《The Awakener》


 A Letter of Warning

    Gani,


    I wish I were writing to you under better circumstances, but the spirits tell me that my time for this world is running short. His army is on the move, and I am unsure as to when he will be at my doorstep. For the past millennia, you have been my closest friend and advisor. Let me begin this eulogy by saying, I wouldn¡¯t trade the daylight if it meant having to bid you farewell. Unfortunately, this letter is not meant to bear peace of mind with passing, so let this letter serve as a reminder and as a warning of what¡¯s to come. I need to pass on as much information as I can to you in the hope that The Sages¡¯ teachings¡ªour teachings¡ªmay survive. He is on the move, and I fear for The Ancients¡¯ Children more and more with each passing moment. He. Will. Not. Stop.


    My time is running out; I finally feel my immortality fading, and¡­ I¡¯m surprised. I find that it comforts me. Though I can no longer sense the essence of the Highland¡¯s Magick, and though my bonds and ties with the others have been severed. I am at peace, I look into the mirror, and I can see myself fading away.


    I suppose time isn¡¯t too kind to those who cheat it.


    There is no place for The Blessed in this realm anymore. My friends, my family¡ªthe other Sages¡ªhave passed on before their wisdom could be shared. Had they just listened to me and not chosen to pick up arms, maybe just maybe¡­ I guess that is the one benefit I have had to my life of seclusion, much to my dear Kaami¡¯s dissent. I have only been able to survive this long because I have remained hidden, like a coward. Alas, my thoughts escape me, and I tend to drone on.


    The forest is quiet. They are here.


    I have been in contact with The Ancients who will be sealing their home away from the prying eyes of The Betrayer, and they have entrusted me with a Crystal Seed, something they say can store a part of my soul. Although my body will fade, my soul and spirit will continue to live. Marisch will only be able to kill this¡ªnow mortal¡ªshell and I anxiously await the day he looks upon my new face and sees my spirit within.


    This leads me to the importance and necessity of this letter. I am entrusting you with a vital mission. You, my dear friend, are to find me a new vessel, a shell. I know you will have some quarrels with this dabbling of dark and dangerous magic, as will Kaami. Sadly, I can think of no alternative; I have yet to understand how the World Grove sows its seeds. I know The Betrayer¡¯s weakness; I know what strikes fear into his cold pit of a heart. Like the rest of us, his immortality is fading too, although to a lesser and slower degree, all because of his damnable Black Magic, devouring and consuming the lifeforce of whom we used to call friends. This will be his undoing, and although I am uncertain when his time will end, be prepared. It is happening, and when it starts taking its toll on his sanity, he will march upon the world, finding what he needs to return to the Highland and settle the score.


    Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site. It¡¯s ironic that a man who treated life and death as tools¡ªa person who claimed to have unlocked all the secrets the world has to offer¡ªfears the simplest and most natural of all of life¡¯s gifts. He wasn¡¯t always like this, though. I remember when he once would have welcomed the embrace of death like the sailor would embrace his wife after being lost at sea.


    Enclosed in this letter is the core of my being, the seed. The Grove will keep me until you find the right person, and when you do, please watch over them. This token may be small, but it holds immense power. I¡¯m sorry, brother. I know it sounds like I am dooming you to a life wandering this world alone until then but do not fret. I assure you I will always be with you in spirit. The cold death of iron boots on the forest floor resounds like funeral drums. I do not have enough time to write a letter to Kaami. They are coming to claim me. I must make the rest of this letter brief. Find Kaami. Show her this letter. She will join you, and I will need you to stay with her. Protect each other. You will not bear this burden¡ªthis gift¡ªalone. You both are of the Children, the Fae, so the Grove will always return you. As time passes, you both may wear different faces, yet she will always be my Kaami, and you will always be my closest friend, my brother, and we will always find each other.


    I implore you, As¡¯an Diel, comfort her. Assure her that everything will be fine. If she argues, which she will¡ªthe stubborn flower¡ªhelp her see reason. Let her know that I will see her again no matter what happens, though I am unsure how long it may take. It could be decades, centuries, or even eons. I am a terrible judge of time¡ªshe was always getting on to me about that.  I hear the spirits of these woods scream with the sound of thunder and death. Marisch is here to claim me. I will see you both again. Farewell, both of you. Go in peace and live so the Grove can bring you both back to me.


