once upon a forest clearing.

[fragment]

The architecture of that early, spring sunbeam was specifically constructed to collect the features of a glum face looming over the broken body of a goblin on the forest floor.

Its meat is too foul for the pack, remarked the gray wolf lazing beneath a redoak, chewing on the grass nearby; his left, flank paw was white.

Quiet gales swept through the trees, harbouring the scent of old rain; dew lingered on the leaves, and mist hung about the naked ankles of the squatting dryad. The forget-me-nots in her hair began to wither as she shed a tear onto the dead humanoid. Its chest heaved a single false breath.

Leave it, forest child; its life would bring you no smiles, the wolf pushed itself up, sitting on its haunches, tongue lolled and eyes riveted. I have seen the work of its kind.

Unmoving, she regarding the deep-red skin of the creature; its face was flat, nose broad and teeth sharp. Its clothes were soiled leather, and its arms were absurdly long. A mace lay but an inch apart from an open, beseeching hand. There was something shiny and clandestine in the aperture of its leather pouch, and she gasped. Would it be wrong, Khine? Would it be wrong? He does not need. Yes, I would carry his memory!

A gray muzzle bumped her ribcage and looked past her thigh, abruptly near. Khine could hear the hungry beat of the forest child’s heart; with a snort, he wet-nosed her. Then take it, and let us away; my inside disagrees with this stink.

The dryad leaned forward on her toes and grabbed the pouch. There was a sudden flurry of motion as the collaboration of wide eyes and wildflowers sprang to her feet, and went floundering and spinning away from the open grave of the sun. Easy sadness tugged her eyes back, but the wolf came nipping at her heels.

The wayless chase into the deep lost her worry, and the morning wind embraced the spirit of laughter at last.

[Loch]

Emerald dreams- a waking slumber from whence eyes departed ther reality and lingered but within the farthest regions of subconcious. The breath of the Mother soothed upon the tanned flesh of his brow, caressing those creases back to their rightfully smooth posture. Spires of lumber reached towards the sky, their once bare limbs begun to sprout the smallest buds and life begun to return to the slumbering Earth.

Though blood had been spilt...

There was not a motion to his body, lain against a root of large tree with those eyes veiled shut. Goblinoid blood rested upon the stone tip of his spear, parted the flesh of the creatures heart and made the end quick. Regret did not plague his soul, a part of this degredaton to the Mother. It was as if he had simply cut the sickness from a festering wound. But still, to break the natural cycle was not a decision to be taken lightly and it had not been. Chapped lips spent the afternoon, muttering, to whisper a silent prayer. Usher the creature to be reunited with the soil it was left upon. Instinct flared within him, and those verdant eyes snapped open to gaze between locks of fallen crimson hair. A waifish girl.. and wolven. Risen to his feet, the druid remained as the trees.. silent.. and waiting.

[fragment]

They were spent from the run, and the forest was quiet. Leaf and sap and passing mist, the morning lingered on. A flock of dark birds stained the pale sky with a passing miracle of formation.

The dire wolf loped between the trees; he was lean and sinewy, with shrewd eyes, powerful jaws, and strong, straight ears. The dryad trod along behind him, wringing the unopened pouch in her fingers, holding it up for the sun to see.

Khine stopped, bristled, and raised his tail. Hide!

With a start, she bumped behind the wolf and jerked her eyes forward. The stranger was not far ahead, though inexorably difficult to discern. Petals drifted from the dark, green knots of the dryad’s hair, as she darted out of sight into the nearby foliage. A wild leafy bush rustled like mad, then stilled altogether, gaining a pair of peeping eyes.

The wolf, however, prowled forward; his head was low and his shoulders were high. There was a growl in the back of his throat, territorially threatened until he knew the nature of the intruder. If Khine had been alone he might have run off, but the girl was pack. Not to mention, he could smell the tainted blood of the goblin.

The lone carnivore made a roundabout approach to the druid.

[Loch]

Early morning dew settled upon leaves, tendrils of brilliant radiance leaked down from the heavens to alight patches of foliage and grass. Cool breeze, not yet warmed by the rising sun above, strewn through all the wood in minute whisper of the forest. Zephyrs speaking in tongue for which there were few to listen and fewer to understand, though yet their song was beautiful and it sung upon his flesh as a duet.

