moss, lichen, and lettuce, and broccoli and other quëa. The Elves have learned to maximize everything here, particularly when it comes to things requiring resources such as sunlight and soil, which can be limited in the trees under the canopy.

Oh yes! The soil and slate! How do they get these things up here? They have created a water wheel using the force of the river just before the waterfall, and this wheel turns, moving ropes between pulleys, bringing baskets of things or buckets of water up to the trees, requiring no strength other than the strength of the rivers. It is so remarkable. I have seen water mills before, but never vertical ones.

There is so much I can tell you about this place, but I fear I am running out of paper! I must at least save a few sheets, as I have designs for them.

My dear Rohese, I know I bring it up all too often, and I do not wish to end on melancholy note, but I must. I am human and I am only reminded every moment while I am here of how short my life is compared to those around me.

If I had only but one year, would you spend it with me?

And if only one month?

A week?

If I had just an hour, would you choose to spend it with me?

If I had an eternity, I would with you. You know this, I think.

As oialëa melmë,

Mirkk, from the Wyrdeep

Why the Dragonfly?

Aavia opened the door of the Manse to scatter yesterday’s stale bread for the birds. Dawn usually saw them congregate on the rooftop to herald in the new day with their song. Dusting the crumbs from her hands, she noticed a bundle of paper just to the side. It seemed to have a silver-edge, not unlike the note she had discovered in the library a while ago. Picking it up, she tucked it into the pocket of her apron, making a mental note to give it to her mistress later that day.

Meanwhile, her mistress was still asleep upstairs; her dreams keeping her melancholia at bay.

The wind drifted across her face, its feathery touch light and gentle as it drew her away from her resting place. Colors glided across her vision in shades of green dotted with white and she realized that she was gazing down upon a forest filled with magnificent oak trees. Her eyes shifted from right to left, taking it all in as she floated on the air currents and she was filled with the pure joy of flight.

Angling her iridescent wings, she dipped towards the forest and the world of greenery rushed up to meet her. She suddenly realized that the air had changed, no longer dry and chill, but heavy and moist. The sweet scent of flowers filled her senses, and she realized that she was thirsty for their nectar. Alighting upon the delicate petals of a forget-me-not, she bent to drink from it, but a brush of alarm filled her and she launched back into the air.

Elves! Zephyr wings carried her through the forest at exhilarating speeds, excitement filling her as her wings carried her in a thrilling race through the forest to meet them. Everywhere she looked, signs of tree dwellings greeted her vision. Spreading before her, in a riot of color, was the deep recess of a sun-dappled glade. Water murmured softly, the only sound in the area, and she felt as if the forest was holding its breath waiting for something...someone. She hovered in wonder as she began to drift downwards and was filled with a deep sense of belonging. Kissing her cheeks, the wind touched her once again and her vision was filled with the absolute of night. Flicking through the dark foliage was the soft glow of golden fireflies and she was overcome with curiosity. Flitting lightly through the air, her iridescent wings humming softly, she sought out the source of the light but to no avail.

Something deep inside her changed and she felt herself lifted into the air. Higher and higher she travelled, her wings lifting her up and away from the ancient forest below as she transformed into a bright silver star.

---

Midday saw her slowly pacing the west wing of the library, her fingers lightly caressing the spines of the books neatly lining the shelves. She was in search of a particular volume; one concerning dragonflies. Ever since the day of the Remembrance Ceremony in Cysaelotar, she had been unable to shake her tiny golden companion. It followed her around, buzzing in and out of her peripheral vision, but not in an irritating way; she found it humorous and oddly comforting. She wondered about its significance though; how odd that it chose to stay with her - even now as she wandered around dimly-lit hallways – and especially after last night’s vivid dream.

Her hand alighted upon a small green leather-bound book; its title faded and barely legible: "Why the Dragonfly?" Pulling it from the shelf, she opened it to a random page and began to read:

In almost every culture, the dragonfly symbolizes transformation, self-realization and new beginnings. The change having its source in mental and emotional maturity and understanding the deeper meaning of life. Moving with elegance and grace, the dragonfly’s scurrying flight across water represents an act of going beyond what’s on the surface and looking into the deeper implications and aspects of life. The iridescence of its wings and body shows itself in different colors depending on the angle and how the light falls on it. The magical property of this iridescence is also associated with the discovery of one’s own abilities by unmasking the real self and removing the doubts one casts on his/her own sense of identity. Living most of its life as a nymph or an immature, it flies only for a fraction of its life. This symbolizes and exemplifies the virtue of living in the moment and living life to the fullest. The dragonfly means hope, change, and love.