    -Aiysara Turmon

 Prologue: The World Grove

    The flame-colored hues of the dawn washed the edges of the horizon, leaving a dark, inky stain to fill the rest of the expansive, midnight-colored skies. The clouds, looking to have been painted with the juice of freshly squeezed grapes, faded into the blotchiness around them, leaving them looking like subtle smears of paint haphazardly drug across the canvas. Below the dreary painting of early dawn, a mass forest of stark-white trees pierced the underbelly of the grimness, providing a harsh and ghastly element to the already foreboding scene. On the thicket edge stood a humble cottage with a thatched roof, and cobblestone walls overgrown with ivy. Around the perimeter and growing into the yard of the abode was a well-maintained garden. Fruits and vegetables were flowering with a renewed vibrance, intermingling with a bouquet of wildflowers showing the same care and devotion. A warm light glowed from the cottage''s diamond-shaped panels, juxtaposed against the ancient forest''s bleak and terrorizing backdrop. Inside, Maester Harron stirred from his nightly meditation.


    He never really called it ¡®sleep,¡¯ he felt that was a lazy term for lazy people, and he was far, far too busy of a person to allow for such trivialities. Every morning, and always an hour before dawn¡ªnot a second more, not a second less¡ªHarron would rouse from his simple straw bed nestled in the corner of his tiny hut and set himself to dressing for the long day ahead. ¡°No time like the present,¡± he would sing merrily.


    With haste, the tiny man would prance across the dusty, hard-paneled floor of his hovel to the old trunk that rested against the adjacent wall. It was a single-room shack that Harron endearingly called ¡°Home.¡± From wall to wall, books lay strewn across the floor, many of them left open. The pages, yellowed and well-read, were teeming with notes, subsets, and markings along the margins and in-between passages, their spines broken from constant use. Others, dog-eared and set aside for future use, were simply stacked precariously on top of one another or various furniture pieces. It was a homely hovel and impossible to tell where the bedroom ended, and the study began. In truth, that was really all Harron felt was necessary.


    ¡°Too much wasted space was excessive and ostentatious,¡± he would say, beaming. ¡°There¡¯s no justice to an empty room. No comfort,¡± he bobbed his round head as he pulled on his heavy woolen slacks. ¡°Space does not breed knowledge, and a crowded room means for a clearer mind,¡± Harron smiled at his own wit. One day he would take on an apprentice, and he intended to pass on as much of his self-taught ¡°wisdom¡± as he could.


    Treading carefully to avoid disrupting the piles he had about the place, Harron hobbled his way towards the small cookfire and sink he called a kitchen. He was a rotund Higher-Syl man¡ªwhich was rare to see¡ªand he likened his weight to being caused by one of his past lives. His eyebrows were long, thick, and feathery, curling up and over on each other once they passed the edges of his face, as an owl¡¯s would. As he fixed himself a breakfast of fried eggs and sausages, the Syl found himself staring out the window towards his garden and the forest beyond. Master Harron had been the caretaker of the trees for the latter half of the Empiric Age. He had seen the branches of life grow and wither for seven centuries now, losing count of the once great nations that had risen and fallen. His master¡¯s master before him had seen the same. The Highland bless him.


    After finishing his morning routine, Harron would begin the trek from his home¡ªresting on the edge of the sacred grove¡ª to the center of the woods, tending to his charges. Traversing the garden, memories of one of his past lives played through his mind like it would a play. Once before, he was a young Lower Syl woman, brown skin glistening in the Spring morning¡ªhe was called Lisuania then. He remembered his¡­ her children too, Raushan and Firenza. ¡®I wonder where they are now?¡¯ He pondered. In his new life, Harron himself was not fortunate enough to have any of his own children, so he would nurture and tend to the flora and fauna of his settlements in the absence of the former.


    For the animals that often visited him, he would feed them and treat any wounds they had occurred as necessary. A grey and black Fae-wolf was one of his regular visitors and would pay his respects to Harron for the better part of his time as Caretaker. Harron had always found the guardian sleeping under one of the trees in the center grove. Harron assumed the wolf¡¯s shelter was the Life Tree of a previous master or friend. A pang of pity struck the Syl as he turned his attention to the garden, expecting to see the wolf padding over to him. Harron even brought some sausages for the poor creature to enjoy, but there was no sign of it.


