Bel was born to parents of the Talus Grove in the fair city of Siramenor, during a harsh winter, or so her mother had told her. The snow was deep on the ground and the animals of the wood were already several months into their long sleep for the winter when she entered the world, as the moon shone above them, welcoming her into it’s gentle embrace. That’s why her parents had nicknamed her their moonbeam.
As she grew, her songs and giggled filled the air of their home, just as the smoke gathered around them and smell of fresh bread lingered. She recalled stealing a loaf from the cooling shelf and running into the town with it in her grasp and sharing it with the birds. She went home that day with her mother worried sick about where she had been.
Bel was but a young child when her father began to tell her tales of his travels. They were all different but upon hearing them, her heart hurt and her dreams that night would be filled with fantastical visions of towering buildings made of stone and glass, as well as deep caverns dug deep into the earth and filled with all manner of treasures beyond any mere ehlven child’s imagination.
She remembered with fondness, the time her Father had taken her into the city and pointed to the Mother tree before bending down and taking some dirt into his hands. “We are all born from the same dirt and roots, Bel, and it is our duty to remember those who walked before us so we may guide those who come after. and just as each small seed sprouts a mighty tree, we must be we must allow ourselves to grow.” and she had giggled, not really understanding, but gazing in wonder at the mighty Mother tree.
She loved her parents dearly. She was an only child and though there had been talk of more children, her mother’s heart was shattered time and again by the curse. Perhaps that was what made her feel special. The gods of the Wild had gifted her to her parents, and perhaps that was why they doted on her. Life was good.
She recalled the first time her Father had taken her into the forests and pushed an aged shortbow into her hands and showed her how to knock and arrow to the bow string, as well as the correct strength to put through it so as to not break it. She had pulled the string, aimed and....The bow snapped clean in half, covering her hands in splinters and jagged pieces of wood. She had cried as her mother had carefully and lovingly pulled the wood from her hands and soaked them in a sweet smelling liquid that soothed the pain. Later that night, her father brought home some bitterberries from the forest, and the three of them ate their fill, but she continued until the juices surrounded her mouth. She went to bed that night feeling ill but happy.
She remembered the time she and her mother argued about her wish to leave their forest home and explore the world. Her father had sat in the chair and listened while her mother just yelled and eventually cried. Her mother had no wish to loose her only child to the humans or worse.
And now, looking at the bow in her hands and the moon hanging high in the sky, a small cheesecloth of food bundled to her dress, she whispered a prayer to the Wilds that her parents would stay safe and would find the letter she had left them. Adjusting the strap of her quiver over her shoulder, she raised her head and continued the path among the trees. Perhaps she would return one day.
