Part 1 - Sickness and Shadow

The girl had no memory of her parents. She only knew that her mother had brought her to the Dru’va before she died. When she was very small, she thought that whatever had killed her parents must have been terrible if her mother had been willing to venture through the Ruins of Lea'O'Nor and the poison shadows of The Autumn Vale. Even the bravest Dru'va fear the sickness that dwells there.

She would lay across the grass roof of Drunord, her chin propped on her palms, and stare north toward The Autumn Vale, its brown, twisted trunks barely visible in the distance, and she would imagine the horrors that lay within. Her imagination ran wild of monstrous creatures and evil entities, and she suffered terrible nightmares until she was old enough to understand that the shadows simply brought plague, not monsters, and that it was caused by the same evil that was slowly corrupting the Vale.

As the girl grew, she thought often of the woman her mother must have been. She had wrapped her daughter in a scroll of health and used every skill she possessed to cross the mountains and pass through the ancient shadow city. Her body was ravaged by the sickness, but she had survived long enough to reach the edge of Dru’va land before the shadows took her. The wards of the Dru’va held the plague at bay, protecting the healers and preserving the Cliffs of Woe’sha from the shadows. The Dru'va burned her mother’s body, fearing to taint the land with a burial, but they kept her child. They named her Lena and gave her the surname Craig, which was given to all orphans raised on the cliffs.

Part 2 - The Cliffs of Woesha

The girl grew up on the windswept grassy plains of the Cliffs of Woe'sha. In the shadow of the massive longhouse of Drunord, she worshiped Edern and Elowyn and learned the history and magic of the earth. She danced at the Mother Festival and sang the songs of the soil on Planting Day and at the Feast of First Harvest. She learned the creatures of the land and their habits. She learned to forage for ingredients, to cultivate new plants, and to mix the herbs into various potions and poultices. She had an affinity for herbcraft, but she would rather have been practicing her runes or training with her staff or crouching in the tall grass watching the prairie dogs play on the roof of the longhouse.

The massive longhouses of the Dru’va were built down into the soil, so only the low, mounded roofs were visible from the grassy plains. Inside, two rows of large columns supported the heavy thatch and earth roof. A long middle hallway was formed by screens hung between the columns to create individual family dwellings. Where the screens ended, a large common area opened up with a fire pit built into the floor for roasting meat and boiling vegetables. Trestle tables were scattered about the room, which were used as sewing tables or craft tables as often as they were used for meals.

On sunny days, the longhouse was usually quiet and seemed very large to the little girl. The leather flaps were pulled back from the wide windows high on the walls at ground level, and sunlight filled the common room with a peaceful glow. On rainy days, when the entire clan was inside and restless, the smell of damp soil and smoke seemed to suffocate her, and she often crept out into the wet grass of the roof to watch The Autumn Vale and think about the old ancient legends of Nimir and her dragon.

At the age of twelve, each Dru’va left the longhouse of their childhood and began a six-year pilgrimage to the other three Dru’va communities to learn the magics of the other elements.

Thus, when the girl turned twelve, she left her home and traveled southwest across the windy plains to the longhouse of Druvestr where she would learn the magic of water. She danced at the Feast of the Storm and worshiped at the shrines of Meridros and Morvoryn, learning all she could about the ways of the water. There, on the edge of the narrow canyon overlooking the swirling river far below, she learned of the ancient connection between the Dru'va and the Fae, and she was taught the responsibility of the Dru'va to care for the Nimorian people, in sickness and in health.

When she turned fourteen, the girl left Druvestr and continued her pilgrimage south through the grasslands to Drusuth, to study the magic of fire. As she walked, the wind changed from a breeze that carried the fishy smell of the river to great gusts that billowed her shirt and lifted her hair with the salty scent of the sea.

Her years at Drusuth saw her flourish. Her rune studies were nearly complete; soon she would begin working with individual sigils and combining their use with that of her staff. She learned the flame songs of Ayden and danced at the Feast of the Ancients and Festival of the Sun. All the lessons she learned in her years at Drusuth demonstrated the delicate balance between life-giving fire and destructive flame, between feeling her emotions and mastering them, a lesson she would recall many times throughout her life.