    ¡°Well, that¡¯s peculiar¡­¡± Harron said quietly, scratching his head. The grease from the sausages still dripping from his hands. He would call out to the wolf but then realized he had never learned its name. He had never known the Fae-wolf''s name in all the time he had spent taking care of it. ¡°What do I call out?¡± Harron pondered, slipping the sausages into his mouth. After wiping the grease from his fingers onto his smock, he picked up his watering pail and returned his focus to the garden. Although Harron still fancied himself a gardener, he adhered to a higher purpose now. To the Fae, he was known as The Caretaker, and as such, this was Maester Harron¡¯s first life tied to the World Grove, Reka¡¯karn Sylvara.


    After he finished tending his garden, he grabbed one of the leather-bound notebooks that rested on his desk and a piece of lead. The cover''s leather was cracked and faded. The oils from his hand had long smoothed and polished the surface of the pad many years prior. Next to the garden door rested Harron¡¯s staff, made of the same smooth azure Whitewood from the World Grove trees, and a leather satchel with a pale-white fur interior. The glass and clay vials inside the bag clinked as he carefully looped it around his shoulder. Grabbing his druidic staff, he smiled and headed out.


    When he had first accepted his role, Harron was wary of the insurmountable weight his position carried. It was a chaotic experience at first. He had just celebrated his 160th year and was finally recognized as an adult in the eyes of the Syl. The trials and training he went through were challenging, but through the long years and unchanging seasons, the fear of failure and dread of insipidity had lessened their deathly grip from his heart and mind, and now Harron couldn¡¯t imagine a better¡ªor more fulfilling¡ªpath. He had seen the rise and fall of many nations and kingdoms in his time as The Caretaker.


    All around him, the forest bloomed with an eerie silvery-blue glow that blossomed from the behemoth-sized trees, lighting up the heavens like temple beacons. The stark, white light gleamed a thousand-fold creating an ethereal aurora that hid the sky from view and shrouded the passage of day from those dwelling beneath its speckled canopy. Since the Age of Divinity, the trees thrived¡ªa gift from The Divine¡ªdwarfing the Great Pines of the Northeast. The silvery totems told the history of Ellisandere and sang the songs of Her people. Every living being was tied to the World Grove. Fae, Human, Beast, however none of that mattered in the eyes of the Great Mother.


    As Harron traversed the grove, he paused at one of the trees every furlong to examine trunk, leaf, and limb, checking for any new growths or abnormalities. ¡°Tura Syl,¡± he whispered. His voice was soft and light as if reciting a lover¡¯s poem. ¡°Life Trees, from the Age of Divinity, given to us by the Great Sages. May the Divine keep them safe and sheltered,¡± He smiled as a thought came to him. ¡°Oh, to be amongst the few who witnessed Their return from The Summit. What I wouldn¡¯t give to have been there from the beginning!¡±


    The care and observance of each tree Harron passed slipped from his mind becoming instinctual and second nature to him. He had done this for hundreds of years. So, he felt reprieved to let his mind wander back to the history lessons of his youth. When the Divine returned to their tribes from The Summit of The Highland. They brought with them the gifts of magic, and some might say eternal life. They taught their followers that each person could learn and use magic, wielding the Natural Spirits like elegant blades. They were taught how true mages could cast spells speaking only a few words or without voice entirely! Nothing like the lengthy prayers or chants used nowadays by these so-called ¡®mages¡¯ most only able to cast with the use of components or ingredients. He was envious of those who lived in the Age of Divinity, the Golden Age of Magic.


    The deeper into the grove he went, the more sparingly the trees grew, scattered throughout the area. Some trunks were flush with branches and leaves, while others still had space for new growth and mainly lay barren or budding. These trees were the markers of the more prominent members of past ages; diplomats and philosophers, teachers and mages, all great warriors of legend, at least in their own right. This is where those particular few souls were birthed and where they returned upon the death of their mortal shells, waiting to be born into the cycle anew. Harron paused at one of the trees and ran his hand along the branch. At the base, connected to the trunk, it glowed with the bright silvery-blue light as all the others, but the further the branch extended, the darker it became. Its leaves withered and broke off, crumbling to the ground like ash, despite the feathery lightness of his touch. This soul was dying.


