The Wheel and Its Turning

[Wand 932]

 

The Seventh Assignment

I. Malin's Welcome
 

Spoiler

??th of Malin’s Welcome, 1841/45 S.A.

 

I write this looking back.

 

I awoke to fire and sickly sweet flesh - my own, burnt against the hot rocks of the Firelands mountains. I was bereft of all but simple trousers, my journal and a thin stick of charcoal, with which to write. I remember red and anger looking back, the presence of smoke closing up my lungs. I could not remember how much was a dream, how much was reality.

 

I took stock of my surroundings, and tore a strip of cloth off my right pant leg, creating a crude bandage for my torso, to ease the wound. I pressed my barren feet, heels first, to the warm rock of the mountain, and made my descent.

 

To the southwest I could make out the faint glow of the volcanic ruins, and that infernal, wretched tower. I had to move fast, lest I be caught by my foe. I stowed my rage and pride, and climbed, pausing to the occasional ache in my bones.

 

When I woke, the sun was high, somewhere in the early afternoon. Now its globe sunk past the tallest peaks, indicating evening would soon follow. 

 

 

 

 

I spent many minutes sifting through cool ash, searching rocky cliff-faces, when I heard a howl of a wolf to the north. Cool air blew eastward through the volcanic valley, a blessed relief against my warm, ash-bathed skin. Wolves do not take home within the Firelands - meaning woodlands were some miles away. Woodlands, caves if I were lucky, as well as water.

 

I remember running until cuts opened against my feet - due to haste. The sting of pain woke me, drove me on. I could not scream, and instead sunk my ankles deep into soot and stone, then bound my bare feet with cloth from my pant-legs.

 

I ran again, until my feet kissed ash and snow. A wintry field formed my horizon. Before me, a bush of wild, vibrant roses. I drank the dew and crisp snow off its petals, then threaded snow-laced fingers through my hair to cool my scalp.

 

 

 

 

I was in luck; I found the first pine at the precipice of the woodlands, and rested beneath its crooked shadow. I piled sparse rock and flint at the base of the tree, piled kindling in a small circle  near the branches. It took time to build the log and wood for a fire, and it was close to midnight that the fires finally grew, offering me some substantial warmth. It is now I think and write, but my charcoal is half gone.

 

I remember an early hunt with Shadow. The wolf in the snowy woods. I know what I must do, must build.

 

 

-II-

 

I woke after noon, gathered fibers and reeds for a pile. Fed the fire. Hung up dry reeds and leaves to dry for twine.

 

Wolf tracks near, north.

Found stone and wood, cobbled a hammer, and broke apart crude iron. Buried stash in snow. For food, roasted the seeds of sunflowers for the morrow.

For the night, caught a fox, struck its head with a simple sling. Stripped the pelt and prepared the meat, pushing past the stench.

Left the innards out to attract a wolf. Laid a simple snare trap.

Slept after dinner to the sounds of howls.

 

-III-

 

I awoke to howling. The wolf’s wretched growls and snarls against bark. So I took up a rock and struck its head, killing it. As with the fox, I stripped the carcass and fashioned for myself a cloak aside the fire, tanning the pelts of fox and wolf. I’ve saved enough charcoal for a few days, and took time to watch the sky.

 

I stitched the remaining leather for moccasins. Crude leatherwork at best, but enough to keep the cold off my toes and feet.

 

With a small handful of sunflower seeds, I headed east.

 

 

-VII-

 

My seventh day in the wilds. I write with a steady pile of charcoal sticks in grasp. I have scavenged and pulled wool from a sheep, who had been caught in a thorny shrub. I had little skill to spin such wool, so instead I lined my shoes with the crude fabric.

 

The voice which accompanies me, the little root, broke its silence for once, suggesting I head south once more to taunt the geckos. While a tempting thought, the sound of my gullet rumbling drew my attention. At the least, I cannot feel the wound or burn upon my back.

 

 

II. The First Seed

 

Spoiler

??? of The First Seed, 1841/45 S.A.

 

Steady is my journey, such that I only realized a season had changed when a young caterpillar clung to me had fattened. It will go still soon, perhaps seeking its chrysalis. I cannot shake it free, and in truth I could use the company.