Lean figure risen towards the sky as a mighty bear, nearly breaching seven feet of height and a structure to denote such a lofty stature. Sinewy waves of musculature pressed close to that sun scorched skin, flowing in liquid harmony to every shift and gesture. Complimenting this animalistic frame, furs collect upon him; the hide of a felled grizzly to adorn his shoulders, the sole recollection of that rite of passage so many years ago. Fire red hair, tops his crown, loosely grown to hang down towards his broad shoulders and the similarly hued beard engrossed the stoic line of his parched lips.

Yet despite this ferocious appearance, there lain benevolence; a placid warmth found in those emerald eyes which rest upon that wolven beast before him now and that outpour of the Mother. A link that ran not within adopted beliefs or prayer, but flowed within his very blood. Heritage which come through a symbiosis found alongside the earth, generations of such existance which allowed a glimpse of what mankind... once was.

Slowly, the massive druidic barbarian, as he was often referred to as, came to a knee. Outreached hand, calloused, dirtied and worn, was proffered to the creature which remained hidden amidst the trees, to puff its damp snout to it. Was it an instinctual knowledge? Raised hairs upon his neck? Perhaps. Though as of yet, unaware that other eyes may linger upon him, words followed the offered limb; "Niyáwë skênö'..."

Voice that lingered as the rumble of thunder within a dark clouded sky, echoed within the depths of his throat as a mother bear might unto her cubs. Surely there was that warmth, an undefinable essence which lingered upon every syllabble of that long forgotten and lost language.

But there was something else, the exposed flesh of his upper torso to reveal the obsidian ink of human hand. Veins of ivy, portrayed, winding from the center of his pectorals to embrace the crested head of a bear, its maw parted to usher a roar that never came. Signet of a clan perhaps? Or was it something more? An alignment of birth, he surely seemed more feral than civilized...

[fragment]

'Thy belt of straw and ivy-buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,--
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy Love.’
- sir. w. r. -



The cloister of the low tangle was a deep green within green, deranged with gathered shadow; bright eyes seemed fixed in their sockets, two, misplaced pin-points of starry attention from the sunless haven, captivated for seconds by the rare exchange between man and wolf.

The dryad sniffed the gloom and sat, ceremonious as she put the dead goblin’s pouch between her bare feet. The cup of her chiseled face ducked between spread knees, and her greedy fingers worked at drawstrings.

A coin? she wondered. A ring? A gem?

The ladybug on her pointed ear did not whisper any clues.


~*~

It was as Khine suspected. The druid had killed the humanoid back in the clearing; blood was on the sharp man-spear. The distance between himself and Loch’s offered hand swiftly came to a close, as fingers were nosed with hot breath and an answering whine.

The dire wolf was of an older blood, larger than the modern descendants. His eyes were intelligent, perhaps even cunning. It could sense the serenity of a man with a heart close to the earth. Curious and protective neutrality stayed him momentarily – though light paws and a bent neck professed deep caution.

[Loch]

Respite found in the gathering wood, from which heavenly light above splayed upon his shoulders, to entangle itself within those burning locks. Upon extended hand, fingers half-curl to beckon the wolf inwards or perhaps relinquish of that tentative posturing. Complacent in the solace the wood had provided thus far though shattered with flaring nostrils. Rising torso with that lean silhouette being drawn unto the proper stature, backdrop of light encompassing ever curve of that frame.

Sylvan whispers of breath, near soundless reverberations of air upon another form. A pulse of life for which there was once but the harmony of nature- but this was not an intrusion. Blended soul with the Mother for a unique bonding that he could never achieve through mere symbiosis. Briefly, eyes drop back down to the present dire words ushering past his lips, yet this time not so bound by the language of his own people. The local dialect.

“Did you bring company?” Echoed voice that seemed laced with strange accent, spilt and twisted, more guttural than it was annunciated. Not expecting any verbal reply his jaw is almost immediately returned to that distance in which the beautiful dryad lingers, his voice once again sounded out to drift through the wood.

“Hello...?”

[Nameless]

The architecture of those early, spring sunbeams were specifically constructed to collect the hint of green as they filtered down through the pine trees. The first budding greens of spring as they flickered amongst the canopy and lit up the train of creatures that paced the forest floor below.

The architecture of those early, spring sunbeams were unseen by the leader of the gathering. Milky white eyes adorned the aged features. Burrowed into the skull of his head, they were useless to him now. They had not always been so, but time had gathered them first. Eyesight however, had been replaced by another form of vision. It was second sight that guided them here.