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    Harron knelt down, gingerly setting his pack on the forest floor next to him. He untethered the tie straps and began rummaging through the seemingly infinite canvas sack pulling out baubles and trinkets, small vials, and large, until finally locating the item in question. He reached into the satchel with his other hand and slowly pulled out a simple pot, cupped in his palm as if it was a robin¡¯s egg. The container was roughly the size of a serving bowl, made of smooth white stone. Around the sides, it was painted with thin ribbons of gold, emerald, and turquoise, curling and spiraling together, intertwining like ivy. The lid was decorated in a very similar way, with the knob at the top painted gold. Despite the item''s age, Harron did his best to keep it without a single blemish. The gold still gleamed brightly, even in the aura of the World Grove. He removed his handkerchief from his pocket, buffed the bowl, gingerly lifted up the lid, and set it next to him. The sap inside pulsed with the same ethereal light of the trees as if it was breathing or, at the very least, mirroring Harron¡¯s heartbeat.


    Cautiously he dipped his second and third fingers into the container. Its contents were warm and hummed ever so slightly as if the Spirits were singing in cold reverence. The bowl¡¯s contents were viscous, leaving Harron feeling like he was reaching into a jar of cold molasses. Lifting his hand to place on the tree, the sap dripped slowly and steadily down the back and sides of his hand. Using his hand as a brush, he smeared a small amount on the trunk opposite the dying branch, praying, ¡°May the light and embrace of the All-Mother return you to the Grove so that you can be reborn into this world.¡±


    He waited a moment to feel, or at least hear, the drumming of a new heartbeat resonating beneath the trunk. Silence. He brushed his fingers along the entire length of the branch itself, hoping to heal it. Nothing happened. Perturbed, he inspected it further. Typically, if he could not force a new limb to grow, he could heal the dying one until a new one took its place. The fact that neither was working was a sign of something much darker¡ªYa Tura-tso Yll[[ Lit. The Absence of Life]], The Final Death, which was unnatural and only had happened once before in recorded history.


    Each Tura Syl reflected a soul, sown by the Caretakers of the Grove in Ellisandere¡¯s long history.  While each leaf symbolized a defining memory, moment, or experience in that soul¡¯s life, each branch was a new incarnation or bearer of that soul.  This cycle didn¡¯t just end. It was impossible, just like how the Great Trees towering over the grove''s center never obtained new growth. Master Harron, wide-eyed and sweating, sprinted over to another tree nearby and checked for its pulse. It was in the same condition as the one prior. He tried healing it, then regrowing a new branch to no avail. He found another, and another, all of them were dying. How did he not notice this before? How could this all have happened so fast?


    ¡°This isn¡¯t right!¡± Never in his time as The Caretaker had this happened. He checked the notes from his previous masters. The pages fluttered beneath his frantic finger-flipping like startled grouse hens taking flight with the appearance of a wild cat. The pages revealed nothing! Nothing!


    A thought flashed through Harron¡¯s mind, and a look of horrific revelation twisted his usual, calm, and jovial face. Quickly he made a note in the pad and lidded the mortar, placing it in his satchel with everything else. He grabbed his staff and moved towards the dead center of the grove, towards The Sages¡¯ Pyres. The tinctures and tonics clinked loudly in his bag as he hurried. He could only hope that nothing would break as he refused to let himself check, despite every fiber of his being urging him and begging him to do so. He needed to know.


    When Harron arrived at the hill, a small collection of six trees stood separately at the incline''s peak, daring the Highlands to strike them down. They towered over the world around them, dwarfing the already expansive garden. No greenery grew remotely close to the Pyres. The earth around them was charred and blackened as if a great fire had once razed the plot of land. Bits of ash and soot rose slowly into the open air then fell, weightless as if the very ground beneath The Caretaker¡¯s feet struggled to breathe.