Finally finding what she was looking for, she glanced over – almost out of habit - at the top shelf of the opposing bookcase. She froze as she saw a glint of silver and hurried over to find a sheet of folded paper discreetly placed between two of the books. Was she imagining things? Could it possibly be ...

She read the name written on the front of the sheet of paper – her name - and her breath stopped. Her heart racing and fingers trembling, she quickly opened the note and read the lines within. The handwriting was unfamiliar: stilted and broken but the phrasing ... the sentiment ... it was from Mirkk!

Thoughts and questions tumbled through her mind. Was this just overdue in being delivered? Was he actually still alive? Or was this just a cruel joke being played by someone? She re-read the verses and felt a flutter of hope. She needed to tell Ceyrin! But then she was reminded that he had left town some time ago with Corlyne. A mix of elation and disappointment coursed through her and she was unsure what to do. With book in hand, she hurried home to try and figure out what it all meant.

---

Opening her journal to a fresh page, she began to make a note of the date and recorded the phase of the moon and constellation currently prevalent in the night sky; as she did every day. It was then it struck her that the seven twinkling lights she had observed in the night sky during Mirkk’s absence had been those of the Dragonfly constellation! This revelation left her reeling. She glanced around the room and caught sight of the plump gold dragonfly settled upon the handle of a nearby teacup sitting next to a folded bundle of ... silver-edged paper! Aavia had clearly left these for her earlier and she'd hardly noticed in her hurry to read her book.

Her heart leapt and she reached for the letter, quickly opening it page by page as her eyes danced over the contents. Clutching it to her chest, she laughed softly, despite the tears running down her cheeks. He was safe and well and ... he was thinking of her.

She quickly reached for a sheet of parchment and, dipping her quill into the inkwell, she frantically began to write. Several pages later, she folded them neatly together and tied them in a white ribbon. Her feet barely touched the ground as she ran down the stairs to give it to Aavia.

See that this is left outside in the hope someone collects it!

My sweet Mirkk,

You asked me once what brings me joy: receiving your poem and then your letter today brought me more happiness than mere words could ever describe. I confess I had given up all hope of ever hearing from you again but my heart now soars just knowing you are safe and well.

I am in awe of what you describe. My excursions into the Wyrdeep, whilst wonderous, were brief. I sensed I was an intruder, despite my heritage, and I was reticent to dwell too long. It felt to me as if the forest was holding its breath, just waiting for me to leave. If only I had caught a glimpse of what you have discovered, I believe I would have chosen never to leave. But then, I would not have met you. Or perhaps I might! Perhaps I would have been one of the young maidens you make light of. I could be capturing your heart even now if fate really did mean for us to be together. But tell me more of this bright-eyed escort, Ilizzaro; he sounds intriguing. Forgive me, I should not tease, melmënya, for it is you that I wish to see, not this fascinating young elf you have befriended.

There is so much I want to tell you, so much I wish I had said before you were so cruelly taken away. Whilst it is no sentinel, I want to show you the Sylvanfair oak tree and share its wonders with you. I want to walk in the Veythorne Gardens again; sit beneath its trees and savour the warmth of the summer sunshine with you. I want to giggle at your stories and learn all there is to know about you. I would give anything for just one more day. No matter if it were an hour, a year, or an eternity with you, I would consider my life to be complete. I would ensure that every minute we had together would be one of only happy thoughts and memories. But you are far away where I cannot reach you except through my dreams and these pages. You speak of melancholy thoughts; I have them too. You mention how short your life may be in contrast to mine. Your life should be filled with the joy of children and family; I cannot give you that. I could not ask you to forfeit such a blessing just to spend your life with me.

Write to me again soon just so that I can take comfort in knowing you are safe and well.

Tye sam órënya, illume.