Sight might have been taken from the old shaman, and yet his other senses had still grown more attuned. Touch specifically, but hearing and taste as well. It was hearing that irritated him in the current circumstances. The buzz of insects freshly emerged from their wintered eggs hummed in the background. Seeking out mates to reproduce and increase their numbers before the arrival of true spring perhaps. The exsistance of a pest was simply the exsistance of a pest. It would serve nothing and prove little more than an irritating distraction. Except for when they got into his fur, and he could not scratch them out. He had a powder to care for that. The birds as well, sung their noises heralding the stink of spring. Chittering away amongst themselves and rodents that scurried from one nuthole to another. The cheer of them brought no comfort forth.

The noise he sought was subtle beneath the feverish twitters of the fowl. The grunting and vague grumblings of sore feet behind him provided no assistance to his questing ears. Even so, it called out to him. The location where he must be. And so he pressed onward. Blind eyes proving no limitation as he worked his way over roots and up the incline. It was but background noise, but he could hear it already. The birds were always more cheerful along the edge of a stream. The bubbling noise drew him as it would have drawn any parched creature. Yet it was not a thirst for it, but the meaning behind it.

There was a yelp behind him. It was swiftly followed by another yelp and a decided whimper. The shaman did not need eyes to know precisely what had occured. There was one amongst them that did not walk bowed. The shaman had the excuse of age. The others simply because it was their nature to them. Rock, one of their own kind stood taller than the rest, even when they stood up straight. Towering just under seven and a half feet, he was a mighty figure with broadened shoulders, and corded muscles. The shaman had reared Rock as a pup, and watched the youth grow into the powerful warrior that he was today. Still young, Rock would no doubt one day lead tribes of his own. For now, he acted as an enforcer for the unseeing one.

There was no further noise, which meant that whatever trouble it had been, had been dealt with. Likely, a member of their gathering had complained about the shaman once again. One or two of their compatriots seemed inclined to find fault wherever they went. It was in their nature, but loyalty could be forced into them. It was all they truly knew. Hurt and be hurt. If they were not clanchiefs, then someone would hurt them if they did something wrong. Depending on their ranking, they could retaliate in kind to someone else. They were of course, the most superior of creatures, which meant that any other creature incapable of resisting their inflicted tortures, was their victim to do with as they wish. Such was their mentality. Only a few such as the shaman, and Faithful Rock could think on their own. Decide their own fate and futures. Together they had journeyed here.

The water trickled forth from an outcropping of rocks just over the hilltop. Cutting a slow cut into the rock as it worked down the hillslide and slowly through the tangle of the forest until it joined with another stream. Another beyond that until a gathering of them eventually flowed into the lake itself. That journey however, was of some distance. It was also beyond their care. They only sought the water's beginning, not its end.

"We have arrived." A simple statement and certain. "Our camp shall be here." The shaman confirmed, and moments later Rock was hissing out instructions, and snarling for those who were slow to actually jump to their feet and proceed to their instructions. Once the others were preparing the ground for their occupancy, Rock stepped over to the shaman, carting their most prized possession.

"Set the Wi`tchlin Staff twenty feet down stream. We shall have a desire for water ourselves." Simple instructions, and Rock hastened to obey them.

The Wi`tchlin Staff. They had come a long way from home, to pay heed to this prophecy. The power of the staff was undeniable however. There was a sense of strength merely from being within proximity of it. It made Rock's nerves dance with excitment. Or perhaps edginess. The staff was a full ten feet in length, and soon uncovered, as Rock tossed the cloth aside. A deep crimson in colour, the entire staff was nonetheless made of wood. From the sharpened end that Rock drove into the ground, to the bulbonous, smooth head to it, and the darker pair of knots that stood out, distinctly skull like.

Stepping back, Rock turned to slide his eyes around. It was disconcerting the sudden alteration. His eyes narrowed distastefully at the increase of sunlight, as the canopy overhead gained a distinctively brown tone. Soon, nettles were tumbling from overhead with the intensity of a minor snowstorm. The blight was hardly far reaching, stretching no more than thirty paces in any direction. Yet it would grow in time. It was a beginning, and it brought them some delight. The water itself, would carry the illness further into the world, than was possible through penetration of the soil. For now, the strength was limited. For now, the water flowed with little taint to it. Nature herself may find it distasteful, yet none less than those firmly entrenched in Nature's own grasp would even notice. For the shaman and his followers however, it was sufficient to begin. Destruction always appeased to their heart.

"Soon my Mistress." The Unseeing One promised to the staff. Lips pulled back over razor sharp teeth, and again he promised himself, that soon all would be in ready, and then she could come. Would come.