When the girl was sixteen, she left behind the billowing sea wind and traveled north over the grasslands to Druaustr, the home to air magic and the shrine of Woe'sha himself. There, at the feet of the oldest and wisest of the gods, she learned of the sacred duty of the Dru'va to protect Nimoria and keep at bay the shadow and sickness spreading like a stain from the Ruins of Lea'O'Nor. She learned to read the stars and their signs, and she learned to feel the presence of her ancestors and draw on them for guidance. She learned to sense the darkness that tainted the land and push it away from her mind. Much of her studies during this time were conducted outside, meditating in the soft breeze of Drullaghar Bay, breathing the breath of Woe’sha.

The girl’s six-year pilgrimage ended on her eighteenth birthday. In a ceremony under the stars, the High Ard’Dru’va of Woe’sha carved her facial tattoo slowly and deliberately, washing the wound with sea water, in recognition of Meridros and Morvoryn; darkening it with a mixture of ash and soil to honor Edern, Elowyn, and Ayden; and finally blowing away the excess to invoke Woe’sha. The girl had trembled and clutched her staff until her hands ached, but she hadn’t cried out. When she returned home to Drunord, the girl was a woman.

The woman spent her days walking the border of The Autumn Vale, and as her connection to the land grew, so did her confidence. She never stepped beneath the darkened, twisted boughs; she knew that to enter their shadow was to invoke evil and sickness. Each night, she camped at the edge of the forest. In the distance, to the east and west along the treeline, she could see other campfires of The Vale Watch, other lone Dru'va, each patrolling their own area of the darkness, carrying out the quiet work of protecting Nimoria.

She spent her evenings in quiet meditation, breathing and reaching out with her mind. She could sense the evil among the ancient trees; she could see it in her mind as a shadow with dark tendrils like roots, always reaching, always seeking life. In her mind, she imagined her consciousness as a soft, healing breath, gently pushing the darkness back into itself. This was easy for even the least skilled Dru'va. They could not uproot the evil, but they could keep it from claiming themselves, their land, and its people.

Occasionally, she returned home to resupply her traveling pack, and on one such journey, the Ard’Dru’va of Drunord asked for her help working the mortar.

She was surprised, but she knew he had something to tell her and that he liked to work while he talked.

"I want you to go into The Autumn Vale, Lena." His voice was soft but he didn’t look up from the pestle, his gnarled hand grinding in a steady rhythm.

Lena felt her heart jump. Everything inside her screamed in protest, but she said nothing. She pushed the fear aside, as she was trained to do, and finished winding her twine around the stems of the herbs she was holding. When she reached up to fasten the bundle to the hanging rack, her hands were steady.

"The darkness first began to infect this world in the year I was born. I have never known a year without its shadow, without this terrible plague." He continued, "The Vale Watch is not your fate, my girl. That is simple work that even the youth can do."

He gestured toward the common room, where they could hear children studying their runes on the other side of the leather screen.

"The Gods were here before the darkness, before the Fae, before the Dru'va. The Ancient magic is the energy of creation, of life.” He turned to meet her eyes, an act he only did when it was important that she pay attention. “It can defeat this evil.”

Lena was silent for a long time, concentrating on the smooth stems of the herbs beneath her fingers. She did not want to leave her post at the Watch. The quiet freedom of walking the grasslands brought her peace.

And why her anyway? Why was she being chosen for this impossible task?

As if he could sense her thoughts, the Ard’Dru’va spoke one more time.

“You passed through the Vale when you were just a baby. Yet, you were untouched by the darkness around you, untainted by the plague.” His voice was grave.

“You are not meant to spend your life sitting on the edge of darkness. You are meant for greater things, Lena.” He held her eyes until she looked away.

"I do not want to leave,” she said quietly, “but I will seek out the darkness and learn what it can teach me."

"Good." He nodded briskly, the deep lines of his face softening as he smiled. He dust his hands clean of the fine powder from the pounded herbs. "You will leave tomorrow morning. A Naming Ceremony is a fine time for new beginnings."

Part 3 - The Autumn Vale

Living alone in a wild and ancient forest was very different from the cozy, bustling longhouses and the open, sweeping plains of her childhood, and in her first year in the Vale Lena often struggled with loneliness. She observed the holy days and prayed to the gods, and each day, she walked among the dying trees, seeking the source, striving to understand the darkness. But she never crossed the border into the ruins of Lea’Nor. She could feel the ancient magic there, corrupted by the shadows, angry and vengeful.

