What follows is a recount in story form of an AD&Dv3/3.5 adventure I wrote for my players around the turn of the millennia, based off the journal notes I kept for it. If it seems to you that there are elements that have been plagiarized from other sources, rest assured, it was. I plagiarize without shame or remorse for my games. Now that it’s returning to a story form, I felt I had to mention this fact. Except “Game of Thrones,” I have only just read the books and seen the series within the last year or so. So I won’t be plagiarizing G.R.R. Martin unless I ever get a chance to run any more games. Then I likely will be stealing his ideas, too.
I wrote the general story, but my players created the PC characters in the story, as well as determined their general actions. Pfren, Mirzam, Jhonas, Seth, Selendar and Larathin were all Player Characters (PCs) in the game. All other characters were Non-Player Characters (NPCs) created by me. The account I have written follows the course of the adventure fairly closely. I have made only minor modifications as I felt were needed for artistic license. Yes Ian, that is my excuse.
This story was written for my own enjoyment, and hopefully the enjoyment of those who were in the campaign. I’ll try to post a new chapter about once a week or three, as I get them written.
S.E.
Frater Anglachael
***
Let us go forth, the tellers of tales, and seize whatever prey the heart long for, and have no fear. Everything exists, everything is true, and the earth is only a little dust under our feet.
–W.B.Yeats
***
Magiedämmerung
(The Twilight of Magic)
Book One: Into the Gloaming
Prologue
A soft mist snakes through the primeval oaks as an old man walks slowly down paths that he has traversed a thousand times over a hundred winters. Hints of frost dust the landscape, as naked trees claw against the sky. The old man is clothed in robes that are as white as the snow that lays all around him, his naked feet sinking deep into the chilled loam. Wisps of frozen breath mingle with the early morning fog as the old man looks upon the monochromatic scene. Grey smears into black and fades into white. All is silent, all is still. He is deep within the most sacred of groves held by the druids of the Blackmoors, yet for the first time he feels no comfort here, no sense of security, only an acute unease.
Drawn towards the wreath of mistletoe that grows next to a frozen stream, the druid’s sense of dread deepens. The evergreen leaves of the wreath were withered and grey; the berries white and dead. He reaches out to touch the plant, to confirm what his unbelieving mind’s eye claimed to see. The leaves drop at his touch, scattering in a sudden howling wind that sounded like a banshee’s keen. Startled by the unexpected movement and unhallowed sound, the old man looks back to the mistletoe that is the divine symbol of his people’s prosperity and sees the bare branches are twisted and distorted. There is a stirring in the mistletoe’s latticework, as tendrils seem to grow and slither inward towards the center of the circular wreath. Soon a new shape evolves from the circle, a wheel-cross. The old druid is filled with a sudden burst of horror at the sight, though he knows not why.
A moment later, he bolts upright out from underneath the furs of his bed, his body covered in a cold clammy sweat. As he recovers his wits, he comes to understand that it was but a dream. The occasional nightmare is simply an annoyance to most. But when you are an oracle and a leader of your people, it is something else entirely. The old hierophant gets out of his bed and grabs his robes. As he fastens them he hears a soft moaning, his wife, still entranced in her own dreams. She looks so peaceful lying there in the darkness. But there will be no more sleep tonight for the hierophant.
***
Pfren TuAull
The long nights of winter were fast giving way to spring, bringing the warming breezes that turned the snows into misting rain. A young couple lies in repose upon soft mosses under a clearing in a secluded open-air grotto formed from a large outcropping of granite, their private sanctuary from the otherwise close-knit community of tribesman of the Blackmoors. A nearby rill is swollen with melted snow and splashes loudly as it trickles along its wayward path. The young druid Pfren TuAull looked down to the sleeping girl nestled at his chest. He runs his hands through her snow white hair, noting the hints of blond that were starting to show through, further indications that the change of the seasons was at hand. For the sleeping girl was a dryad, an immortal and ageless daughter of the woods whose hair changed color in accordance of the seasons. Her name was Aeife, and she was in form a young girl long before Pfren was born, and would be so long after he had died.
The young druid was lost in his thoughts, contemplating the long-term realities of such a relationship when he is suddenly roused from his musings. Something was amiss. He scanned the range of his vision, straining his senses trying to ascertain what had caught his attention while remaining still, lest whatever be lurking about was made wise to his heightened alertness. After a moment, he realized what it was that unsettled him; the birds of spring, chirping their first notes of the new year had suddenly gone silent. Had they moved on to other parts of the woods, or was something else causing them to remain quiet?
Pfren moves his head slowly to the side as his eyes settle on…something, a patch of shadow within the shade of the trees at the grotto’s entrance. He gently moves the girl aside without waking her and reaches for his leggings. Thinking better of it, he grabs his cudgel instead. Slowly, with as much stealth as he can muster, the druid picks his way over to the shadowy object that caught his eye at the edge of the tree line. He comes within arm’s length of the thing when there is a quick flurry of movement, and with a roar the thing is upon him.
Before he can even react the druid is thrown to the ground face down, his arms pinned behind his back and his cudgel ripped from his hands, flung out of reach. As his face is forced down into the dirt by the weight of the thing, he feels its breath upon his temple as it whispers into his ear “How easily ambushed, how easily subdued. It makes one wonder why exactly we striders must serve you tree-huggers, dear brother.”
Pfren doesn’t answer immediately, nor even struggles. He simply waits for the twining grasses to take their hold. Within seconds the tree roots burst through the soft turf and grasp on his attacker, swiftly wrapping themselves around his body. Cursing wildly, Bron TuAull is torn off his older sibling and is himself thrown to the ground, pinned hand and foot by unyielding vegetation that holds him as fast as iron. Pfren gets up, brushing off the mud and mulch.
“No fair!” Protests the now subdued Bron. “You used magic!”
“You used what skills and abilities that were yours to command, as did I…dear brother.”
Bron continues to struggle against the grass and the roots as the now wakened dryad walks up behind the druid, wrapping her arms around his waist. She speaks in the soft language of her kind. “Even into the full bloom of manhood it is that your race does act like children.”
Pfren reaches around to hold the slender girl. “Then why do your people seem so fond of us?” He replies in her language. The wood nymph laughs, “Perhaps it is for that very reason.”
The ranger never bothered to learn the speech of the fey, for there never seemed either time or reason to. But now he begins to feel acutely uncomfortable, worried that he is the subject of their words, as is the fear of all those forced to endure a conversation between others in an unknown language.