 

 

It joined me as I found a river east of the Firelands. I was relieved to wade waist deep into the water, to cool my feet and scrub off layers of ash with a porous stone. Following the waters downstream, I pulled branches of vibrant leaves, weaving them with twine for a cloak.

 

 

 

 

I walked until opposite the shore of mine I witnessed a bear fishing through the rivers with its paws. For a while I kept distance, not wanting to intrude on their hunting. Close to the afternoon, I waded into the waters, standing roughly where these northern bears had, to catch salmon with my hands.

 

 

My efforts produced a salmon, her belly thick with eggs. Roe as I knew it. I had to kill her quickly, so I took my crude hammer and struck her head ‘til she did not move, and lugged her body up away from the stream, where the bears would not find me. Under a canopy of auburn leaves I cobbled my fire and slowly roasted the salmon over fire. I could not save the scales, but devoured the salmon’s eye for nutrient and the roe for a treat.

 

 

I lazily sat back, watching as the sun set beneath the mountains of the Firelands. The caterpillar curled atop my nose, resting there. I drifted asleep before I realized.

 

 

-II-

 

 

I awoke after dawn, trekking along the shallow river. The rapids of the north had given way to a more peaceful flow, which washed my legs. By now the cuts of my heels have themselves healed, allowing me to take comfort in the cool water.

 

 

-V-

 

 

 

 

I stopped before a pale fog, which spanned across the breadth of plains and hills. The center of Almaris. I would need to prepare before I travelled through, for I know what dread lays yonder.

 

 

-X-

 

 

I spent the last few days cobbling together a rustic forge pit. Clay from the rivers and banks, baked into bricks for an oven. Within I built up the coals through wood and charcoal, with which I would smelt my iron. The volcanic rock of the nearby cliff made excellent supplement for the task, and the nearby dried reeds made for sufficient kindling. 

 

 

A day alone was spent to heat the fires to what I needed, though not without mild burns upon my hands. That scrap of iron I roughly hammered into a leaf-shape. A spearhead.

 

 

I mounted it upon a branch of the maple I harvested my leaves from. I fitted what little scrap of iron that remained into buckles, to bind leathers into boots for my feet. The trek onwards would be long and crawling. Slow.

 

 

-XVII-

 

 

A week has gone by. From the wild wheat-grass I sifted, I baked small, flat loaves, seasoned with herbs. What leftover salmon and hare I found I dried into rations. Enough for two weeks, three if I skip meals.

 

 

I take my trek now.

 

 

-XVIII-

 

 

The sun shines little here through the fog, creating a dense yet far from nurturing fog ‘round the bushes. I pried palmfuls of berries into my calloused hands. Even my caterpillar, which has become fat and sloth in its engorging, did not take to them.

 

 

After spending a day along the riverbed, I decide that I must trek south and through the fog. So far no such wicked thing seeks to claw its way from the fog and to me. For now,I am safe, so I must make haste.

 

 

-XX-

 

 

The rain persists up north, even through the fog. Something dreadfully wrong has become of the land here. I must make my writings sparse, lest I lose all record of my travels. Even the caterpillar slumbers now beneath the rain. Yesterday, it crawled into my cloak and curled upon a small branch with which I framed the shape of the cloak. It has not left there since.

 

 

-XXIV-

 

 

 

 

At last, I have cleared the dense fog. As I write, I take refuge in a nearby crypt, bereft of life, fungi, and even the scavenger beetle or gnat. My companion caterpillar has nestled into the crook of my trophy skull, a chrysalis which awaits the new month.

 

 

III. The Grand Harvest

 

Spoiler

??? of The Grand Harvest, 1841/45 S.A.

 

 

 

I crossed the last miles to the edge of the southern woodlands, basking in the peaceable shadows of the canopies. Though my gullet tires of salmon jerky, the wild berries of the forest were little better. My greatest relief was in the clear streams, which gleamed with iridescent moonlight, I bent low to the river’s streams and drank my fill.

 

 

I followed the resplendent stream south-east, in vague direction of the coastline. I found myself wading across, but not with purpose - lingering in a strange serenity.

 

 

I meditated for a day, perhaps three, and thought upon all that I had seen and experienced so far.

 

 

-IV-

 

 

 

 

[!] A simple sketch, colored with grass clippings and berries. For the sky, charcoal tinted the clouds.