She cultivated mindfulness and meditation in her everyday activities and kept herself busy when she wasn’t practicing her sigils or renewing the mental and physical wards that kept her from succumbing to the shadow sickness. She learned that the evil was more potent under the New Moon, and during those days of the month, she was more careful not to stray too close to the gnarled trunks of the trees. Sometimes, in the deep blackness of the dark moon, she could hear whispers among the leaves, voices from other worlds bleeding into Nimoria through their very bark.

As the season’s passed, she began to notice some effects of the shadows on the creatures who inhabited the Vale. Birds became more violent, attacking predators to their nests instead of flying away; squirrels and rabbits chittered angrily; deer fought, does butting heads like bucks. Then she noticed physical changes in the animals. Tumors began to grow beneath the fur, twisting their limbs and knotting their bones. They increased in size and speed, and their claws or horns grew longer and sharper. In the final stages of the shadow corruption, their eyes changed as well, carrying a hunger and an emptiness that shot an icy chill down Lena’s spine.

She avoided the mutated ones, for the most part, tracking and watching from a distance as they fought and killed each other, even the plant eaters hungrily devouring the bodies of the fallen. She waited until they were sated and had slunk off to their dens before she crept silently forward to examine the remains of the carcass. She always took a piece of the corrupted bones, making sure to avoid the gleaming ooze of the tumors. Hanging these around her tent seemed to ward off the shadows at night.

As she entered the start of her third year in the Vale, she let her guard down for a moment. Just a moment. But it was enough.

The New Moon was rising soon, and she didn’t want to be caught outside her tent. The mutated and partially devoured corpse lay against one of the old Fae wells that were scattered around Avyn’Mor, and Lena knew that the Dark Moon would soon turn the well to shadows. She hurried forward to collect her bone, and as she bent over the decimated remains of guts and brain and bones, she didn’t notice a lone wolf slinking out of the shadows.

The wolf was far more quiet than its size would suggest. Its frame was mangled and malformed. Grotesque tumors and growths bulging its flesh in unnatural patterns. Dark gray fur was damp with sick sweat falling out in large clumps. The eyes were even more telling of the true darkness that boiled within the creature.

In the moment that the creature lunged, an impatient snarl was released from its maw. Lena spun around, twisting her ankle and slipping in the blood-soaked muck around the carcass. The sickly beast fumbled passed her; its jaws a breath away from her throat. Her heart drummed wildly against her ribs, but she forced her mind to slow and her breath to steady.

She scurried to her feet, but her ankle betrayed her, shooting pain all the way up her leg. She sat down hard against the well’s ledge; grateful for any stability she could find. She turned to face the wolf, knowing that nothing she could do would save her in this moment. As the creature rushed towards her, its foaming mouth growing ever closer, she closed her eyes and whispered a prayer of gratitude to all the Gods. She had lived well and done all they had asked of her.

She would never be able to recall what happened next. She didn’t open her eyes, but she felt a great wind rushing through the woods, blowing back her hair and cloak. It was warm and salty like the gusts from the sea on the cliffs at Druvaustr, and she knew it was the breath of Woe’sha.

She heard the wolf whimper and start to whine, but she was not afraid. She was grateful for the life she had lived, and she was ready. The buffeting gale grew stronger until she could no longer withstand its push, and then she was falling.

Part 4 - Grӓuhaven

Lena landed hard on her back at the base of the biggest, most disturbing tree she had ever seen. Its massive black trunk was wider than one of the Dru’va longhouses, and its barren branches rose so high into the canopy that their ends were obscured by mist. The trunk was slit in a nasty gash that gaped open like a decaying womb. The cracks between the bark shone with glowing embers, and its sap ran blood red from gashes made not by human hands. She knew without a doubt this was the source of the darkness infecting Nimoria. She had spent the last three years of her life among this evil, and she recognized it in her bones. In that same instant, she realized that the portal which had brought her here was closed. She was trapped.