A Time to Decide

Mirkk spent the last few days exploring the main levels of the township. He believed it more a township than a settlement at this point, as he realized the population and infrastructure it had. He spent the last evening at an outdoor wooden table on one of the outer trees platforms, supping with the Elves, listening to their stories of Wyrlings, of forest goblins and darklings (though only a few of them spoke the common language, and he did not know any Sylvan), and sharing his own. They seemed disinterested in humans as their cities were so close. However, they were very interested in stories of other cities, particularly of IceMule and Zul Logoth. They were fascinated by Halflings and Dwarves, and of how they founded their towns. It was a slow process, as much of what he said had to be translated. Afterward, he would sit on his bench and smoke a pipe and gaze at the stars, as had been his custom every night since that first night on the platform.

Though on this day, Ilizzaro had taken him along the bridges of the white oaks on the eastern side. At the white oak closest the river and dam, they stopped. Before them was a wooden drawbridge that was in the raised position. Ilizzaro gave a nod to the elf standing sentry at the drawbridge. The elf took a knotted rope and tossed it onto a cog that was slowly moving at the edge of the platform. The cog was next to a counter turning cog, and Mirkk realized they were powered by the water wheel below. One cog was for raising the drawbridge, and another for lowering it. There was a small lever to engage or disengage each cog.

Once lowered, Mirkk followed Ilizzaro to ground level. This was the first time he had felt the solid earth under his feet in weeks. The last time he stood on firm ground was the day at the archery ranges outside of Gallardshold. They moved through a path amongst the lesser oaks, thick ferns and underbrush. Down here things were a shade darker as there was more canopy for the light to try to pierce through. They followed the path along the river to some stone steps that led down.

Mirkk couldn’t hear a thing as he moved down the steps of the cliff and behind the waterfall. The only sound was that of water rushing by and creating the white noise below. The walls of the rock were damp from the mist and water. At the bottom of the switchback stairs, there was another small path that led out from behind the waterfall to a well concealed boathouse.

The two story boathouse was beautifully crafted, with the lower portion made of stone, extending out slightly into the water. The stonework had three symmetrical openings, each with wooden docks inside. This provided for at least six slips for boats. The upper portion was crafted of logs, with the side facing the water having a three gable roof, each with large windows beneath. The fascia of the gables were lined with beautiful wyrwood carvings of branches. This was the first sign of wyrwood he had seen in the forest. There were several willow trees just on the downstream side of the boathouse providing natural concealment from the eyes of anyone coming up the river. The luntëheru, or boat master, came out and greeted them.

“I must go see to some things. I will return shortly,” said Ilizzaro.

“Thank you, my friend. I’m sure I could easily waste away a morning in such a beautiful place as this,” Mirkk replied.

Ilizzaro took his leave, and the luntëheru spent the morning telling Mirkk about the boats and the boathouse. He showed Mirkk the carved haon boats. Similar to a canoe, these longer boats could hold around six men or Elves, but with some space for storage at the bow and stern. Each had six oars, also carved of haon. The luntëheru explained they had decided long ago on haon because they would often use the boats at night to travel down the river, past Gallardshold, to the Tempest and beyond. The dark grey-purple haon wood made for natural nocturnal camouflage along the river, even with the moons full. There were five boats docked, with one slip open. Mirkk enjoyed hearing the small waves created by the waterfall gently slapping against the sides of the boats. Once upon a time, he enjoyed sailing, but that was a long time ago.

Ilizzaro returned at late morning. “Lord Orómar has requested your presence, if you are willing.”

Mirkk bowed slightly. “Of course. He has been such a gracious host, and I must take this opportunity to thank him in person.”

Ilizzaro and Mirkk retraced their steps from earlier this morning, and made their way to the platform of the largest tree. From here, Mirkk followed Ilizzaro up the spiraling staircase that led toward the treetop. As they ascended the stairs, Mirkk could see the different sides of the platform below, heading from Phoen’s side around the tree, passing over the statue of Lumnis, around the dark side of the tree with its moss and low light plants, higher and higher, continuing past the ‘Sunset side’ of Tonis far below. At the top, the staircase opened onto a large platform. This platform wasn’t as large as the one at the main level, but was large for the treetop. Mirkk found himself naturally facing toward the southwest, with the Wyrdeep stretching before him. Off in the distance, he could faintly make out Gallardshold resting on its hilltop. Mirkk saw Orómar facing away, looking toward Gallardshold himself.