“Uh, yeah.” The ranger interjects, “Pfren, if you don’t mind…” He shakes his head, gesturing to the entangling roots.
“I wouldn’t move too much Bron, that only makes them tighten.” The druid laughs as the ranger’s face drops.
“Oh, come on! Pfren!”
“Why did you come here, Bron?” Pfren asks.
“Father sent me to collect you.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, he didn’t tell me. Druid business, I gather. Maybe a tree has a headache or something.” Quips the ranger.
Pfren retrieves his clothing and equipment as Aiefe walks into the woods and disappears. No farewell is exchanged, for none is deemed needed since they shall be meeting again soon enough. The manners of a people who live outside of time can be disconcerting to those whose lives are helplessly trapped within it. Pfren is about to leave the grotto when he hears Bron, whose voice is raised in alarm to an almost whining pitch. “Pfren! Release me!”
The druid stops to look down at his little brother. “So easily countered. So easily subdued. Perhaps now is a good time for you to reflect upon why exactly it is you rangers must serve us ‘tree-huggers.’” The druid laughs as he leaves the grotto to meet with the hierophant.
***
Pfren walks casually down the rambling byways of his wooded homeland of Slíen, passing many of the thatched råths that dot the area. The druid takes a circuitous route, hoping to enjoy as much of this relatively warm day as he can. For he knows that once he enters the druidic groves of ancient oaks, he will not see the open sky again till the stars are shining cold and bright. These druidic elders love nothing more than to spend all day and well into the night, arguing about the meaning of this portend or that omen.
But eventually when he cannot put it off anymore, Pfren makes his way down to the hidden paths. He is met along the way by a young man in the white robes of his father’s order. They exchange nods for greeting and walk in silence down the pathways, winding ever deeper into secluded valleys and remote tracts of the Silverwoods.
To a casual observer, they would appear to be utterly alone, but Pfren knows better, for though he cannot see or hear them, he knows that the rangers of the Fianna Beannaithe are about, watching their every move. The path drops down into a deep gully, the earthen embankments on either end hoary with ancient growths, and soon leads into a secluded combe. Here the way widens, though the walls have become quite sheer, stretching up for a hundred feet and have turned to granite. In the center of the combe is a large grove of primordial oaks, the smallest of which would take five men holding hands to encompass round the base of its trunk. The place was known as Drunemeton, though the druids themselves called it Fid-Nemed, and it was the most holy of druidic places outside of the Moonshaes.
Pfren sighs. For although it is his calling and his duty, the convocations of druids can be a mentally exhausting affair. Even before he enters the grove he can already hear raised voices. The young druid determined that he would try and find a seat near the back of the gathering, and let the gray-beards struggle over the meaning of a strange looking calf born the other week or an odd colored acorn while he wistfully dreamed of his next meeting with his love Aiefe. But upon entering the grove the voices died and all eyes turned to him. Pfren stands there a moment in awkward silence, not really sure what to do, when the hierophant speaks up. “Ah, he has arrived!”
Hells, he thinks to himself, I’m involved in something. That can’t be good. The hierophant beckons the young druid over to his side. He is sitting near a natural basin of stone over which a small stream falls. The stream was called Brugh-na-Mí and its waters are believed to be enchanted, for it flows from the hills of Sídhe Meadha, known to be a doorway to the otherworldly realms of the fey.
“Look, Pfren. Look into the waters and tell me what you see.”
Pfren leans over the basin and looks into the watery bowl. The grove is completely silent except for the splashing of the hallowed stream. At first he sees nothing and is about to give up when the hierophant urges him on. “Keep trying, my son.” After a minute of straining in the dim light of the grove, the druid is rewarded with a flicker of silvery light that emanates from the waters.
Pfren gasps as he sees strange and unsettling visions flicker upon the surface of the waters. Strange men with shaved heads and black robes look upon scenes of fire and destruction. The druid hears the momentary cries of terrified voices in the language of his people, as the fires rage and burns the forests of his home. He is about to turn away from the horrid scene when something else captures his attention. He sees the face of a man who is somehow familiar to him, though almost unrecognizably charred as flames sear off the flesh. This final scene is too much for the young druid and he tears his eyes away with a shout of horror.
The hierophant gives Pfren a moment to regain his composure. “What did you see, Pfren?”
“I saw death. Our death. Our destruction.”
At this the grove erupts in the voices of the other druids as they continue their arguments now rising in alarm to a fevered pitch. The hierophant stands and grabs his staff of office; a stout, oaken branch wreathed in a garland of ivy and mistletoe and slams the butt into the ground yelling for order, but to no avail. Pfren, oblivious to the tumult around him, concentrates, trying to place the charred face in his vision.
“Seth! It was Seth! I saw him in the vision, father! He was dying, burning alive!”
This outburst on the part of Pfren causes the other druids to fall silent on their own. Obviously this was a new piece of information for them.
As Pfren had predicted, the convocation of the elders stretched deep into the night, as every druid pressed his case upon the merits of what was foreseen and what they believed should be done about it. As he had wanted to do earlier Pfren eventually found a seat in the back of the company, thought his reflections were far from thoughts of the fanciful dalliances that he had hoped for. But eventually even the elders grew tired and after many hours the meeting drew to a close. Pfren walked with the hierophant from the grove back towards the village.
“What is to be done father? What is the meaning of all of this?”
The two walk in silence under the twinkling light of the stars for a few minutes before the hierophant answers. “Upon the night of the Yule I had a dream, one that foretold the destruction of our way of life. Destruction wrought by the people of the southern empire. Many of our wisest oracles have since had similar dreams. One can never be too certain about such things as dream portents, so I sent out scouts, rangers and bardha, to act as my eyes and ears. They were sent to observe and to learn the minds of our southern neighbors, the nations of the Free Kingdoms, and report back to me what the political climate is like.” The hierophant gives his son a few moments to digest this information.
“If there is danger,” replies the young druid “why do you not just order our people to prepare for war?” Pfren asks.
“And what makes you think I have such power?”
“You are the hierophant; you are the spiritual leader of Slíen and the whole of the Blackmoors.”
“I am but an old man.”
“An old man who wields power.”
“An old man who commands respect, not power. It is the warriors who will actually go and fight the battles, so it is they who will ultimately decide whether or not we go to war, assuming that is even the direction we should take.”
“Have I not seen the Fourteen Chieftains all kneel before you in fealty? Are you not their leader? Have they not in the past always listened to your every command?”