Instinctively, she glanced at the moon to see its phase and determine which stars illuminated this sky, but all was obscured by the heavy dank mist. She put up her wards, but it was far more difficult here than in the Autumn Vale. In this place, the shadows weren’t mere whispers; here they hung heavy and corporeal in the twisted forest. They wrapped themselves around her, clinging to her panic and the bright pain in her ankle.

A hunter found her several days later, stumbling though the mist and the tangled vines and brambles, half starved and half mad, muttering about Woe’sha and the gods. She didn’t remember what happened after that, only that she had been so grateful to find someone kind that she gave herself over to his care completely, sinking into a deep haze of exhaustion as he lifted her slight frame like a child and bore her out of the dank woods.

She woke in a small room lit with bright sunlight. Children peered over the edge of her bed, their curiosity outweighing any hope of obedience as their parents tried to shoo them away. For years, she had lived in isolation among the trees and shadows of the Vale, and she had not seen children in so long that she felt tears springing to her eyes at the sight of their hopeful faces and their smooth, pink cheeks.

The village of Brindlepost was nestled snuggly against the edge of the great dark forest, which she learned was called the Schattwald, but which the villagers refused to name above a whisper. They were simple folk, smiths and crafters, hunters and farmers. The sun shone brightly, glittering off the protective silver charms and talismans that hung around the village. Lena added her own protective wards to its borders, as well.

As the days turned to weeks and the seasons passed, Lena found that she enjoyed living among people again. After an initial period of wariness, she slowly gained their trust. She tended their wounds and birthed their babies and sang the funeral rites of Woe’sha over their dead. The children seemed to be always at her doorstep, crying over skinned knees or bringing her a wounded animal to care for or begging to hear stories of Nimoria. They called her Aunt Lena, and she was happy.

As the seasons passed, the children grew up and had babies of their own, and Lena began to feel a pull to return to the woods. She began traveling into the Schattwald on daytime foraging trips, staying out longer each time. Before one such trip, she packed extra bread and cheese and stayed out overnight. She was testing herself, her resolve; she was rebuilding her strength after a decade of straw beds and village living.

When she found the abandoned cottage in a small clearing, she knew it was her new home. No more than a shack, the rotting wood soft with age and decay, the roof sagging, she felt at home as soon as she crossed the threshold. She slowly made her repairs, still returning to the village in the evenings. She had an apprentice healer working under her, Anya, one of the bright faces she had seen peeking over her bed that very first morning in Brindlepost. The girl was a young woman now and well-versed in the healing arts. She was patient and thoughtful, and Lena knew the people of the village would be in good hands.

She settled into her solitary life in the Schottwald slowly, allowing herself time to breathe. She began to reconnect with her gods, meditating, keeping the old Dru’va Holy Days once more, relearning the rhythms of the Breath of Woe’sha. She came to know the ancient, twisted forest as well as her own Vale, and she learned all the secrets and the dangers it held.

She still returned to the village once a week, to see her people and refill her supplies. And to pass on the ways of the Dru’va. The children were always happy to see her, and she began to teach them the old stories, the old ways of connecting to the Gods. They were eager students and as they grew, she noticed subtle signs around the village – Dru’va sigils carved into doorframes or fence posts, the remains of a Harvest Day bonfire, or the tattered charms of wishes hung from tree limbs. It warmed her heart to see the Old Gods honored in such ways.

Over time, she realized she wasn’t growing older the way they were; yes, the years were taking their toll on her too, but at a slower pace. She should be waking up with the aches and pains of middle age, her hair greying at the temples and fine lines spiderwebbing from her eyes. And while her body had filled out into the rounded curves of a woman, she had not shown any signs of having yet reached middle age. The thought troubled her, but she put it aside as something she couldn’t control and focused on her daily tasks.

The evening she met Traveler, she was returning from the village, lost in thought remembering the faces of the children as she had told them the tale of Nimoria’s history.

“Nimoria is a land of great magic and mystery. Its history and even its location has been lost to time, and the men and Fae who call it their home all but forgotten.” She had begun as the children gathered around her by the fire.

“The greatest of these Fae was beautiful, powerful, and kind. She caught the eye of the great God Woe’sha, who, in those days, walked the land and shared knowledge and magic freely with the Fae. Woe’sha’s child, part Fae and part God, was named Nimir, and she was beloved by both Gods and Fae alike. Her seat of power was the sprawling city of Lea’O’Nor, and she ruled for untold years.”

