How foolish were the gods to think not of man. How profoundly foolish they were to think not of those that dwell outside their microcosmic view. They have only wrought darkness upon themselves in their ignorance, and death to their people. For in their twilight, as the black drake's wings sundered mountains and his great jaws devoured the son of Amonn, whilst the eldritch armies marched upon their capital and lay waste to their realm, the All-mother lie locked in pitched battle with an essence of dark that she wished had not stirred memory. They battled until life began to leave her heavenly form, and with a desperate swing, she slew the entity. But before its essence was extinguished, it spat its vile darkness upon her daughter's homeland, Ithriel. In its deep amber forests lay the Goddess of Flora and Fauna, blissfully ignorant to the darkness that fell from the heavens and now lie trapped 'neath her woodlands. The darkness festered as it met with the waters, infecting its subterranean rivers with its sorcerous ichor. And from that oily obsidian basin crawled man, a curiosity of both chance and destiny: foolish and fleeting in form, but resilient and ambitious. Despite their hardship, through their blind tenacity alone they crawled to the land above their sunken birthing place and history was born anew. Elvish memory lost, dwarven lore forgotten, a new age awoke, yawning and grey. And out from that chasm from which they crawled, ages of growth and ages of torment came with them. And there, 'neath the evergreen cloak of the whispering forest, is where we lay our scene. Twenty years wasted in silence, sworn fealty to naught but the soiled earth. As years passed on his heart grew cold to men who favored not but gilded stone. Only in slumber did he find solace from his bitterness, mulled for a lifetime. Dreams of mythic ventures beckoned through the astral winds. The belfry toll of witching hour echoes through the misty evening air, As dreams ride swift upon their resonant chime. Her voice, so clear and gentle still, calls out like a whisper yet cries as a scream To coax his heart to wander her temples of oaken shade. His feet carried rocks across the damp cobblestone, with each passing step growing further from home Into the murky forests of the whispering trees, to breathe in deep the lands where elves now weep. Crawled from the prison of his complacent distress To set forth upon this most glorious of quests. To far feral woods and all lands that lie between, His destiny awaits at the foot of his queen. (Wanderer:) I have searched for one measure of jubilance in my heart when I look to my home. I have scoured the regions of my mind, dimly lit by memory, to find what mirth is left for king or country, and I have found nothing. I look to elders and gods for guidance, but my pleas fall upon deaf ears. I look to the castles of men and gaze along their mighty towers, their golden crowns and shimmering thrones, and it seems naught to me more than a foul and arrogant collection of stone. And so I found myself again standing before the great whispering forest. The sprawling garden of oak and ash is my place of worship. The swaying of the wind seems to speak to me, it whispers of secrets long forgotten and stories that I have yet to hear in song. So I believe the wilderness claims something much more precious than silver or gold, mystery.

(Wanderer) The wilderness where once we walked is shrouded now in mist and fog And I wonder, why does nature sing for me? (Bard) In the woodlands where our fathers rode lie songs and stories left untold, but come wanderer, I will guide you through the trees. Walk with me. (Both) A song of streams rings throughout the endless trees. Carried on the autumn leaves, her voice beckons me. And I know not what lies ahead for us hidden within this whispering wood. The secret kept from me. (Wanderer) I can scarcely recall my path. I know not from whence I came. If I lose myself in this woodland, was this journey all in vain? (Yggdrasil) Hear my voice and follow near. May my guidance keep your pathway clear and reveal to you the majesty of the wind. My heart lies with the willow trees, my songs ring along the fallen leaves and my body lies within the brook deep in the heart of this ancient wood.

(Wanderer) Time aches forth in a droning rhythm In the wood realm where now I’m laid to rest. For this journey, I dreamt of secrets and wisdom Now pathless lay this pointless quest The darkness contorts into wicked shapes as the shadows crawl from the brush to haunt his restless sleep, kept at bay by a weak, trembling flame. The hounds of dusk howl themselves hoarse to a feral canticle of the gathering gloom. The light of the fire cast upon their visage tar, slick through their thin matted fur. (Wanderer) Now I venture here unto pathways so unclear. The fauna erupt in bitter harmony, so I wade in deep, into murky waters bleak. The breath of this twilit woodland glade recoils as the moonlight wanes From the shapes of the hounds grew mocking shadows, looming above the wanderer with depthless scorn, blaring the horns of judgement through the still evening air. Encircling their camp, the trumpets still cry as the wanderer arose and called out into the fog, “Reveal thyself or begone wretched phantom, the dawn threatens to rise!” (Wanderer) I felt the first breath of twilight caress my cheek as wind whistled through my hair. Winter is nigh. I can feel it in the air, I can taste it in our game. I wished, only then, that sleep might return to me before this night is through. The Welkin shall gather at the roots and conspire as the sun falls frail at the toll of the hour. Midnight rides swift on its leathery wings, bringing forth sorrow and madness this eve. As their shadows skulk the woodland by dark, all souls flee from their feral procession. Their voices all chime forth in foul harmony, choking out omens of tempestuous glee. Leapt to his feet and grasping for his blade, the flickering campfire spills into ash. By the moment he grasped the hilt and drew his sword, his faint anxious breath now contort into roars as a frail figure emerges from the trees. The winds seemed to wane and eventually to cease as his eyes stared blankly at the elder in fright, for his terror now stand revealed in the moonlight.