 

 

Quail and hare supplement my diet of jerkies and berries. Between, the crisp waters. As I crested the hills of middle-Almaris, entering the westernmost woodland hills of Oren’s reach, I felt a stirring in the cocoon. 

 

 

-VII-

 

 

The chrysalis was breached, and I was greeted in the morning by a pair of iridescent wings, fluttering and teal. The butterfly had hatched, and greeted me like an old friend, kissing and tickling the lids of my brows. As I shifted to rise, it perched upon my shoulder, opposite the Fae Rootling which hummed upon my left. Together, we crested the hills and trekked the woodlands.

 

 

-X-

 

 

My companion butterfly eats well, drinking of the nectar of mountain lilies and field flowers. A few others have been attracted to me now, perhaps for I have spent much time among the fields, sleeping and gazing to the sky. After a fifth attempt, I believe it has found its favored flower. I sat beside this tulip, watching the mountain cliffs above. Before long it was dark, so I took cover beneath a cliff for slumber.

 

 

When I awoke, I found the butterflies had gone, and felt a peculiar absence. I crouched before the tulip, finding a cluster of eggs laid upon the petals. Such was the inevitability of my companion, I reckoned - that it would take flight one day. I rose, thinking not of the tulip for much longer. I still had a long way to go.

 

 

-XI-

 

 

 

 

Thunder in the distance. I can hear, smell even, that lick of inclement weather to the south. I am closer now to the southern strait, somewhere North of Urguan, yet south of Eastfleet. Many butterflies pass me by, or visit me for a few minutes. Perhaps in my skull hat and cloak of leaves they confuse me for a Fae creature. Or so jests the Rootform, declaring I ought to change my name to simply Fae. 

 

 

-XII-

 

 

 

 

Rain. Ruin. The thunderous storm above enraptured me suddenly and swiftly as I scaled the mountains. Its force of the rain nearly struck me down, and so I took refuge beneath a great oak. I shuddered in the cold, and cradled my hands together, wherein I noticed a peculiar gleaming ‘dot’ within my cloak. Upon inspection, I found it was soft yet small and so miniscule… an egg.

 

 

Knowing not what came over me, I slipped it into the crook of the deer skull’s jaw, where it held a ridge under cover of the rain. I took pause to write this here, and made my way on. South.

 

 

-XX-

 

 

 

 

The southern storm is unceasing, grey and sapping of color. In the crook of my cloak, a young caterpillar has hatched, yet I know it has not the sustenance to eat without being washed away. I avoided the derelict vessel, and continued along the coast, seeking cover in a flooded cavern. 

 

IV. Sun's Smile

 

Spoiler

?? of The Sun’s Smile, 1841/45 S.A.

 

 

 

I am down to the last of my charcoal, and the papers of my journal have been given time to dry. I cobbled a fire within the small cave, feeding my caterpillar the zest and rinds of wayward fruit. The fruit pulp was ruined, but the juices were fine on the palette. It has been roughly five, six days since I left, struggling to keep my cloak and journal dry.

 

 

I am close to the Vale now, I know it, so I take my time to write on all I have found.

 

 

Although I am an elf so familiar with the Balance, there is one small thing I recognize I have always struggled with, and that is the preservation and nurturing of life in its moments. Nestled atop my nose, this caterpillar is the second that will mature and become winged by the time I arrive - merely three months if that in total, and yet each butterfly will come and go in forty days.

 

 

If a man comes to meditate in the woods for a year, he will see the seasons and their changing, and thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands of lives will pass in a month, forget a year. Death always becomes life - and I cannot fathom a world in which there is only endless growth.

 

 

This is the curse of Descendants - a legacy of creation, and never knowing when the time has come for their creations to die. If not by our careful hands, surely the world would choke with endless life.

 

 

To be a druid is to understand both to garden and to winnow. Life and death in tandem. It is a cycle which cannot be broken, lest it merely spiral down. I recall back once more to the words of the Shadow - men must know their roots before they reach for the sky.

 

 

I am glad to have found mine.

 

 

[WestCarolina 1779]

Amidst a conversation under the trees, Miven overhears murmuring of that who was waiting behind the rooted gates. She lumbers over to attend to it, finding a tall man, raven hair stuck to a stag skull donning their head. Just by stature, the Bruin knew who she was greeting back home, eager hear of the Sylvaeri's tribulations.