The children had looked excitedly at each other. They didn’t know where Nimoria was, but they had grown up hearing its stories from their parents, and her visits were always met with curiosity.

“It was Nimir and her great dragon companion, Ra’Tha,” Lena had spoken the name with the harsh accent of the long dead tongue of the dragons, and the children had nudged each other excitedly, “who greeted the first men and taught them the ways of the Gods. Nimir shared freely of her knowledge of magic and sigilcraft, creating the first of the Order of the Dru'va.”

“The Dru’va were masters of the elements, honoring the ways of the Old Gods and living in unity with the land. As the strength and power of the Dru'va grew, so did the people’s devotion to the gods.” She had brought her hands together, clasping them tightly to show unity. “The gods and the land and the people are all one. The Dru’va served in courts and temples across the land, guiding the people in the ways of the gods and nature.”

She had reached into a small pouch at her waist and opened her fist to show a handful of large seeds, passing one to each of the children.

“In time, a great darkness rose to challenge and extinguish the power of the gods. They wanted the power of the Dru’va for themselves. They did not understand that, without respect for the gods, the land itself would perish and all its bounty would turn to ash.”

She had waved her hand and the seeds in the children’s hands had crumbled to dust. They cried out and wiped their grimy hands on their tunics.

“The Dru'va, together with Nimir, Ra’Tha, and a great host of shining Fae warriors, met the darkness in battle.” She had paused, and in the silence that followed, it seemed the cottage echoed with sounds of that ancient battle.

“Peace came at last to the land, but it was not without cost. Ra’Tha fell to the darkness, and Nimir, in a desperate effort to save her people, shattered the land with a great chasm. Her actions protected her shining city and the communities of the Dru’va, but the land grieved. Through a magical barrier made of her own desire to protect her people, she watched the darkness decimate Ra’Tha’s corpse until nothing remained but giant bones.” When she had held her fingers in front of the fire, and long shadows loomed in the cottage like a giant rib cage.

“Nimir realized the darkness would never stop until it destroyed everyone and everything in Avyn’Mor. Nimir lowered the barrier and sacrificed herself to banish the darkness forever.”

“As Dru’va in training, you must keep the old ways of Nimir. You must honor the land and each other. You must learn the medicines of the land and the secret voices of the forest. You must feel the gods in each of the elements and call forth their power to do good deeds.”

The children had sat up straighter, their faces shining proudly in the firelight.

“Can you do that, my novices?”

“Yes Aunt Lena!”

“Do you have your pouches? Each of you knows the herbs and stones you must find?”

They had nodded eagerly, shifting and fidgeting, grown restless now that the story has ended.

“Go then. Next week, when I return, you will show me the fruits of your foraging.”

The children had scampered off, pushing each other through the cabin door and into the cool air.

Now, Lena chuckled to herself as she traveled the familiar paths through the tainted forest. Her feet moved through the mist and over the roots with the long-practiced ease of a decade of familiarity.

As she neared her clearing, hidden in the mists from anyone who didn’t know its secret paths, a crack split the silence of the evening. Almost at once, she felt the ripple of unknown magic. The hair on her body rose, her fingertips tingling with the power. It was neither of Nimoria, nor of Wachovia. This was something new.

She stood breathless for a moment, still as a stone, listening. After a moment, a bloodcurdling howl rose from the direction of the Blightoak and was answered by an angry chorus from the rest of the pack. The wolves of Blackmaw were hunting. If they found it first, she would never know the magic’s source.

She uttered a harsh curse under her breath in the ancient tongue of the dragons— dragontongue, with its gutteral accents, was always best for swearing— and then took off toward the old tree at a run. This wouldn’t be her first conflict with the Blackmaw, but it would be the first one of her choosing.

As she drew closer, the sounds of conflict seemed to echo through the trees. The screaming tear of metal. A strange yipping cry, as from an animal,  followed by an explosion that shook the trees around her. The strange magic pulsed in the air, as heavy as the mist.

She stopped at the edge of the clearing and watched as the stranger, his features obscured by a long brown coat and a wide brimmed hat, stood his ground, raising a small weapon in the face of a charging wolf.