    Small pieces alighted themselves and fell apart on contact with Harron¡¯s stark white robes as he trembled, almost as if the particles and debris that made up the Pyres were disintegrating in the mere presence of Life. This was sacred ground he had set foot on. Nothing around these Tura Syl grew, and that hadn¡¯t changed since their original vessels were shattered and lost in the dying days of The Age of Divinity¡ªtheir existence erased from history. The only recorded instances of ¡°The Final Death.¡±


    In the middle of the Pyres, towering above its brethren, stood a monolith of a great tree. On it grew a single branch that extended far beyond the hill like a knight sheltering those from a hail of arrows. Long, feathery leaves covered the length of the limb from end-to-end, shimmering and rippling, moving like an unearthly silver liquid. At the end of the branch withered an expansive frond, large enough for a fully-grown man to stand underneath it and be sheltered from the elements. In contrast to the stark white and silvery-blue world of its siblings, the leaf was a void. Darker than the most shadowed of places to exist in the mortal plane, as if all light that came into contact with it was absorbed, sucked into an endless null. Never to escape.


    Harron approached the mighty tree and raised his hand. Closing his eyes as he felt what should have been the smooth, metallic-like surface of the trunk. However, to his consternation, it felt viscid. He took a deep breath, and then controlling his exhalation, he pressed his hand harder until it was flat against the bark. The thrumming of new life beneath the flesh of the trunk resonated against Harron¡¯s cold palm. Feeling a warm, gummy liquid cover his hand, he opened his eyes. Crimson-colored sap seeped from a bulbous malignant tumor on the side of the tree as if something were trying to emerge. His eyes went wide as he drew his hand back from the trunk.


    This wasn¡¯t possible. This tree was supposed to be dead. ¡® ¡®They¡¯ could not be reborn, right?¡¯ Harron brought the liquid to his nose and sniffed it. It smelled like the sap he used to heal or at least encourage new growth. Harron clenched and unclenched his fist. The trapped air escaped from it, creating a sucking sound as he strained to separate his fingers from his palm. It was thick, and it felt like the sap, as well. Hesitantly, Harron brought it to his lips, tasting it, expecting the sweet, succulent honey-like taste of what he used to cure the dying branches. Shocking disgust contorted his face. The bitter iron flavor of blood sent him reeling.


    Visions¡ªmemories¡ªpoured through his head like a coursing river, bursting from a dam at the height of a storm. However, these memories weren¡¯t of him or his past lives but of¡­ someone else? Someone¡­ foreign? An Anfae, but they could commune with the spirits? ¡®How odd.¡¯ The being had just been born. Or he will be born. Or had he been born already? The boy grew up, as Harron unwillingly observed. Years flowing by in seconds. One second he was being lifted in the sky by a caretaker of some sort. The next, he was in a dark room. Alone. Scared. A shadow hung over the Anfae, or was it following him?  Another decade flashed by in a second. He was no longer a boy. He was¡­ troubled. Again he was lost and in pain. The man fled into the night. Fearful and Uncertain. The Anfae¡¯s skin burned, and now Master Harron¡¯s skin burned too, as if Harron had just walked into a blazing fire.


    ¡°This¡­ this isn¡¯t right,¡± Master Harron clutched at his head frantically. These visions, or memories, weren¡¯t meant for him. He felt his eyes begin to burn now as well. He clawed at them, raking them over and over with his uneven, earth-filled fingernails. He felt hot liquid flow from his sockets like cascading rapids, but the visions wouldn¡¯t still. He felt as if the back of his head was being stabbed repeatedly with a red-hot poker, and yet the visions still came en masse.


    ¡°Please,¡± Harron pleaded to The Highland. He dug his fingertips into the sockets. The soft tissue protecting them gave way effortlessly. He felt the thin bone splintering as he pushed harder and further. He felt an ooze seep under his fingernails, joining the dirt that had made its home in-between the callouses and nails. ¡°Please! Take these visions and prophecies from me! Make them stop! I don¡¯t want them! I didn¡¯t mean to take them! All-Mother! Please! Have mercy!¡±


    A red flash pierced his frontal lobe like an arrow sent from the Divine, soon brightening and transitioning into a white light, a burning, splintering light. He heard the crack of bone as he broke through his eye sockets. He wrapped his burly fingers around them, pulling and tugging to free them from their housing. There was a pop, and soon everything was dark. Harron collapsed to his knees, screaming as these foreign memories blared like the trumpeting of the Heralds of Reckoning. He wept, clawing and grasping at the soaking wet turf surrounding him. Harron slumped to the ground, convulsively curling into a ball, and wept. The world around him now an endless black void, and still, the visions didn¡¯t stop.