With their blades at their side, they awaited reply as the elder explained why he stalked them this night. His cottage lie northward, just short of a league, whence he curiously followed their somber ballads. He grew curious to why they wandered these untrodden paths and inquired of the travelers lest he meet with their wrath. (Wanderer) To her gentle voice, I am bound by oath. I meet my destiny where the old oaks grow. So by winter’s glow, I go where winter knows my name, so I may learn what calls me. (Elder) Fool art thou who answers the call of the wind. The woodlands now grow darker still than sin. (Wanderer) I’ll meet the voice that sang, the one that knows my name. My quest lie further still, so on we go, such is my will.

Lurking through the misty morning hills ‘neath the shroud of branches. Weary steps sink into the leaves as the dim sunlight dances through the veil upon an ancient bridge, clasped in the grip of moss. A stone laden body erupts from the soil. Roused from its slumber, awake now, the troll, swinging with the fury, tearing root from earth. In frightened recoil from the stone splitting force, the pilgrims all split into the tree line to flee. Unto unknown paths led their fast anxious feet. Lost in the onset of cold as the snow falls softly into the winter bleak, where trees seem to murmur and speak (Wanderer) In my panic, I sought through the thick underbrush for signs of travel from my companion, fear growing with my fruitless search. But still, I wandered forth, unsure of what lie before me in this treacherous wood. Calling out into the calm air, I was met with the howling of the wind whistling through the leaves. I felt the brisk chill tighten its grip upon me. Without food or rest for what must have been hours, I felt as though I may fall and succumb to the cold. And suddenly the paranoia of what might have been my frigid death was enough to drive my exhausted body forward. No longer calling out for reply, I came to a large clearing in the woods. The tall grasses covered in steel and blood from what must have been a great battle. At the heart of this glade was an ancient husked ash tree, with a great miasma of branches grasping eerily toward the heavens leading down to thick gnarled roots that held an iron cauldron in their tendrils. To the brim of the cauldron, filled with a viscous black ichor. His thirst grew too strong, he longed for its bitter nectar. As he dipped in his hand to clasp forth a sip, the fetid potion chilled when it crawled past his lips. Vision grew dim, and his stomach began to churn as he lapsed onto the cold soaking ground. Until the lights had gone dim and he couldn’t bring himself to his feet, He lay in the grass until the poison restrained him and forced him into sleep. Waking at the mouth of an obsidian lake, clinging to his wits and what sense he can make, the pungent swamp air wafts up to his now throbbing head, reeking of carrion and untended death. And now just above the tempestuous mire drifts the soft incandescence of dim candle fire. The black waters lie still as flowers unbloomed as he rises and walks toward his watery tomb. Entranced by fair voices surrounding the lake chanting a spell that his wit cannot break. (Crones) “Though our powers grow weak and frail we’ve become, three sisters united by darkness are one. And now, in our hour under moon, we arise to snuff out all sunlight, so night may survive. Hail to our lord of a thousand years night. Hail be the darkness that drinks from the light.” In a moment of strength, he then grasps for his blade and swears to himself that these crones’ blood shall spill. The weight of the sword then suddenly relieves as the steel drips like wax onto the shores of the lake. The sun seemed to choke from the foul ancient smell as darkness arrived mightily upon the esoteric hymn of their spell.

(Yggdrasil) My romere in shame Even-light skyre thy name Lete the forest cruel and derk Don thee none harm in my grace Lete dim raies of the winter light Releve weght of thy lunar plight The frost covered soil of bestli wode Renounces derknesse fro thy blod Wher the swou-inge of the wind envyron you is loude And the air of hervest morne dryftes en your lokkes Piren upon the winter lond that lye further north Your houth-sithe has geminte, as you venture forth Where mistes of morn stable upreke Underneth the ciel of walnied skie Nither thee wofare in bedes mos Your stie eth-sene shal not be lost Slomber anou and neshe drem Even-light iselle liveresoun and lune