She reacted on instinct, the way she wished she would have reacted when the wolf had charged at her all those years ago at the well. She raised her staff. The spell was more powerful with age and regret and homesickness. She watched as thick, powerful roots rose from the ground and ensnared the great alpha.

The pack fell on the vines in a frenzy, furious that their leader was trapped. She didn’t stop to notice if they managed to tear him free. She gestured to the stranger and then she ran. She didn’t look back, but she could feel the strange magic following behind her. Whoever this man was… He wasn’t from Wachovia.

Perhaps he knew a way home.

She surprised herself by leading him back to her cottage. She had intended to take him to the village, but her feet kept turning aside from the path that led to Brindlepost and tracing the familiar patterns back through the mist. There was something about the rough gravel of his speech, the strange energy that still shimmered almost visible around him. She needed to know more.

As the week stretched on, their days settled into an easy routine. Eventually Onyx and Faust, his strange fox, began to play together, and once their antics were enough to startle a genuine laugh from the man, a deep rich sound with none of the gravel of his speech. They had met each other’s eyes then, both still smiling, and she was startled to find a trusting vulnerability there. She felt a surge of tenderness flare within her as he lowered the wide brim of his hat. She found, quite against her will, that she wanted to protect him.

At week’s end, she packed her bags and prepared to make the weekly journey to Brindlepost for supplies. He refused to come, and she felt a pricking of fear at the base of her scalp. She warned him not to leave without her, that she had spent nearly two decades learning the secrets of this forest. The fear followed her throughout the day, a pinch that grew stronger as the sun began to sink back to the horizon.

When she started for home, she moved swiftly, the sight now gripping her neck like a vice. The cottage was empty, and she cursed and threw down her pack. She ran through the mists, back through the secret paths that kept it hidden.

(Faust is wounded by a Geist. See Tony’s backstory. They need an ingredient from a gravestone, and Crow’s Hollow is the closest one, as most villages burn their dead. It will take a little over a week of travel.)

The fox slept fitfully though the night, whimpering through nightmares only he could see. His body was cold and he curled in Traveler’s lap, shivering. Traveler didn’t sleep, and they left at dawn, wordlessly eating a quick breakfast and packing such things as they needed. They paused only once, for Lena to renew the wards that hid her home, and then they left.

They moved quickly during the days, Lena using every charm she knew to open their path and soothe the forest around them. At nights Traveler crouched beside the enchanted fire of Ayden humming the song Lena had taught him to keep the fire burning hot but harmless, careful to keep below the blanket of protection she cast over them before she fell asleep.

Traveler didn’t sleep.

As the week stretched on, Faust sunk deeper into shadow. The night his tail fire went out, Lena woke to hear Traveler crying. He clung to her helplessly, the tiny fox curled between them. After that, Faust’s tail smoke turned black. Dark streaks crept across his fur, spiderwebbing over the small body. Without speaking they pushed themselves harder, no longer stopping to sleep.

They reached Crow's Hollow at dusk, the lanterns of the treetop village flickering through the mist. The graveyard spread across the forest floor, wrapping around the trunks of the massive trees. There was no order to the chaotic cemetery. Tombstones and crypts jutted up at all angles in between the gnarled roots and stony earth.

Some distance away, Travian leaned lazily against one of the larger gravestones, arms crossed, watching Traveler suspiciously from beneath his hat. He knew Lena frequented the apothecary, but he was wary of strangers.

Wordlessly, Lena dropped her pack at the closest tombstone. She used her athame to scrape the moss from the back of the gravestone, whispering a prayer of thanks to its inhabitant. She pulled a rough mortar and pestle from her pack and ground the moss into a paste. She added a broken bit of honeycomb and two butterfly wings. When the paste was smooth, she said a healing prayer to Morvoryn and spread the paste over the fox’s oozing wound. Wrapping it tightly with a cloth, she bound it with the strongest healing sigil she knew.

She felt the magic flow into the fox and shook with dizziness as utter exhaustion took her. She slumped back on her heels, swaying, and Traveler reached out to catch her. He met her eyes for only the second time, and she saw that they were hazel and swimming with tears.

“Come on.” He cleared his throat, the gravel returning to his voice. “I hope this fairy tree village has a bar. I need a damn drink.”