“Command? It seems you have misread what you saw, my son. Yes, I am their leader, but only in matters of the spirit. Upon matters of this world, I am but an advisor. The power of the druids, the real power, lay not in any given authority to command others, but in our abilities to get others to do as we wish. We are not wizards, we cannot simply summon fires and fearsome beasts to beat our enemies into submission. It is in our abilities to see that which will affect us all before anyone else can, and to guild through wise council those whom we deem best fit to answer those challenges, that we find our true power. You must learn this if you are to take my place someday, Pfren.”
Again they walk in silence for a few minutes, navigating a particularly treacherous part of the hidden trail, before immerging upon the common road.
“What of my vision of Seth?” Pfren asks after a time.
“The bard was one of those I sent south, along with his company to the capitol of Mirabar.”
“And what has he reported so far?” Asks Pfren, the concern audible in his voice.
“We have not heard anything from him as of yet.”
“Seth is my friend, father. We have been friends since we were young.”
“You think a father does not know who the friends of his children are?”
“Is he in danger?”
Again the hierophant hesitates. “It is impossible to say. Dreams can be powerful tools of prescience, yet they are often little more than the manifestations of our imagination. It takes the efforts of a skilled and experienced oracle to know the difference.”
“But I did not see him in a dream father. I saw him in a vision from the blessed waters of the Brugh-na-Mí, a vision that occurred at your urging, one connected to something shared by many who are skilled in those arts.” Pfren replies.
“This is true.”
“If Seth is in danger, he could be dead long before we received any word of it, if ever.”
“What is it that you would council me to do about that possibility, my son?”
“Seth must be warned. He and his company may be in grave danger.”
“We do not have any more bards to spare for such a long mission, especially one of such uncertain necessity. We would be hard pressed to find anyone to undertake it.”
Pfren hesitates for a moment as he weighs his next words. “I can go father. I can find the bards and see to it they are made safe.”
“Assuming I was even disposed to letting you go, how would you do this, my son? The company of bards has travelled deep into foreign lands, lands where you have never gone. The people of the Free Kingdoms have long cast aside the old ways and have embraced customs and beliefs that have made them hostile to us. You would soon become lost, and I would lose my son as well as a druid, in addition to the bards.”
Pfren considers his options. “I could take the hermit with me. He is from those lands, trained in their ways. He would know the way to get to Seth.”
“Jonas?” Questions the hierophant incredulously. “He is a recluse, and an exile from his own lands. What makes you think he would agree to put himself into such uncertainty for the account of a few of our bards?”
“He will do it. He owes Seth. Do not forget that it was Seth who first brokered a place for the monk here. Had it not been for the bard, the Viskothic exile would not have survived his first winter up here.”
“And what shall you do for protection? For as I have said, the lands to the south have become hostile to us.” The hierophant asks.
“Then I shall bring my own protection. The wizard Mirzam could provide us with ample firepower, should we find we needed it.” Pfren replies.
The hierophant laughs aloud. “And how, dear son, do you plan on peeling that one away from his studies?”
“Again there is a way. He is Seth’s cousin upon his mother’s side. A simple word from Allura should loosen him from his books, at least for a little while.”
“The firstborn are hated and feared where you are going, not to mention magi of any race. He will bring you much unwanted attention.”
“Then we will need a ranger to guide us through the wilds when the roads have become too dangerous.” Pfren counters.
“And who do you have in mind for this member of your fellowship?”
Pfren is encouraged, for the hierophant has shifted his line of questions away from demanding the viability of his quest, to asking more about how he plans to manage it.
“Why, that’s where you come in, father.”
“Me? I am no ranger.”
“No, but you are hierophant. Perhaps you cannot command the warriors to fight our enemies, but you can command one of your rangers to help us.”
“I might remind you that your brother is such a one.”
Pfren hesitates, carefully choosing his words before continuing.
“Bron. He is too young for this. Too rash yet. And his time with the Bear Clan has made him…too aggressive for a task that will require the utmost discretion. Besides, he still has his duties with the Fianna Scátha-na-Duilleog”
“Do you speak this from your mind? Or from your heart? Or is it perhaps your own fosterage with the Wolves that has biased your decision?”
“If it were only that, you would be counseling me to reconsider, rather than posing a hypothetical.”
The hierophant takes a deep, sighing breath. “I cannot promise you anything. But, spirits willing, I will see what I can do.”
At this Pfren cheers and hugs the startled old man. “Thank you, father, thank you!” The younger druid turns and bounds down the road towards his own råth. “Where are you going?” Yells out the hierophant. Pfren stops and turns around. “I have many preparations that must be made before we can begin!”
The old man watches his son run down the road and he smiles under his beard. All too easy, he thought to himself. He did not like manipulating his own son like this, but too much was at stake to leave this mission to anyone else.
***
Jonas Khelorn
The crackling sound of the fireplace alone made you feel warm and cozy, its amber light heightening the sense of peace, as the mellow strains of a violin drowned out the noises of the outside world. The high-backed overstuffed chair was perfectly contoured to Feodor’s body, providing a comfort that made it a supreme act of will to get up from. But the smell of the newly arrived garlic-roasted chicken made it even harder not too. He gets up and straightens his dinner coat, a fine thing made of linen and silk, black with gold filigree and stylishly placed vertical slits at the shoulder that offered an occasional flash of crimson. Feodor swaggers over to the richly appointed feasting table, taking a slug from the plum brandy that he carried with him in the gold-rimmed crystal goblet. He could feel the pleasant heat of the alcohol as it spread through his chest.
The table was covered with a fine ivory-colored satin drape, trimmed with golden tassels and upon that was a full seven course meal. The triple-layered and glazed cheesecake garnished with white-chocolate covered strawberries served as one centerpiece, while the glistening, honey-roasted spiral-cut ham studded with cloves and garnished with apples and other more exotic fruits served as the other. In between and all around were various dips, sauces, sweetmeats, cheeses and other hors d’oeuvres.
Feodor lazily placed the goblet at the edge of the table, as he grabbed one of the large dark red grapes from its clutch upon a platter made of burnished silver, its sheen golden in the light of the fireplace. His eyes drifted to the young debutante with the curled auburn hair and crystal blue eyes. She catches his open stare, and politely looks immediately away, drifting back to meet his gaze with a seductive slowness.
When the kind Nymph wou’d coyness feign,
and hides but to be found again;
These, these are the joyes the Gods for Youth ordain.