Instinctively, Mirkk turned north by northeast, saw the ridges of the DragonSpine and the general direction of Ta’Illistim. He closed his eyes, and whispered the name “Rohese.” The forest swallowed his words and did not let them travel.

“The forest is peculiar about what and who she lets in, and out,” Orómar said without turning his gaze from Gallardshold. “Truthfully, I was not sure if she would accept you.” He turned and stood, facing Mirkk, causing Mirkk to see Gallardshold and the lands of the Sun Throne whenever he looked at Orómar.

“I wanted to thank you again, my lord, for your hospitality and that of your people. I have been shown nothing but kindness during my stay,” Mirkk said in return, uncertain where this conversation was going.

Orómar took two deliberate steps forward, closing the distance between the two. “My hospitality is the least I can offer. Tell me, what do you remember of your parents?”

“Memories of memories, at this point. I have a few of them, but not many,” Mirkk responded.

“You would have been too young to remember, but as a small boy I bounced you on my knee,” Orómar said as he turned back to the southwest. “On several occasions, I was invited to sup with your family. They have always shown kindness to the Elves, despite what others in their region may have done. Elves were always welcome at their home, and as such, they and their kin will always be welcome among our people.”

There was a pregnant pause, and Mirkk thought perhaps he should say something, but then thought better of it.

“Tell me, Mirkk, what did your parents teach you of your ancestry?” Orómar asked as he turned slowly around again and studied Mirkk’s face.

Mirkk could feel the frustration, and tried not to let it show. Still, he never liked telling this story because he didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. He exhaled slowly. “My mother used to tell me this story at bedtime. Not every night, but from time to time. Over five hundred years ago, there was a lady who owned much land and was a strong, wealthy and independent woman of nobility. She was loved by her people, and also by the Elves. Her house was also strong, as she had three very able bodied sons who had come or were coming of age. Their crest was that of a silver oak with three prominent branches on a field of deep green. She was the tree, and the branches were her sons.”

Another pause. Orómar said nothing, and did not move. He only waited.

Again, but with hesitation, Mirkk continued. “As the story goes, she held land near what is now Gallardshold and the eastern regions. They had a manor house near there that backed up against the trees of the Wyrdeep… Viridian they named it because of the deep green coniferous trees that provided the backdrop. They were said to be kind to the Elves, in spite of Chaston’s Edict having been in place for many centuries. They helped maintain a certain sense of peace in the areas near the Wyrdeep, and facilitated trade between the wood Elves and the Sun Throne. While the throne enjoyed the flow of goods, some other local nobility were fearful of her power and influence in the region.”

Mirkk paused for a moment, took another deep breath, exhaled and continued.

“They say that when the Sun Throne instructed Lord Gallard Wilke, another regional noble who owned lands adjacent, to exact taxes from the Elves, things went dire and … well, the Sun Throne called on their great houses and nobility to raise their banners against the Elves. The Lady of Viridian defiantly refused, knowing full well what would come of things. She sent a letter informing the throne of her decision not to raise her army, and the next morning departed to present herself to the throne and receive her punishment, which was certainly death. But before she did, she had as much silver and wealth as she could gather from her household packed up, gave her sons new names, and sent them away for their protection. Her last instructions to them were to each produce one and only one male heir, and to never mention their family name again.”

“So off she went to her fate with her head held high in open defiance. The same head was promptly removed and the Sun Throne had all mentions of the family name, their holdings, and estate removed from all records and tomes. Lord Gallard allegedly benefited from this arrangement and increased his lands. And as for the heirs, as my mother used to tell me, one son failed to produce a male heir, only daughters. His line died with him. Another son’s lineage died several generations later, when the last son of that line was struck down by a dwarf in a quarrel at a tavern somewhere to the north. And the last son’s heir…” Mirkk cleared his throat. “The last son’s heir had listened too long to his mother’s bedtime stories, and needed to go to sleep.” The last line was bittersweet, as he heard his mother’s voice saying it in his head as he said the words aloud.

“Your mother was a strong woman. She was second cousin to the Caulfields, as is your uncle Donnavan. I was sorry to hear of her illness and passing,” Orómar said. “But your uncle is very much still loyal to the Caulfields. He wanted to bring you under his wing when your mother passed, but your father would not allow. He orchestrated the events that led to the death of your father, and had every intention of bringing you into the fold, thus removing a problem for Lord Caulfield. When you left Bourth, you were a loose end. He had heard you were killed by Krolvin pirates years later, and thought things were done. Then you returned two years ago, much to everyone’s surprise. He felt he had two options – win you over, or have you killed.”

