Yes! I thought it was about time to try out our creativity in -fanmade- stories, art, pictures, and the like. My english is less than perfect, by I hope it will suffice for its purpose.
Dyrwood. Anni Iroccio 583.
The leaves of the Dyrwood fall twice a year – the very seasons follow the rhythm of Caoth and Bhád, life and death.
In spring, the mild winds from the southern regions of the Bay of Crowns make their way up along the pearl coast, bringing a much needed warmth to the frozen inhabitants of the Forked Vale. The trees of the Dyrwood form the canopy above these stubborn denizens who in the forest make a living, huddling together as best they can. To these people, Caoth am Dhin , life of spring, marks yet another turn of the seasons wheel.
As the empty red leaves of yesterday release from the canopy above, a feast is held in the village. The firstborn of of Caoth am Dhin receives the traditional seasonal blessing of the Aedyr: a chaplain of Eothas and an elven druid of Berath brings through their chants a new hope for the village’s further existance as birds of the Dyrwood sings in the empty branches above.As summer sets in the green buds of the trees slowly turn into full leaves, and wild game is abundant in the forest. The summer winds are gentle and life is kind to both to the hunter and that which is hunted.
But as autumn draws close, the forest turns quieter. The eyes of the hunter wander from left to right in fright as he seeks his game. For in the approaching shadows lurks the promise of Bhád am Nharrock , death of winter. He who has not gathered enough food before the white cold of Nharrock, will surely perish, his bleak bones will feed the grass and his only chance to live again may be to find its way back to life through the lottery of souls. And few who live willingly seeks the embrace of death, as it is in the nature of the living to live, as true as it may be the nature of the dying to accept death. And the lottery of souls is a fickle game indeed.
Bhád am Nharrock brings with it that which is feared by all. The nature of the beast known as Bhiamac stirs, now not only from the ancient elven ruins of the Eír Glanfath, nay – now it spontanously runs wild with fury throughout the forest. That which is not hidden, is caught; that which isn’t sheltered, is dead, and utterly emptied - only a shell of it is now remaining on the forest floor. Green leaves turn black, and as the winter winds sets in and snow falls the leaves fall from the canopies above like burnt ashflakes, white snow and black leaves blend in a dance of death as life hides as best it can. Then maybe it is in the nature of the trees of Dyrwood themselves to defy this unholy communion of ash and death, for not before has the season of Bhiamac ended before blood red leaves sprout from the canopies. Then there is only the cold night sky of winter above, red canopies beneath it, and the forest floor now clad white in snow – and an eerie silence in the forest.
The leaves of the Dyrwood falls twice a year - but this very winter, the silence is broken. A young boy clad in the traditional colorful Vailian garb marches stubbornly into the heart of the forest. Twelve year old at most, wearing a riding hat with a bright blue feather protruding from it, onward and into the forest he goes. A drum he carries, tied to his waist, and play it he does – his drumsticks beat his drum as rhythmically as the pace at which he marches. Onward he goes, into the forest – with bare feet he walks and drums, drums and walks, and never does he look back the way he came. Only the frightened beasts of the forest see him as he walks by, and as beasts they are unable to realize what cannot be fathomed: His feet does not leave any mark in the snow as he passes by.
There lies his destination. The elven ruins of Eír Glanfath stand before him, in all their splendour. The statues of Caoth i Bhád and Bád i Caothaí stand before him, their heads directed at him, fixating him with their empty eyes. The boy doesn’t halt his pace before he stands directly in front of the statues. The only sound heard is that of drumsticks on hideclad drum, their rhytmic beating following a circular pattern of their own.
In Vailian the boy speaks. «I have come.» No reply is heard, no sound is heard but that of the drum. The boy speaks again, this time in ancient hylspeak, the old tounge of the aedyrans. «I have come».
From the statues of Caoth i Bhád and Bád i Caothaí two voices reply, like a whisper, like a taunt. «Cerath» the female whispers, «Berath» the male statue says. The boy looks up at the statues with defiance in his eyes, yet his drumsticks unerringly beats his drum.
Once again, the boy speaks, this time with hint of anger in his shrill voice. «I invoke the fourth principle of air. In balance, the soul will prevail». The boy exhales heavily once, his frosty breath passing into nothingness.
The statues are silent for only a few seconds. Then the female statue laughs a hollow laughter. «I invoke the third principle of fire. Magrans doom will burn the soul», she says. A thunder is heard as a circle of fire erupts from nothing, encircling both the boy and the statues.
Then the male statue speaks. «I invoke the second principle of earth. The mortality of man will decay the body». A loud crack is heard as the very earth the boy is standing on is formed into two claws, grasping the boys hands , making his drumsticks fall to the ground.
A single tear forms in the boys eyes as he looks up at the statues. «I invoke the first principle of water. In all things there is a beginning, in all things there is an end» he whispers. As the boys tear fall to the ground, a blinding flash of light follows. The circle of fire is extinguished, the earth holding the boys arms are gone – but so is the boy. Only the boys drum and his drumsticks remain, lying in front of the statues.
The statues scream in anger. «What is your purpose, what do you want», they scream in simultanous fury.
From the wind passing through the Dyrwood the voice of the boy can be heard one last time, like a distant sigh.
«I watch, and in doing that, I am the Watcher», it says.
And so began the War of Black Trees. But that is another tale, for another time.