Feodor closes his eyes as he reflects upon the poem, savoring the fullness of his life. The crackling of the fire increases, its staccato noise becoming louder and more regular. Yet despite this, Feodor becomes chilled. His heart dropped, and he suddenly became angry. No! He thought to himself. I don’t want to go back! The regular crackling noise began to drown out all other noises until it suddenly stopped. Feodor’s heart skipped a beat, hopeful of the slender possibility that the nightmare would end, and he could reawaken to his princely life.
But then there came the noise of someone banging on rickety wood. Feodor became aware of severe pains in his stomach, hunger pains. “Jonas!” More banging. “Are you in there?” Jonas opens his eyes. The table, the food, the girl; gone. All gone. Darkness covered him in the corner where he lay, but the few stray beams of light were enough to just barely illuminate the small one-room shanty he lived in. He could hear the wind as it whistled through the ample cracks in the walls, the sound of surf pounding upon the rocks outside, the smell of salt and rotting fish in the air. “Brother Jonas. I must speak with you. It is a matter of importance. It concerns you.”
The monk sighs. Try as he might, he could not escape back into his dream, his fantasy. Feodor was but a shadow. Jonas however, was all too real. And by his tone the man outside would not leave until Jonas answered him. The monk gets up from his floor mat. It is then that the full weight of his impoverishment hits him. He is cold, weak, hungry and his head hurts with a sleeper’s hangover. He shuffles over to the door and opens it, the full light of the day boring into his eyes.
“By Obad-Hai man, you look awful. When is the last time you have eaten?”
Jonas shrugs and shakes his head as he turns and retreats back into the darkness and sits down. “What do you want with me, druid?”
Pfren takes in the measure of the man sitting in the darkness before him. He chooses not to enter the rickety hovel, as it smells unwholesomely dank, like the home of a dying man. This monk from the Free Kingdoms was as strange as they come. Some days he was filled with a boundless energy, babbling away about the love and mercy of his god. But mostly, he was like this. Withdrawn, morose, moody and listless. He acted like a young girl whose love was spurned. It made Pfren want to slap him, though he was fearful the act might kill the monk, so frail he was these days.
“It’s the bard Seth I’ve come to talk to you about, monk.”
“He’s not here.” Replies the groggy monk.
“I know that you f…” The druid takes a deep breath. “He is in danger.” Pfren pauses, expecting the monk to say something. When he does not, he continues, his voice increasingly reflecting his annoyance and disgust for the monk.
“I have come here seeking your help.” Again the druid pauses, expecting the monk to say something, anything. But he is met with continued silence.
“There is reason to believe that his life may be in danger, and I have been tasked with finding him and bringing him to safety so that he may complete his mission. I am unfamiliar with the country this quest takes me into and so I thought of you. I need you to guide myself and a few others through your native land.” When Jonas still does not reply, the druid becomes visibly angry. “Damn you, Viskoth! Did you not hear what I said?!”
“Yes.” Jonas softly replies.
“Then what say you?”
“I am a criminal in my homelands. I would bring you more trouble than I am worth.”
“Criminal? You never told us this. What did you do?”
“It’s not what I did; it’s what I refused to do.”
Pfren was about to press him for more, but seeing the look of remembered pain on the monks face, he thought the better of it.
“We need you Jonas. Seth needs you. He proved his friendship to you when he took you in that first year, when he pressed the tribe for your acceptance here, despite many of our elders counseling against it. Do you understand what I am saying, monk? It was for pity’s sake that he vouched for you, risking his honor to buy you a safe place here.”
Jonas makes a sweeping gesture with his hand, referring to the shanty. “And how could I not be thankful for all…this?”
“It was your decision to live way out here on this windswept rocky strand. That you continue to stay out here is seen as continued proof of your madness.” Remarks the druid.
“Why then,” Jonas replies, “do you want this madman to lead you into foreign lands?”
“Damn it, I did not come here to mince words with a cracked hermit. Will you help me reach Seth or will you not?” Demands the druid.
Jonas rubs his face into his hand, but does not answer at first. He detachedly wonders what the druid would do to him if he said no. He places one arm on his table, the only piece of furniture in his home, a table given to him by Seth. Come to think of it, it was Seth who gave him the chair he was sitting on now. The monk looks longingly to his blankets, the ones that were given to him by…Oh, hell. Jonas sighs so deeply it shakes his body into a stifled sob. After a few moments he looks to the druid and nods.
“Say it. Say it Jonas.”
“Yes! Yes, damn you!” The sudden burst of anger surprises the druid. Opening the door a little more he lets a bit more light fall upon the monk. Pfren is unsettled by what he sees.
“I will bring you food and other supplies for the journey. It is a long road ahead, and you obviously have much strength to rebuild.” When the monk says nothing, the druid gives up and closes the door, walking back down the beach.
***
Mirzam Sirius
The sun shines brightly in the clear blue sky. The birds of spring conduct their choruses as the people of the village take advantage of warm days, after so many cooped up in their drafty råths. The flowers are beginning to bloom and love is seeping into the air for young and old alike. Yet it might as well have been the dead of winter for all that it mattered to the slight elf, bent over his musty books. The elvish wizard has not been outside since his friends forcibly dragged him out during the Yuletide celebrations. It’s not that he is anti-social; Mirzam is merely addicted to the stimulation of the mind that comes from research. And the more tinged with the ancient and ineffable forces of the arcane, the more he craves to wrest out its secrets.
As a member of the immortal firstborn race, time and the changing of the seasons have long since ceased to have any meaning for him. His first meeting with the hierophant was when the old druid’s mother had asked Mirzam to hold him, as the hierophant had coughed up some milk on her dress. He wasn’t the hierophant back then, of course. And yet, after that century had passed, Mirzam still looked too young to be taken as an adult.
There were precious few of his kind left in these lands, and those that remained commanded much respect from the tribesmen. Mirzam’s abode is set off from the village, but not too far. While it was a particularly unusual house for an elf, it’s unfair to call it a cave. The walls are covered with tapestries from the Moonshaes. Shelves crammed with books line a whole section. Tables covered with odd glassware are filled with boiling and bubbling elixirs of many colors, exotic smelling chemicals and yesterday’s lunch. A large desk is fitted in the back, its one corner charred and the other sheared off, likely from an explosion, is covered with books and loose papers. A pile of furs behind the desk up against the far wall serves as a bed.