Mirkk had to control his passions in that moment. He tried to control his response, and said, “I know who my mother is. I understand what she and my father thought I was. Is this why you keep me here? Is this why you tell me these things?”

Calmly, Orómar replied, “You are here because you are a friend of the Elves of Wyrdeep, as were your parents and your ancestors before them. I tell you these things because, whether or not you believe them, this is what your uncle still believes. This is what moves him and the means he will go to in order to achieve his ends.”

Mirkk stood there, looking at Orómar for a long moment, when Orómar spoke again. “There will come a time very soon when you will need to decide which side of the DragonSpine to which you belong. I believe you may have already made this decision. But no matter, in your deepest, most secretive thoughts, you will always wrestle with who and what you are, and of your own mortality, and of who you love and their safety. Your uncle will not risk an open conflict with the Elves, as that puts the entire empire at risk. But he will try to kill you again, and he will use her to get to you.”

Ilizzaro walked forward, holding Mirkk’s swords that were wrapped in his swordbelt. He offered them to Mirkk. His hands trembled slightly as he took his blades.

“While we cannot tell you the location of this place, you will always be a welcomed guest. Should you make it into our borders, we will find you. You may stay as long as you like, but we will with swift wings assist you in getting where you belong.” Orómar bowed to Mirkk.

“Thank you, my lord,” Mirkk said as he bowed in return.

When Mirkk returned to his room, he leaned his swords against the wall on the doorway. He was wearing a ruhan, and noticed his clothes had been washed and were folded neatly on his bed. On top of them was a bundle of parchment neatly folded with a white ribbon. They smelled of jasmine and moonflower. He opened the letter, and perused them several times over the rest of the afternoon. He kept reading and rereading the last few lines of the letter.

He had several letters to now write, and limited paper to do it.

I will need to spend the next few days with Orómar, Ilizzaro, and possibly the monk to plan. Then it will be time.

He knew this time was coming, but he didn’t realize it had come.

——————————————————————————

Donnavan was furious. He had not heard anything from Jensur, and all of his men at other passes, crossings, and at the chronomage offices had continually provided the same message: “Nothing significant to report.” He slammed his hand down on the stone in frustration as he gazed off the battlements of Gallardshold at the Wyrdeep.

I may have to burn this whole blasted forest down.

The tea is fresh and fragrant. Aavia hums as she sets the pot aside. She picks up the bowl of bread. She opens the front door. The courtyard is bathed in early morning sunshine. She inhales the heady scent of lilac and thyme. The air is filled with the sound of birdsong. She smiles.

A hooded figure steps from behind the tree. His knife sinks into Aavia’s side. He twists it sharply. Aavia drops to her knees. Pieces of stale bread spill all over the cobbles. The bowl shatters into several pieces. The figure steps past her. He enters the Manse without even a backward glance.

Aavia slumps to the ground. A pool of sticky red blood forms around her. One by one, the birds swoop down to peck at the bread, oblivious to the helpless maid. Her eyes close. All goes black.

---

Jensur stands over her. His lip curls in distaste. This elf is a problem. She has no idea the trouble she is causing. He only has a few minutes. The alarm is likely to be raised soon. He wonders if the maid is dead yet. He shrugs. Doesn’t matter now.

He lowers the knife. The point rests on her throat. Just do it. Answer for it later. He slices. He waits. Her eyes fly open. She can’t scream. He stares at her. He nods once. The blood flows from the deep gash. It stains her pillow. Her eyes close. All goes black.

No shadows to hide in this time. Time to leave. He’ll have to use the stairs. He runs.

The tea is cold.

Several shouts echoed around the house at the same time. Aavia’s body had been found in the courtyard just as her mistress had been discovered slain in her bed. Her silver hair lay strewn across the blood-soaked pillow and the neck of her shift stained a similar sanguine hue. At first glance she looked as if she was still sleeping but for the wide gash traversing her neck.

