This is a story
about the past refusing to rest.
It’s about elves, and magic, and terrible monsters.
But more than anything else...
...it’s about the power of words.
ere now
may this communion formed
never know a parting.
Stories are grouped by Arc.
Stories set during the 3rd Millenium:
| "A Pact Made in Blood" | "Something Wonderful & Strange" | "The Beast, As It Follows" |
|---|---|---|
| The Death of Maudar | Nothing More, Nothing Less | First Words |
| "It's all so bizarre." | Battle With Vofo'maulot |
Stories set during the 4th Millenium:
| "A Prayer For Life" |
|---|
| "Only beasts command my respect." |
| Lair of the Lifedrinker |
In the village Aldua'denac, deep within the Skittering Wood, there is a certain rite of passage undertaken by all young elves approaching adulthood - before the eve of the adolescent child's 70th birthday, they are called to create the very best bow they can - using only tools in their personal possession, and from materials gathered alone. Thus prepared, they will undergo a final, secret trial - the Ylthuun-aut'torr.
When it came time for Rennuid Tathviel to make his bow, he was nervous. He was the youngest child of four, and his older siblings' creations had set a high bar he doubted he could live up to. If he couldn't make something impressive on skill alone, then.. perhaps, Rennuid reasoned, he could still impress by crafting the bow out of something unique and unusual?
What better place to look for something that hadn't been seen before than a place where no one goes? Mind made already, Rennuid just so happened to overhear a discussion between two villagers; one woman swearing to another that a copse of strange trees rested in the shadow of an abandoned ruin in the far, far reaches of the Wood.
How fortuitous, wasn't it? Perhaps even fateful.
The forbidden wood wasn't even all that foreboding. In fact, he found it peaceful - quiet, calming.. more beautiful in many ways than the more well-trod parts of the forest. He met with no danger on his journey to the ruin.
There, in the shadow of a small, overgrown temple resting atop a hill, were the strange, twisted trees. He had found Gorfuin'taenac. But as he gathered what he would need to make his bow, a voice rang out over the peaceful murmurs of the wood.
“To cut a body's veins. To rend a body's skin. To drain a body's essence. Is this the form, now, where language lives? No longer, now, to poison the air. Oh, to poison the air... Do you hear me, presumptuous one? Do you speak?”
This was how Rennuid and his future god first met.
Of course, he was frightened.
Of course, he was curious.
One won out over another, and he approached the voice’s source - the temple on the hill. But he didn’t yet dare to climb the stairs leading to the temple’s open mouth.
The voice explained: it owned those trees. Indeed, they were as dear to it as the fingers on Rennuid’s own hands were to him. In exchange for the damage he had already caused, it wanted payment.
“You will be allowed to take what you have harvested, penitent one. All I ask is your name; nothing more, nothing less. Speak it now, and you are forgiven.”
Rennuid spoke his name, and left shortly with what he’d already cut, as per their promise. Though the wood was of an excellent quality for bowmaking, it seemed to fight being used - soon he had nothing but unusable slivers, as time and again it split in his hands. So the next morning, Rennuid returned to Gorfuin'taenac.
There he found the tree he cut whole and hale, as if he had never been there in the first place. Rennuid stood at the bottom of the temple stair, and called out a greeting to the voice.
The first time, it did not answer. Rennuid climbed the first step.
The second time, it did not answer. Rennuid climbed the second step.
But then, on his third call -
“Greetings, beseeching one. I name you, as Rennuid Tathviel. But why have you returned?”
Previously, he had not explained why he needed the wood from the tree. Now, he explained - and it seemed his purpose caught the voice’s intrigue.
“You will be allowed to harvest all you desire. But when the bow is made, you must return here, with your creation in hand. Nothing more, nothing less.”
Perhaps he took more than needed, given permission to excess - but once more, Rennuid returned home, and began working on the bow. This time, the wood was pliant - perhaps you could even call it eager! - and the result was as wonderful and strange and new as he had hoped. But when he tried to string it, every bowstring snapped. It didn’t seem to matter how strong the string he used - the wood simply would not bear it.
For a third time, Rennuid went to Gorfuin'taenac. This time, he found the tree he had cut had remained so -- moreover, it had died. And, as his bow was not yet complete, he thought not to bring it. Remembering how he had gone at first unheard, he went up to the third step, and called out.
But there was no answer. Rennuid climbed to the fourth step.
No answer, again. Rennuid climbed to the fifth step, called out - and the voice did answer.
“I name you as Rennuid. But where is the bow, as you promised?”
He explained that the bow was strong, and beautiful - but he could not complete it, for the wood was so strong, it snapped every string, and he did not know what to do. And, as the trees belonged to the voice, perhaps it knew what he might be able to use? He hadn’t wanted to return empty handed, but he was swiftly running out of time before the bow needed to be complete, for the sake of the sacred rite that required it.
“Spider’s silk, pleading one. The body from which you fed is now a corpse. In that corpse, there rests your source. Trust me now, and reach into its hollow side.”
Rennuid did as told, reaching into the hollow tree - why stop now, when the voice had, truly, done nothing but help? - and withdrew his hand. A large spider rested on the back, calm as you please.
“Keep it secret, keep it safe. Return home, and sleep. In the morning, you will be able to perform your rite. Then you will bring your bow to me.”
So it went, as the voice had said - Rennuid returned home to Aldua’denac, with the spider hidden in his clothing. He made certain no one saw it - difficult, in a home shared with his mother and two sisters - but he managed. When he woke in the morning and checked on his bow, indeed, it was strung with a gleaming silver thread. The spider was nowhere to be found.
And so the rite was undertaken, and the bow was indeed to be found as wonderful and strange as its creator had dreamed. Such deep, twisted gnarls in the wood.. One could not help but be drawn in by the sight of it.
When all eyes had finally turned from him, Rennuid took his chance and slipped away, bow in hand. As he traversed a path that had by now become familiar to him, the hour grew late. In the past, he’d always managed to return to Aldua’denac before the forest had grown lightless… his past fortune had made him grow bold.
Perhaps the most tragic part of this story yet is that nothing happened to stop him, as Rennuid retread his steps to Gorfuin’taenac. Though the forest grew dark, the light of the moon shone down on silvery threads. Though the sounds of the forbidden wood grew closer and more foreboding in the gloom, no other living thing crossed his path. Though he couldn’t clearly see the reaching branches, the brambles he normally would have had to weave around with care -- nothing, absolutely nothing impeded him.
His heart fluttered nonetheless.
The temple on the hill seemed like a beacon, when it finally came into view. Rennuid climbed the stairs, free of hesitation -- the temple was familiar. It, and its mysterious inhabitant - assuredly safe. He passed the fifth stair with nary a thought.
When he came to the top of the stairs, to the open mouth of the temple, he stopped. He was now again unsure of himself - the darkness inside seemed greater, in some way, than he had expected.
He called out, “I returned home and slept, and come morning, the bow was ready.”
“In the afternoon I shot an arrow into the great vine that bears my family’s name. The bow shot as true as any I have ever seen.”
“Now, in the night, I am here, to fulfill my part of our promise.”
Rennuid had thought to simply lay the bow at the temple’s mouth and retreat -- it seemed the most respectful way of things, to not pry to know more of the strange, wonderful being living in the forgotten temple than was strictly offered. But in the darkness, he could see something begin to stir.
In the cold, early hours of the morning, Rennuid came home.