The place has windows only on one side, the one that isn’t underground. But they are small and deep-set, the panes frosted with age and dirt. A fireplace on the opposite end serves a source of heat and makeshift kitchen. From the outside, Mirzam’s house is all but invisible, looking like little more than a rocky outcropping, except for the large oak door that is bound and reinforced several times with iron brackets on the side of the hill and the small chimney that was forever puffing out rings of smoke. Of course, after so many years, the invading army of ivy was constantly threatening to envelop the door completely, it had already claimed about three-quarters of it. The elf named his abode Fer-Sídhe. It was meant to be a joke, but was a typical jest for a mage in that no one but the mage understood it, which suited Mirzam just fine.
It was to Fer-Sídhe that Pfren next paid a visit to, bringing along an earthen jug of freshly brewed spring ale, the first batch of the season. Pfren walks up to the front –and only– door of Mirzam’s home and tries to locate the knocker. Made of alchemically pure mithril and fashioned into the face of Obad-Hai, it never tarnished, despite not having ever been polished in a hundred and twenty years. It was, however, buried under many decades-worth of ivy branches.
Pfren sighs with annoyance, as he must locate the damn thing every time he comes here. He reaches into the foot deep tangled mass of branches and feels around for the knocker. He winces reflexively, still remembering the one time many years back when a squirrel bit his finger. After groping for about thirty seconds, he finds the elusive knocker and taps it, satisfied with the resounding noise. As always, it sounded like a sharp peal of miniature thunder, with hints of bells ringing in the background.
Pfren smiles, remembering the time one late summer afternoon when the ivy had grown so thick on his unopened door that the elf became trapped within, and had to resort to yelling out of one of his tiny windows. It took both Pfren and Seth close to ten minutes to rip enough of the ivy off to unfreeze the door. Pfren was deciding whether or not to brave another knocking when the door opens and Mirzam’s head thrusts out with an annoyed “WHAT?!” Taken aback the druid is frozen for a second, during which time Mirzam half-steps out of the doorway and looks past the druid with an expression of supreme horror.
“By the gods! Is it spring already?”
“You are such a wonk, Mirzam!” Laughs the druid.
“Wait…if its spring then…” The elf brushes a wild lock of blond hair aside and pushes the spectacles up the bridge of his nose as he focuses on the earthen jug held out by Pfren. “Then that must be…oooh” Mirzam snatches the jug and darts back inside. “Do come in Pfren.” He says from deep within.
Pren moves aside a large pile of books and papers from the wooden stump that served as a seat. “I brought this here specifically so I’d have a place to sit when I came.” The druid remarks.
“Yes,” Mirzam quips, “But those books come around more often than you do, I’m afraid. By the way, when did you start sporting a beard?”
“About five years now.” Pfren takes a deep draught from his cup. The spring brew was still very hoppy yet, just the way he liked it.
“Oh…yes, well I‘ve been meaning to get out more often. My studies, though…” The elf waves an absent hand about the place.
“I thought you had graduated already?” Pfren inquires.
“Yes, well there’s still the post-graduate work to deal with.”
“The wha?”
“The post-graduate studies.”
“What’s the point of graduation if you still have to study afterwards? Is there a post-graduate graduation?”
“No, no no. See, it’s like this. I’ve already gotten all my certifications and such.” The wizard looks around, searching for something. “I really have been meaning to frame those things and put them up on display.”
“Don’t sweat it, Mir. It’s only been what? Ten years?”
The elf gives the druid a blank stare. “Eleven. Right. Anyway, once a year after graduation, I have the option of returning to my former master Aeovern’s island in the Moonshaes and take another test.” The mage takes a drink from his cup.
Pfren waits a few second, expecting Mirzam to explain further. “And yet more testing is desirable…why?”
The elf looks into his now empty cup. “Very hoppy this year.” He pours himself another drink. “Every time I pass another test, Aeovern pens me a scroll containing a spell from his own books. They are usually far more powerful then I would otherwise have access to, and are often very helpful to my own continuing research.”
“I see,” Pfren lies. “And when is your next test?”
“Not for another six months. Why?”
Pfren pauses for a moment, choosing his words. “It’s Seth, Mir.”
“What about him?”
“You know the druids sent him to the south to gather information?”
“Aye. Envoys and spies. That’s what bards do.”
“That doesn’t surprise you? That they would send a band of minstrels to do such work? Seems more appropriate for rangers if you ask me.”
“Is that all you think they are, Pfren? Singers and story-tellers? Rangers use trees for cover and scout out the countryside. Bards use pretty songs in the same way to scout out the cities. They go about their crafts in different ways, but do basically the same thing. Is that why you came here? Are you worried that Seth is in over his head? I can assure you this isn’t his first time abroad. Though it does surprise me you didn’t know this yourself already.”
Pfren stares into his cup. “It’s not just that, Mir. It’s the oracles. We have foreseen danger in his future.”
“We? Oh I DO need to get out more. Since when have you become an oracle?”
“I saw it in the waters, Mir!”
“What, these waters?” The elf holds up his cup, swishing the contents.
“No, Mir. I am serious. I saw his death by fire as foretold in the hallowed waters of the Brugh-na-Mí when I was at an emergency convocation of the druidic elders at Drunemeton. ”
The elf peers over at Pfren. “They are letting you play with that thing now?”
“Mir!” Pfren hisses out indignantly.
“OK, OK, fine. I believe you. So…what do the druids plan on doing about this situation, hmm? Apart from talking about it to death for another year or so?”
Pfren takes a deep breath before continuing.
“The hierophant has tasked me to find Seth and his company, to offer him what protection I am able.”
The mage arches his eyebrow as an incredulous smile creeps across his face. “Oh that’s rich. You, huh? And how exactly do you plan on…Wait a minute. If this is all true, why are you telling…Oh no. No no no no. I’m way to busy for this. I have a test to study for. You have no idea how in-depth these things are.”
“Mirzam, I need your magics if we are to have any hopes of success.”
“And how do you plan on finding Seth? He’s likely all the way to Mirabar by now.”
“I have already gotten Brother Jonas to agree to act as our guide.”
“What? That round-eared crack-pot from Viskoth? Are you trying to re-assure me or scare me off?”
“MIrzam, please.”
“Wait Pfren, I have to get this straight. A druid who is green as a pine tree and an elvish wizard, led by a crazy exile are just going to traipse through two hostile foreign countries and pick up a couple of bards who may or may not already be dead, or worse, in the hands of the church. The only thing I can’t figure out is which one of us they’ll want to kill fist.”
“We’ll have a ranger with us, too.”