"Fetch me water and bandages!" Yelled the attendant. "And start praying that the Goddess Lorminstra owes our Lady a favor." Several servants hurried back and forth, complying with the bellowed instructions, and before long the gaping wound had been tended. Kneeling around the bed, each of the servants duly bowed their heads and murmured several orisons under their breath.

A sense of peace and calm settled over the area.

Squawking loudly, a quintet of parrots swooped through the open window and circled over Rohese's lifeless form. Each bird was banded with feathers in hues of white, black, red, blue, and green, which began to blur as the parrots flew overhead. As they swirled into a tight circle, the birds, now suddenly insubstantial, dove into her chest and she gasped, taking in a deep breath.

They all sighed with relief. Lumnis had responded with a miraculous raising.

---

"What were you thinking?" Adimer shouted at Jensur. "We were told to bring her in, not murder her in her bed!"

Jensur shrugged indifferently. "You saw what happened when we tried that!" He countered angrily, gesturing towards his colleague with cloth-swaddled eyes. "Githien still can't see properly and Steiffan's hands are burnt so badly that he can barely hold a sword."

Wiping his knife blade clean on the grass, he slipped it into its sheath and glanced back at the high walls surrounding the Manse. "I'm done wasting anymore time in this place. We're going home."

With a swift, decisive motion, he pulled up his hood and strode towards the trees. Exchanging perplexed glances with one another, his two lesser-injured colleagues sighed and guided their partially sighted compatriot the same way.

---

The sun was high in the sky by the time they left the Manse at a fast pace: three elven rangers armed with longbows and dressed in inconspicuous shades of grey and green. The tracks weren't difficult to locate since they had been made by four pairs of heavy boots. Starting from the Oak Grove, the trail led through the hamlet of Sylvarraend and southwest across country.

These were no ordinary bandits or ruffians. Little effort had been made to stay concealed so the bounty was likely to be straightforward. Pausing after a few hours, Merelle knelt and touched one hand to the ground, chanting a respectful bird-like trill. Her fingernails flashed briefly with a tinge of green coloring and she knew exactly who they were and where they were heading.

"Bourth," she confirmed. "They're Greensmen."

Merelle’s fingers held the string taut on her longbow, the arrow aimed directly at the back of Jensur’s head. Turn around, she thought, just waiting for that sweet moment when she could release it. She was pretty sure he was the one that had wielded the blade so freely yesterday. His colleagues all looked too injured to have been of any use. Come on, turn around. Let me see the whites of your eyes so you can see your death in mine.

Crouched low in the undergrowth, she could make out a small group of men on the opposing riverbank. The larger of them seemed to know her quarry, judging by the reaction, but she couldn’t make out his shouts over the sound of rushing water. No matter, she could take him down too if needed.

Despite the reputation of the Greensmen, they were such easy marks. They may be skilled on the archery field but, out here in the woods, they were no match for elven rangers, especially those with a bounty to collect.

Merelle’s two companions had split away to take up position a little further down the river, in case Jensur had decided to continue that way, but she had noticed the ferry. He had to cross at some point so this seemed the ideal spot to catch him. Her hunch had proven correct and he was now in her sights, quite literally.

Turn around. Something caught her eye in the woods beyond. A fox? No, it was a person, albeit small; a halfling, perhaps? Why was he hiding behind a tree seemingly just watching. She stifled a laugh as she realised it was a gnome and he was clearly irritating the group on the riverbank.

The ferry had now reached the other side and the four cloaked men disembarked. Merelle lowered her bow for a moment as she observed an exchange that didn’t seem too friendly. Jensur made a gesture across his throat and laughed causing Merelle to clench her fist. She should have just taken him out on the ferry but chances are they would then have become the hunted. She needed to be certain each was taken down cleanly with one arrow a piece to ensure the bounty was successfully fulfilled.

No matter. There will be other opportunities. She caught the smell of rain in the air and whistled softly to call her companions back. They would attempt to cross the river further down and pick up the trail again.

Duty and Loyalty

Donnavan sat in a chair in his quarters inside the keep. It was a decent sized room, but still small as it was in the keep. Smooth were the stone walls and floor. The keep was one of the first stone structures built as Gallardshold went from a wooden fort to a permanent fortress. This place was a part of Turamzzyrian history, and he counted himself lucky to have spent time in service here.

