A tune.
I trudged along a lonesome forest path, using my small dagger to cut through the ragged brambles and grasping a few to snack on as I passed by- making my usual missage to the Fae Shrine far beyond the reach of Duntot's town walls, deep along the overgrown and weathered cobbles and toward the Grove of the Gallant, a fabled site upon which the hero Gaelfrey was said to have come to rest as his adventures came to an end. I cut my way through one final layer of brush and bramble before stumbling into the peaceful site, a place where the sounds of silence rang loud in your ears and hardly a bird sang from the trees above. Tugging my skirting free from a bramble that pleaded me to stay, I finally stepped into the Grove more properly. The heels of my boots clicked gently against the mossed cobbles that led toward the great Redwood tree that stood taller than the rest, and at the base of such was the small altar of almost pristine cobbles, engraved runes in the Sanktist script that retold the tale of Gaelfrey the Gallant as it had been passed down, now preserved eternally upon the stones. A tale of valorous deeds and praise to the Dragons, littered with offerings to the Fae of the grove that safeguarded our good village from the passage of time.
I swept my hands along the stone writings, using my knife to gently carve out some of the less defined lettering upon the walls- a duty taught to me by my Grandfather, that the maintenance of such sites were an honour to the Fae of the stones and those that came before ourselves. With a snap of my fingers the scriptures illuminated themselves in a gentle purple hue- I engrossed myself in the sight as I settled down my small offerings to the Fae, a small gift of carrots from the family garden, pinched without my father's knowledge. I winced as I thought of the reprimanding I'd get when I returned home, but in my Grandfather's absence I must be the one to uphold our traditions, with the conversion of my parents to more Sancellist Unionist ways, I fear the traditions may come to pass without our efforts. I stood, and stepped back from the altar with a satisfied sigh, crouching down toward the cobbles, I began my second duty to maintain the Grove. Crawling on my hands and knees I cautiously cleared the cobbles of moss and weeds, settling the remains down before the Altar so that the Fae may retrieve their kind from the decaying mosses and leaves.
Sheathing my knife into my belt and settling my hands proudly onto my hips, I stared around the Grove as silence once again took it's hold of the area, I closed my eyes to enjoy the sound of the breeze that rustled the leaves above me, and my attention was once again turned to the tree. I clambered up onto one of its roots and walked along, a grand, proud tree that overwhelmed all others in the forest, bravely weathering all elements before the others, sections burnt and scarred by thunder and hail, but even then it still stood strong. I found myself with a deep admiration for it even when I was just a young child, with leaves reddening under the departure of summer and the changing of the seasons.. Eventually it would be stripped of its leaves entirely, but it will continue to stand strong. I hopped down from the root and stumbled onto the ground at it's foot- and in my stumbling found a find most curious- the ground beneath me felt hollow, I stamped my feet and kicked some of the muck aside to find a Hollow beneath the tree's roots, obscured by a build up of fallen leaves and sediment and just large enough for me to fit in at a crawl. Curiosity took it's hold and I dropped to my knees and crawled on in, knocking aside the thin, hanging roots of the plants and weeds above my head as I descended deeper into the hollow. My hands found themselves matted with muck, and my dress was tugged and torn by the shuffling motion of my knees. Eventually I had come across a place in which I could stand, much deeper into the tunnel than I had thought was a larger hollow, held up by the roots of the proud Redwood above like the structure of a house. I kicked aside some muck as I stepped forward, before the ground caved in beneath me sending me careening down a set of rather rotted steps into a cavern below. I stumbled and tumbled my way to the base of the grand steps, finding myself in a decrepit hallway, matted and battered with the trials of time, but somehow illuminated in a warm, red hue. I ripped off a strip of my dress and wrapped it tight around my bloodied leg from my fall and made my way further into the hallway.
I was forced to squint under the sudden nature of the cavern's illumination, a bright red light flooded my vision and forced me to cover my eyes partially until I had adjusted properly. I continued forward until I broke out through heavy stone doors into a grand hallway, walls lined with Bayor tapestries and paintings that spanned the length of the theatre and set upon an intricately carved cobble floor, each of the paving stones inscribed with draconic heraldry and text of a language that I could hardly fathom understanding. I stepped cautiously forward, deeper into the grand hallway, my feet scuffing aside small fragments of a brilliant crimson carpet that seemed to have lined the centre line of the pathway. Looking forward I saw a series of steps that ascended towards a heraldic headstone set behind a throne carved out of the rock of the wall, to my left, sat decrepit weapon racks and scraps of ancient armour, all but one item of which had survived the test of time. Stepping into the armour filled me with a childish glee, I had adored stepping into the town Blacksmith ever since I was a tiny child, and to find one so aged brought a certain nostalgic tear to my eye. I stepped forward, until something caught my attention, a lone gauntlet sat upon a velvet throne of its own, seated in a fashion that simply beckoned me towards it. The piece was a masterwork of beautifully engraved, red tinted plates set over a completely un-aged leather glove. To find such an timeless, beautiful peace reduced me to tears, overcome with emotion I reached toward the piece and cautiously stroked over the steel, before clasping my hand with it's own.
I staggered back and fell to my rear as the Gauntlet's fingers coiled gently around my own, it cradled my hand gently, it wasn't oppressive, but the shock terrified me. I used my right hand to try to pull it off but such only encouraged the gauntlet to mold itself to my left hand, it's size and it's form adjusted to fit my own until the fit was snug, perfect, almost too perfect. I pulled it off again and apologised frantically to the piece as I settled it back onto it's throne- fleeing to the opposite end of the theatre, I was astounded to find the gauntlet had once again bound itself to my arm. I stared at it with awe until a vibrant, red scale fell from it's palm before me, and emerged a visage of a heroic figure from times long passed...