“A ranger?” Mirzam narrows his eyes. “If you say Bron, I’m gonna toss you outta here right now.”
“No, not Bron.”
“Then who?”
“I don’t know who exactly yet, but father is finding one for us as we speak.”
“Pfren, I’d love to help, really, but I can’t. I am simply too busy with my research…”
“He is your cousin, Mir.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Mirzam sets his cup down. “Are you threatening me with the mother card?”
Pfren shrugs. “Whatever works.”
“OUT!” Mirzam shouts, bolting upright and pointing towards the door. “Get out!”
Startled, Pfren gets up “Oh come on Mirzam, don’t overreact!”
“OUT! Or I’ll, I’ll…”
“Mirzam, stop this! I really need your help…gods, are you actually casting a spell at me?!”
The wizard speaks in an unknown language as his hands form quick gestures. Suddenly the druid finds himself lifted off his feet, as he floats several inches off the floor and feels himself being carried by invisible hands towards the exit. The door opens itself and Pfren is tossed outside, after which the door slams shut. Undaunted the druid gets up and brushes himself off. Two can play that game, he thinks to himself as he casts a little spell of his own at the wizard’s front door, or rather at the ivy branches covering it. Almost immediately the ivy begins to grow at a visible speed, wide leaves sprouting out and the branches growing ever thicker over the wooden surface. He walks over to one of the small porthole-sized windows and taps on the glass. “Bugger off!” Is the only reply from within.
“It’s such a pleasant day out here, Mir. What a pity you can’t enjoy it.” When there is no response the druid repeats himself, yelling into the window. “I said, PITY YOU COULDN’T ENJOY IT…EVEN IF YOU WANTED TO!” After a few moments Mirzam opens the small window.
“What is wrong with you, man? You’re getting as cracked as that hermit. What in blazes are you talking about?”
“Do you remember that time a few summers back, when you let the ivy grow so thick at your door, that it took Seth and me almost an hour to cut it free?”
“Pff, it was ten minutes, if tha…You didn’t…”
Pfren smiles and shrugs as he crosses his arms. Mirzam darts away from the window and after a few seconds, Pfren can hear the struggle as Mirzam tries in vain to open the door. “You..you motherless bastard of an orc!”
“Motherless bastard? I didn’t know orcs spontaneously self-generated.”
“PFREEEEEEEN!”
“Easy, Mirzam, you’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Open this door now!”
“Mirzam, I’d love to help, really, but I can’t. I am simply in too much of a hurry. I have a meeting to get to with Silmé. Would you like me to pass any messages along to her? Uh, yeah. You can show her that gesture yourself.”
After a few seconds of silence, the elf speaks. “I hate you, Pfren.”
“Hate me all you want, Mir. Seth’s life may be on the line. What’s it going to be, Mir?”
After a few more moments of silence, Mirzam says “If that damn monk tries to proselytize me even once, I’m gonna roast him so fast it’ll make your head spin.”
“And you will have my blessings, Mir.” Pfren smiles with satisfaction as he starts to pull at the ivy.
***
Pfren takes his leave of the wizard and walks back towards his home. It’s been a long day already having to deal with those two and the sun had yet to even reach its zenith. The druid rubs his temple, fighting off the beginnings of a migraine when the sound of a hawk’s call reaches his ears. Looking up, he can see the bird circling high overhead.
He raises his hand in a gesture to the hawk and it descends. He allows the thing to land on his forearm, and strokes the birds head in a calming gesture. “What is it friend? Hmm? What do you have for me?” The hawk raises its left leg, exposing a curl of bark that has been tied to it. Pren pulls out a bit of rabbit jerky from his pouch and feeds it to the thing, removing the bark as it feasts. Once the hawk is freed from its burden it flies off again into the skies.
The druid looks at the small strip of paper-like bark, turning it over in his hands. Soon he spots the tiny etches of lines that blend in with the natural grain of the material. It is a message written in ogham, the secret language of the druids. Simply put, it reads that the hierophant has found a suitable ranger for Pfren’s quest. One named ‘Aubrey the Grim’ who has “no inconvenient political ties with any of the tribes.”
That can only mean he hailed from the Moonshaes, a very good omen for Pfren, for the rangers of those mystical isles were deemed the best of their craft. Though the druid can’t help but wonder what other meanings were hidden within that cryptic line. Inconvenient political ties? He muses upon the point as he walks along the road. Tribal politics was by necessity a pugnacious and complicated affair, but Pfren couldn’t imagine how such things could possibly be relevant to his current mission. Pfren shugs. He had enough to worry about already in the things he saw clearly. He’d leave the rest up to the gods until such time as they deemed it necessary that he knew more.
***
Five weeks had passed since Pfren first had his vision of Seth in the groves of the Drunemeton. He was of two minds. Every moment spent was a moment lost. The portents of Seth’s disastrous future gave no indication as to when he might come to ruin. For all Pfren knew, Seth might be in the clutches of his enemies already. Yet time was needed to prepare sufficiently for the journey. Seth would not be served if the fellowship started half-cocked and underprepared.
Time was also needed for the ranger Aubrey to reach Slíen. Pfren had originally wished to start without the ranger, fully expecting him to easily catch up with them, but as it happened it took longer than he had first anticipated rebuilding the monk’s strength. When Pfren finally managed to get Jonas to the Aos Sí he learned the true extent of Jonas’s condition. The man needed not just food, but actual medicine as well, for he was in an advanced state of starvation, so much so that the healer was at first convinced that the monk was suicidal.
But, after several weeks of feeding, resting and not a little goading by his caretakers, Jonas was on the road to recovery, enough at least to be allowed to travel. All was going according to plan, and Pfren was in his råth finishing up his packing when he notes the dimming of the sunlight that was illuminating the room. Someone was standing at his open doorway.
For a brief moment, Pfren hopes it is Aeife, as their last meeting did not end well when he told the dryad that he was leaving on this quest for the bard. She had warned him that war was approaching, the fey all knew it. Aiefe extended Pfren the rare offer of accompanying her into the deathless lands of Tir-Nan-og. As tempting as the offer was, Pfren couldn’t just abandon his friend to the horrible death that he was certain awaited him, especially as Seth was on his mission for the benefit of the tribesmen. Pfren couldn’t shake the feeling that it was the last time he was going to see her. Crying in his arms, she bid him a heartfelt farewell. The fey never say goodbye, except…
“Pfren,” The figure at the doorway spoke. It was his brother.