He set his watermelon rind in the bowl on his desk and looked about the room, reflecting on his nearly fifty years of service to the Greensmen. To Bourth. To the Empire. Mounted to a plaque on the wall was a gnarled claw of a wight, permanently shriveled and permanently dead. He remembered cutting it off a wight that day. At just sixteen years old, he answered the call that was made across Tamzyrr to provide fighters for one last batch of reinforcements to aid Duke Chandrennin and the fight against the Horned Cabal. His parents thought he was too young. His twin sister thought it was foolish to go at such an age, as the conflict would likely continue for years. She said he would have his chance. But Donnavan had gone anyway. His father had given him the family great sword, which had no name, but had later been named Wightsbane. With only leather armor and a great sword in hand, he marched into battle with what everyone thought was the final army of the Tamzyrr.

He had brought honor to his family, to the Caulfields, and to Bourth during the battle. Those that witnessed the moments toward the end recalled him and two other men standing on a rocky mound, viciously swinging their swords, engaging the undead as hordes surrounded them. In the middle of the three, injured and huddled on the ground was a member of lesser nobility. Donnvan couldn’t remember the fighting itself. He just remembered the feeling of hopelessness, but the sense of duty he had to keep fighting until all was lost. He felt at the time that he could not let them down. What Donnavan hadn’t known, but discovered later, was that was the moment a band of monks had killed one of the liches, causing all of the remaining undead to flee.

The lord had made note of Donnavan and the others, and had sent a personal letter to the baron recommending Donnavan for a posting as a Greensman in Gallardshold. Donnavan thought it was a great honor, but also was humbled. He felt he was only doing his duty, something every man should have done.

Donnavan’s eyes move to a small painting near the corner. The painting was a portrait of his mother and father. This was a gift from the Caulfields to the family in recognition of Donnavan’s actions. Every good soldier needs to remember what he fights for. Donnavan could still recall the words. Above the painting was a wooden crest of the Caulfields - three black yew trees on a field of white ringed by five hawk feathers. Another gift. Perhaps a reminder. Loyalty.

He glanced back at the painting and thought about family. Once upon a time, he had truly cared for Mirkk. He used to go with Mirkk’s father, Jeckk, and the boy camping and fishing along the tributaries of the Tempest. He remembered giving Mirkk his first bow. It wasn’t much, just a ruic short bow. Gods, did that boy have a gift. But Mirkk had gone astray. After his mother’s illness and untimely passing, and the unfortunate death of Jeckk, Donnavan had wanted to take in Mirkk. He would have made a natural fit among the Greensmen. Most of them knew the boy by name already. But the boy had a wild heart. He was always off in the edges of the forest, brooding with the Elves and other interlopers.

Yes… the boy was too wild. Couldn’t be tamed. He made his choices. He chose this path.

He abandoned Bourth.

He abandoned family.

He abandoned Donnavan.

There is no loyalty anymore. Not like there used to be. No one remembers the hordes of undead and how folks had to defend their own lands, and unite to defend the race of humans altogether. The boy least of all. It was before the boy’s time.

Donnavan stood up and looked out the small window that faced the forest. He watched a grey kestrel fly over the treetops heading in a northerly direction. He had defended Gallardshold, the Barony of Bourth, and all humans from the undead and the undeserving. This is the time of the humans, and the Elves and Dwarves and bugs with their wings… they all needed to understand that.

Donnavan had realized some time ago the boy had proven his loyalties, and they weren’t to Bourth or the Caulfields or even to his own family. He disowned his own family ancestry by choice.

Yes, the boy was a problem. The problem. The girl was just an instrument to get to him.

Departure

In the hour of Tonis, near a rushing waterfall, three cloaked and hooded figures quietly stepped into a long haon boat with a shallow draft. The luntëheru gave a nod, untied the ropes and gently pushed the boat out of the boathouse and into the river. They coasted smoothly out into the middle and the figures at the bow and stern of the boat slipped their paddles into the water and began paddling downriver. The figure in the middle stood briefly and turned, looking back as if to take it all in one last time.

As they moved into the quiet of the forest at dusk, their paddles made no sound. All that could be heard was the deep croak of the frogs, the chirp of the crickets, and the river itself.

They would not rush the journey. It typically took one full day to get downriver to Tempest Falls, but they would move slowly, overland for most of it, and utilize the cover of the forests as much as they could until they made it to their destination.