I trudged along a lonesome forest path, using my small dagger to cut through the ragged brambles and grasping a few to snack on as I passed by- making my usual missage to the Fae Shrine far beyond the reach of Duntot's town walls, deep along the overgrown and weathered cobbles and toward the Grove of the Gallant, a fabled site upon which the hero Gaelfrey was said to have come to rest as his adventures came to an end. I cut my way through one final layer of brush and bramble before stumbling into the peaceful site, a place where the sounds of silence rang loud in your ears and hardly a bird sang from the trees above. Tugging my skirting free from a bramble that pleaded me to stay, I finally stepped into the Grove more properly. The heels of my boots clicked gently against the mossed cobbles that led toward the great Redwood tree that stood taller than the rest, and at the base of such was the small altar of almost pristine cobbles, engraved runes in the Sanktist script that retold the tale of Gaelfrey the Gallant as it had been passed down, now preserved eternally upon the stones. A tale of valorous deeds and praise to the Dragons, littered with offerings to the Fae of the grove that safeguarded our good village from the passage of time.
I swept my hands along the stone writings, using my knife to gently carve out some of the less defined lettering upon the walls- a duty taught to me by my Grandfather, that the maintenance of such sites were an honour to the Fae of the stones and those that came before ourselves. With a snap of my fingers the scriptures illuminated themselves in a gentle purple hue- I engrossed myself in the sight as I settled down my small offerings to the Fae, a small gift of carrots from the family garden, pinched without my father's knowledge. I winced as I thought of the reprimanding I'd get when I returned home, but in my Grandfather's absence I must be the one to uphold our traditions, with the conversion of my parents to more Sancellist Unionist ways, I fear the traditions may come to pass without our efforts. I stood, and stepped back from the altar with a satisfied sigh, crouching down toward the cobbles, I began my second duty to maintain the Grove. Crawling on my hands and knees I cautiously cleared the cobbles of moss and weeds, settling the remains down before the Altar so that the Fae may retrieve their kind from the decaying mosses and leaves.
Sheathing my knife into my belt and settling my hands proudly onto my hips, I stared around the Grove as silence once again took it's hold of the area, I closed my eyes to enjoy the sound of the breeze that rustled the leaves above me, and my attention was once again turned to the tree. I clambered up onto one of its roots and walked along, a grand, proud tree that overwhelmed all others in the forest, bravely weathering all elements before the others, sections burnt and scarred by thunder and hail, but even then it still stood strong. I found myself with a deep admiration for it even when I was just a young child, with leaves reddening under the departure of summer and the changing of the seasons.. Eventually it would be stripped of its leaves entirely, but it will continue to stand strong. I hopped down from the root and stumbled onto the ground at it's foot- and in my stumbling found a find most curious- the ground beneath me felt hollow, I stamped my feet and kicked some of the muck aside to find a Hollow beneath the tree's roots, obscured by a build up of fallen leaves and sediment and just large enough for me to fit in at a crawl. Curiosity took it's hold and I dropped to my knees and crawled on in, knocking aside the thin, hanging roots of the plants and weeds above my head as I descended deeper into the hollow. My hands found themselves matted with muck, and my dress was tugged and torn by the shuffling motion of my knees. Eventually I had come across a place in which I could stand, much deeper into the tunnel than I had thought was a larger hollow, held up by the roots of the proud Redwood above like the structure of a house. I kicked aside some muck as I stepped forward, before the ground caved in beneath me sending me careening down a set of rather rotted steps into a cavern below. I stumbled and tumbled my way to the base of the grand steps, finding myself in a decrepit hallway, matted and battered with the trials of time, but somehow illuminated in a warm, red hue. I ripped off a strip of my dress and wrapped it tight around my bloodied leg from my fall and made my way further into the hallway.
I was forced to squint under the sudden nature of the cavern's illumination, a bright red light flooded my vision and forced me to cover my eyes partially until I had adjusted properly. I continued forward until I broke out through heavy stone doors into a grand hallway, walls lined with Bayor tapestries and paintings that spanned the length of the theatre and set upon an intricately carved cobble floor, each of the paving stones inscribed with draconic heraldry and text of a language that I could hardly fathom understanding. I stepped cautiously forward, deeper into the grand hallway, my feet scuffing aside small fragments of a brilliant crimson carpet that seemed to have lined the centre line of the pathway. Looking forward I saw a series of steps that ascended towards a heraldic headstone set behind a throne carved out of the rock of the wall, to my left, sat decrepit weapon racks and scraps of ancient armour, all but one item of which had survived the test of time. Stepping into the armour filled me with a childish glee, I had adored stepping into the town Blacksmith ever since I was a tiny child, and to find one so aged brought a certain nostalgic tear to my eye. I stepped forward, until something caught my attention, a lone gauntlet sat upon a velvet throne of its own, seated in a fashion that simply beckoned me towards it. The piece was a masterwork of beautifully engraved, red tinted plates set over a completely un-aged leather glove. To find such an timeless, beautiful peace reduced me to tears, overcome with emotion I reached toward the piece and cautiously stroked over the steel, before clasping my hand with it's own.
I staggered back and fell to my rear as the Gauntlet's fingers coiled gently around my own, it cradled my hand gently, it wasn't oppressive, but the shock terrified me. I used my right hand to try to pull it off but such only encouraged the gauntlet to mold itself to my left hand, it's size and it's form adjusted to fit my own until the fit was snug, perfect, almost too perfect. I pulled it off again and apologised frantically to the piece as I settled it back onto it's throne- fleeing to the opposite end of the theatre, I was astounded to find the gauntlet had once again bound itself to my arm. I stared at it with awe until a vibrant, red scale fell from it's palm before me, and emerged a visage of a heroic figure from times long passed...
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