“Hello, Bron. Here to see me off?” Pfren hoists his pack and grabs his walking-staff, making sure he had everything he needed with him. He takes a final look around his råth, the feelings of homesickness seeping into his spirit already.
The druid closes the door behind him as the two brothers walk down the path towards the eastern side of the village in silence. Pfren knew what was coming, so he was letting Bron have the chance to speak first. “I spoke to my rígfénnid. I told him that you were on a quest for the benefit of the Blackmoors as a whole.”
“That isn’t quite true, Bron.” Pfren replies.
“It is, after a fashion. If Seth is working for the Drunemeton and he is in danger, then it can affect us all should he fail in his mission.”
Pfren takes a deep breath before answering the as-yet unspoken question. “I already have a ranger to guide us, Bron.”
The young ranger does not respond immediately, and Pfren can feel the rising tension between them.
“Why do you not trust me, brother?” The sudden vehemence in Bron’s voice causes Pfren to stop short. Pfren looks at his brother and places a hand on his shoulder.
“Bron, it’s not that at all. You are young yet, you have duties of your own.”
“Is it because I was fostered with the Bear Clan? It is no secret you share your opinion of them with the Wolves. Father fostered us off to those two tribes to bring them closer to us, not so that his own two sons would become divided!”
“Do not dare question my love for you, brother!” Now it was Pfren’s turn to be angry. “Ever have you needled and insinuated about my loyalties to the Wolf Clan. And yet when have I ever even mentioned your time with the Bears? I do trust you, brother. I need you. Right here, in our homeland. I need you to hold true to the loyalties of your own Fianna, for they keep our borders secure. I need to know that my family is safe here while I am away. What greater trust could I place in you then for that?”
The two brothers continue to walk in silence for a few minutes.
“I…I’m sorry, brother. I just wanted to go off with you into the great unknown. I know your adventure will be a thing the bards sing about for generations. I just wanted to be a part of that with you.” Bron says after a time.
“Bards?” Replies Pfren. “I don’t know about all that, about ‘bards singing for generations.’ Well, there’s one bard in particular that better sing a few tunes on our account.” Bron laughs and the mood lifts between the two.
“And what of Aeife?” Bron asks.
“She can more then take care of herself. She and her people are unreachable by any man or wizard, or even any god if they so choose.”
They reach a clearing, a crossroads, the pre-arranged meeting place for the fellowship.
“You never did answer my original question about her.” Bron presses.
“Oh? Refresh my memory.”
Bron settles on an old piece of log that had found its way into the clearing, resting his arm on an outstretched branch.
“Does she have a sister?”
Pfren laughs. “And what about your lovely Etain, hmm?”
Bron shrugs, but does not answer.
“So…” He says to change the subject. “What’s so special about these half-breed island rangers anyways?”
Pfren sighs with annoyance. “They’re not half-breeds. They…”
Before Pfren can even finish his sentence, the log Bron was sitting on comes alive, the outstretched branch sprouting a hand and grabbing him by the elbow. The ranger is flipped off the log and onto the ground and within a few seconds is pinned to the ground face-down by the piece of deadwood as it seems to miraculously transform into a man. The ‘log’ was actually another ranger wearing a ghillie-suit who was waiting at the appointed place to meet Pfren.
“For one thing, whelp…” The ranger whispers into Bron’s ear. “We don’t prattle on so loudly that we can be heard from a league about!”
Angry and startled, Pfren yells out “Release him!”
With a sarcastic laugh the ranger replies “As you wish, druid.”
Releasing Bron, Aubrey the Grim grabs his discarded ghillie cloak and makes an overly sweeping gesture of respect to Pfren, bowing while wrapping the cloak around him in the same movement, causing the ranger of the Moonshaes to momentarily disappear from sight right in front of the druid. Pfren looks to his brother, “Does that answer your question?” Bron, flushed with shame, says nothing, but rushes off back into the woods.
“Wait! Bron!” Pfren yells after his brother. He sighs. “I think you bruised his honor, ranger.”
Aubrey watches the retreating form of Bron, adding “It isn’t hurt feelings that should concern you most about that one.” Pfren was about to ask the ranger to explain that statement when they hear the sound of voices raised in an argument coming towards them from the distance. Immediately Aubrey covers himself with his mystical cloak and disappears from view. Pfren becomes unsettled when he realizes that he is looking directly at the ranger, who cannot be more than arms reach directly in front of him, yet he cannot see any sign of him.
“Well hello there Pfren. What’s wrong with you? What are you looking at?” Asks the wizard Mirzam. Pfren looks at the elf.
“Do you see anything right now that is between us?” The druid asks.
“Yes,” Mirzam replies jauntily. “Air. Anyway, what did you say to Bron. Poor fellow looked like he was on his way to his mommy. Didn’t take the rejection of his application too well it seems, eh?”
Aubrey lowers the cloak partially so that Prfen could see him, while the others could not. His expression was one of incredulity. His look seemed to be saying “you have got to be kidding me.” Embarrassed for them, Pfren can only shrug.
Piqued by curiosity, Pfren does not acknowledge or otherwise betray the presence of the ranger. He wishes to see how long he can, or at least will, maintain his hidden position in plain sight. “No, Mir. He didn’t take it at all well.”
“Perhaps you should learn to speak to people with more kindness, Pfren. Especially those closest to you.” Replies Jonas.
“What are you talking about?”
“Your words, when you…’recruited’ me for this affair weren’t exactly coated with honey.” The monk presses.
“Yes, but you needed that kick in the robes. Surely even you must see that by now. Gods, look at you. You must have gained a whole calf’s worth of weight. You almost look healthy now.”
The monk shrugs. “The good Lord has gifted Mother Niamh much skill with hearth and kettle.”
“Oh, there you go again, monk.” Says Mirzam. “You seriously cannot go five sentences without mentioning your god.”
“I was merely trying to pay the Good Mother a compliment…” Says the monk.
“Can you do so without all the religious references?” Mirzam replies. Jonas is about to say more, opening his prayer book and prepared to launch into a full defense when Mirzam cuts him off. “So…where is this ranger fellow from the islands. I half expected to find him here first.”
“Yes, I was hoping to…” Jonas starts. At that prompting, Aubrey drops his cloak and turns to meet the newcomers. “And you were not failed in this hope, I assure you, Master Elf.” The druid cannot help himself and bursts into laughter as the mage and monk jump back, nearly startled out of their wits.
Mirzam turns his narrowed eyes upon the druid. “You KNEW he was there, but said nothing!”
