45th of Ymiden
It had begun. At the darkest point in the night, the witching hour.
All across Melrath in the days prior everyone had been seeing the signs, even beyond the outskirts of Myrkvior forest. Tiny footprints in the morning dew, echoes of haunting laughter behind darkened corners, and flashes of movement just in the corner of your eye after the sun went down. People were afraid. Those in the southern Wilds were sure to latch their doors tightly and bring their children indoors every night before the sun went down. Because they had heard the tales told by their elders. They knew when the children of the Dark Mother were about, and they knew what it might mean.
Myrkvior was known throughout the nation as the oldest of the spirits. She had been there when the first settlers of Fensalir had arrived and long after she had been waiting when the refugees from Ne’haer set the first foundation stones in Raelia. She was old, wise, and held a long memory of the mortals who had walked her forest over the centuries.
The mother remembers, and the mother never forgets.
Across Melrath an uneasy but quiet calm descended across the land. People were drawn to their beds or to a private nook in an inn by the call to sleep. Many felt it, as if they had been given a gentle sleeping draught yet no such thing had passed their lips that night. Still, the call to sleep came upon them all the same. There was no resisting it or negotiating with it.
When they awoke all who had drifted into that slumber would find themselves somewhere rather surprising and new. The bright scent of rosemary and pine surrounded them with just a hint of smoke. There in the middle of the night on the forty-fifth of Ymiden those who had been chosen would be roused by the laugher of childlike voices and find themselves lying in the deepest depths of Myrkvior’s forest.
It was dark, although there were several glowing amber mushrooms dotting the perimeter of the clearing they found themselves in. Enough light to see that there was no sign of civilization for miles and miles. The grass and vegetation in the clearing was pristine, flecked with flickering dewdrops and fireflies which glinted with their eerie emerald light.
At the center of the clearing stood a long wide plinth made of a steely blue stone. Atop it rested six items. The first was a crude lantern made from wrought iron. Within it’s amber glass flickered a globe of fireflies which clustered frantically together, casting a soft light around the circumference of the lantern. Next to the lantern resided a single steel embossed torch with a flint and steel beside it. Clearly left to light it if needed. The third item was a single perfectly black obsidian sphere. It was cold to the touch and could fit comfortably in one’s hand. Fourth was a curious rowan wand which still had delicate green leaves peeking from it’s branches. Although the wand looked quite old, it somehow also seemed rather alive. The fifth item was a single tiny golden dagger with it’s blade cut beautifully into the image of flames. At it’s hilt rested a glittering unpolished orb of garnet. The dagger was warm to the touch. Lastly, the sixth item hovered just a few inches off the surface of the plinth as if held aloft by the wind. It was a rather fetching bycocket hat with a single white feather rather carefully sewn into the brim. It was the sort of thing you pictured handsome archers and hunters wearing in fairytales. The hat hovered there as if waiting for someone to take it.
The items were clearly intended for those who had awoken in the forest, and it was obvious that they were each intended to choose one before they might learn more.
All across Melrath in the days prior everyone had been seeing the signs, even beyond the outskirts of Myrkvior forest. Tiny footprints in the morning dew, echoes of haunting laughter behind darkened corners, and flashes of movement just in the corner of your eye after the sun went down. People were afraid. Those in the southern Wilds were sure to latch their doors tightly and bring their children indoors every night before the sun went down. Because they had heard the tales told by their elders. They knew when the children of the Dark Mother were about, and they knew what it might mean.
Myrkvior was known throughout the nation as the oldest of the spirits. She had been there when the first settlers of Fensalir had arrived and long after she had been waiting when the refugees from Ne’haer set the first foundation stones in Raelia. She was old, wise, and held a long memory of the mortals who had walked her forest over the centuries.
The mother remembers, and the mother never forgets.
Across Melrath an uneasy but quiet calm descended across the land. People were drawn to their beds or to a private nook in an inn by the call to sleep. Many felt it, as if they had been given a gentle sleeping draught yet no such thing had passed their lips that night. Still, the call to sleep came upon them all the same. There was no resisting it or negotiating with it.
When they awoke all who had drifted into that slumber would find themselves somewhere rather surprising and new. The bright scent of rosemary and pine surrounded them with just a hint of smoke. There in the middle of the night on the forty-fifth of Ymiden those who had been chosen would be roused by the laugher of childlike voices and find themselves lying in the deepest depths of Myrkvior’s forest.
It was dark, although there were several glowing amber mushrooms dotting the perimeter of the clearing they found themselves in. Enough light to see that there was no sign of civilization for miles and miles. The grass and vegetation in the clearing was pristine, flecked with flickering dewdrops and fireflies which glinted with their eerie emerald light.
At the center of the clearing stood a long wide plinth made of a steely blue stone. Atop it rested six items. The first was a crude lantern made from wrought iron. Within it’s amber glass flickered a globe of fireflies which clustered frantically together, casting a soft light around the circumference of the lantern. Next to the lantern resided a single steel embossed torch with a flint and steel beside it. Clearly left to light it if needed. The third item was a single perfectly black obsidian sphere. It was cold to the touch and could fit comfortably in one’s hand. Fourth was a curious rowan wand which still had delicate green leaves peeking from it’s branches. Although the wand looked quite old, it somehow also seemed rather alive. The fifth item was a single tiny golden dagger with it’s blade cut beautifully into the image of flames. At it’s hilt rested a glittering unpolished orb of garnet. The dagger was warm to the touch. Lastly, the sixth item hovered just a few inches off the surface of the plinth as if held aloft by the wind. It was a rather fetching bycocket hat with a single white feather rather carefully sewn into the brim. It was the sort of thing you pictured handsome archers and hunters wearing in fairytales. The hat hovered there as if waiting for someone to take it.
The items were clearly intended for those who had awoken in the forest, and it was obvious that they were each intended to choose one before they might learn more.