Jonas stopped short, the unasked question dying on his lips. Pfren and Mirzam greeted each other as the old friends they were, and Pfren introduces the wizard to the ranger, the latter showing obvious respect and deference to the elf. Mirzam was used to receiving instant courtesy from the humans of the Blackmoors, but the ranger’s actions seemed much more formal, almost reverential, which, of course, sat very well with Mirzam.
But it wasn’t that which caught the monk’s attention. It was the ranger himself. Before Jonas came to the Blackmoors, he had heard all his life about the ‘blue-skinned devels’ of the north, with their practice of blood-soaked witchcraft and human sacrifices. How they mated with the demons of the deep-woods until such fell blood actually ran through their own veins.
But for all that, when Jonas finally traveled north, seeking enlightenment or death (whichever came first,) he saw that the tribesmen of the Blackmoors were little different from his own people of Viskoth. In fact, if they swapped out the barbarous clothing, they could easily pass for one of the Viskothii themselves, at least till they spoke. It was the debunking of yet another lie from his church elders that widened the chasm that had opened up in his soul, separating him from his own kind.
But this ranger, this strange man from those semi-mythical islands, he was something else entirely. The wild shock of raven black hair, worn much longer than even the tribesmen of the Blackmoors; those wolfish gray eyes that almost seemed to glow; skin so pale as to be like alabaster, dyed, just as his church fathers had claimed, to a bizarre shade of blue. His body was covered in savage looking tattoos, even upon his face.
And the elvish blood ran strong in him, that much was obvious. It seemed to Jonas that neither the tribesmen nor the elves were all that strange to him, yet this creature that was born of both their worlds, seemed all the more savage and alien for it. And yet, Seth seemed so normal… If Jonas brought Pfren back to his old order to show them that the tribesmen were not the fiendish-looking demons they were portrayed as, they would in turn simply point to this ranger of the Moonshaes.
His visage alone struck a chord of primal fear into the monk, even though he seemed friendly enough towards the other two. But looking at him, all the monk could think of were those lines by the famed Imperial explorer Theocratus when he wrote of the islanders, “One has to wonder whether it be the blood of demons or wolves that flows so freely in their veins. It hardly matters, as they are a breed apart who would be accepted into the company of either.”
“…And this is Jonas, formerly of Viskoth. He is to be our guide once we reach those lands. Say hello to Aubrey, Jonas.” Prompts the druid. Now this creature was looking at him directly, regarding him. The monk just wanted to run away. Swallowing hard, all he can manage to squeak out is a weak “H…hello.” The ranger in turn looks questioningly at the druid. The monk’s fear is palpable, confusing and somewhat insulting to him.
“Uh, right.” Pfren says, limply trying to redirect the conversation. “Anyway, we do have many days and a long journey ahead of us. Sooo…we should probably get going.”
The ranger grunts in approval. “I will usually travel alone, about half a league ahead of the main group, occasionally circling around to make sure we are never being followed. Do not feel the need to give me directions, even in the lands of our enem…” The ranger looks at Jonas and quickly corrects himself. “In the lands ahead. I will always be near, even though you will rarely see me. If I do approach, it is either to make camp, or to warn you of impending danger. ”
“Even so,” The ranger looks at Jonas and Mirzam. “Try not to draw too much attention to yourselves. Here,” Aubrey hands Mirzam a few arrows with strangely fluted heads, noting the shortbow slung on the elf’s back. “These are ‘screechers,’ signaling arrows. If in the unlikely case danger slips past me and comes upon you, or some other situation arises where you need me immediately, you can call me by firing one of these.”
The ranger takes two more of the oddly shaped arrows from his quiver. Nocking one of the arrows he points it towards a distant mark. “They sound like this.” He says, as he releases the arrow. A sharp, loud, high-pitched whistling noise can be heard emanating from the arrow. “Ignore this second one.” He says as he fires the other, causing a similar sound.
“Why did you waste a second one if it meant nothing?” Asks Mirzam.
“A courtesy to my peers here. The first sound was a warning alarm. It had a fluttering and ascending pitch. The second had a steady descending tone that indicates that the danger was over. Shot quickly in succession they cancel each other out, usually indicating a test fire.”
Pfren turns to the elf, a gloating smile on his face.
“OK, OK, he’s no Bron already.”
With that the companions take their leave down the road. And it is not long before Mirzam and Jonas start up another argument, this time upon the nature of metaphysics…
To Be Continued
***
Notes:
Pfren TuAull. pro. “fren TO-all”
Aiefe. pro. “AIVA”
Slíen. pro. “SLAIN”
Råths. pro. “RAWTHS.” A råth is a circular, fortified homestead consisting at a minimum of a timber feasting hall and a rampart of earth.
Fianna Beannaithe. pro. “Feena BYAN-ith-ih”, which means “Blessed Watchers.” A Fianna is a militia of rangers who swear allegiance to the fianna itself and the druidic council of the Blackmoors. Fianna rangers, often called “Fenians” renounce all other tribal allegiances. The Fianna Beannaithe are tasked with the protection of Drunemeton.
Brugh-na-Mí pro. “BRA-na-mae”
Sídhe Meadha pro. “shee ME-tha”
Yule. A combination of Christmas and New Year’s Eve
Bardha. pro. “BARAH”, bards, like rangers are a lesser kind of druid who act as messengers and envoys of the latter, in addition to their other capacities.
Fianna Scátha-na-Duilleog. pro. “feena SCAETHA-nah-DWUEEL-ah” Means “Shadows of the Leaves.” The Fianna Scátha-na-Duilleog are a cadre of hit-and-run fighters who patrol the borderlands of the Blackmoors with neighboring Viskoth. They also are known to conduct operations south of the border.
The poem Jonas recited to himself in his dream was ‘Horace’s Ode,’ translated by J. Dryden
Fer-Sídhe. pro. “FAR-shee”
Silmé. pro. “SIL-may” Mirzam’s mother.
Aos Sí. pro. “AIS-shee” These are druids who specialize in the healing arts.
Rígfénnid. pro. “RI-fennah” The leader of a Fianna.
Niamh. pro. “NEE-av”
Theocratus Daeovasallus was a noted Imperial historian and pupil of the famed Menidictus Solarium. Theocratus was said to have been the only mortal man outside of the Blackmoors to have ever set foot in the semi-mythical islands of the Moonshaes. He wrote about his experiences in the treatise “In Decora Luna-Insula.”
S.E.F.A.
