Amongst the many tales and tribulations told amongst House ad Medwyn, few are so often recounted and revered as the story of their origin. Whilst the passage of time has lead to many iterations and interpretations of this tale, below is an example of a more recent retelling passed from the family's heads to the children who will one day inherit this legacy.
Within the mist-covered landscapes of old Kintyr where jagged peaks stretched high as ancient sentinels and dense forests crawled low in their impenetrable greenery did our tale begin. Chaos and fear spread rampant, when the village of the great founder Corentin teetered on the edge of desolation. A shadow loomed thick, shrouding the local peoples in a veil of terror and despair. Villagers gossiped of a powerful force roaming the wilderness, striking out against those who would dare defile the land with their presence: A demon known to the people only by Cernaros. The name alone often brought fear to the hearts of even the village's most stalwart, whispered as a fell omen of death, destruction and defeat.
At the time a young and yet untested leader, the fabled Corentin could not stand idle and see as his people suffered: Unable to hunt, unable to tend to the fields, unable to gather the rich fruits of the land. It was only a matter of time before the already dire situation would become unsalvageable. And the village knew this, looking to him desperate for guidance, and although that terror grew on his heart like a tumour, he knew their survival was doomed if he did not act swiftly. Yet the task ahead was herculean in proportion: to face a foe so forged in nightmare, wielding power far beyond that of mortal comprehension. Daunted and uncertain, Corentin sought solace in faith.
To the Shrine of Eirlys the Winged he travelled, a sacred site known to be touched by the Santel herself. Nestled within a quiet glen, the place was archaic beyond fathom; primordial carvings worn down by the wear of countless years gone by. The saintly protector had long since been seen as a beacon of wisdom and grace; her presence said to be felt by those who approached the shrine with only the purest of intents. Before the altar Corentin knelt, words trembling as he prayed desperately for guidance. But what he asked for was not power nor vengeance, rather what he sought was the strength of wisdom, enough to save his people from the darkness that had taken hold.
The air grew eerily still. Completely silent beyond the faintest rustle of feathers that would seek to stir the emptiness. A glowing light, almost blinding yet unmistakably warm and inviting, descended onto the shrine. Its radiance only grew and grew, before the great glen was illuminated in its entirety by the soft sight of Eirlys. A vision of holy majesty; her hair cascaded like an ethereal silk, her great wings shimmering like the first light of dawn. Her very being there consumed the landscape in an otherworldly calm, and for the briefest of moments Corentin felt the weight of his burdens lift. The Santel did not offer words, yet her voice echoed profoundly in his mind in this grand symphony of compassionate authority.
"You seek to protect," she said, voice resonating as the wind's song does along the treetops. "But know that protection cannot come from the conquest of fire and steel alone. It must come from balance. From understanding. The spirit you fear is not your foe, they call this place home just as you do."
Her hand extended, palming laying flat as she offered Corentin her boon: A single jagged sprig. Delicate in its silvered sharp edges, it hummed with the great energy of potential.
"Take this," she so commanded. "What you hold in your hand is the potential for balance: For harmony. You must not walk into the shadows as a conqueror, but as a mediator. Only then can the calamity that calls for your people be prevented."
Sprig in hand, Corentin vowed to honour the Santel's guidance. And as swiftly as she came, she was gone. And the darkness encroached once more. With determination renewed, he ventured deep into the woodland dim, the curtain of trees stretching into this impenetrable canopy of the unknown. As he delved deeper, each step felt more and more like another realm; blurring the barrier between this world and another. The cries of a creature unseen tore through the thicket, foreboding of the task that laid ahead. At long last, the hero came face-to-face with the spirit of the forest, Cernaros, who stood not as some towering monster of murderous intent, but instead a being of unquestionable power, paired with a primal grace. It was almost majestic, as the great Oaks were. An amalgamation of the forest itself, its antlers of gnarled, twisted wood stretched wide and high; its eyes like springs of moonlit water; its form both animal and abnormal. What Corentin was faced with was not a beast of rage, but a being of fear. Fear for the lands that it calls home. Fear of the ever-encroaching hands of those who would abuse its home.
For days did the two speak beneath the ancient boughs. They shared the wisdom of their experience, revelled in their joint compassion for the lands they shared and spoke on their fears of the future. Plead did Corentin for his people, driven to the edge by famine and hardship within the valleys they did not truly understand. In turn, the forest spirit demanded respect for the natural lands, that the delicate balance be kept so that the wilderness may survive and thrive. Finally, a truce was forged between the two's shared understanding. Cernaros would provide for the people, ensuring that they would find themselves with game, shelter and resources aplenty, so long as Corentin vowed that his people would treat the land with the reverence it deserved; ensuring preservation by respect, by elegance and by grace.
The pact was sealed when the sprig of Eirlys was planted. From it, the great Medwyn Tree grew; a soaring sentinel that stretched far taller and stronger than any that came before it. Its bark shimmered with the Santel's silvered sheen, its leaves humming with life aplenty. From that day on, the Medwyn Tree stood as a symbol of the pact. A living reminder of the harmony between the people and nature. Beneath the protection of its ever sprawling branches did Corentin's people flourished, building livelihoods that honoured the land rather than exploit it.
As Corentin rose to become the first Patriarch of House ad Medwyn, he made sure that the pact would endure for generations to come. In time, the tree grew to represent more than just that pact from many moons ago: It became the embodiment of the values that would shape the family. Stewardship of the land, reverence for the arcane and divine, and an unyielding commitment towards finding understanding before violence. Even as they rose to prominence within the Regalian Empire, the story of their origins was never far. The Medwyn Tree remains at the heart of their ancestral lands, ever standing as a living beacon of their legacy and a reminder to strive for balance and harmony in the face of adversity.
Within the mist-covered landscapes of old Kintyr where jagged peaks stretched high as ancient sentinels and dense forests crawled low in their impenetrable greenery did our tale begin. Chaos and fear spread rampant, when the village of the great founder Corentin teetered on the edge of desolation. A shadow loomed thick, shrouding the local peoples in a veil of terror and despair. Villagers gossiped of a powerful force roaming the wilderness, striking out against those who would dare defile the land with their presence: A demon known to the people only by Cernaros. The name alone often brought fear to the hearts of even the village's most stalwart, whispered as a fell omen of death, destruction and defeat.
At the time a young and yet untested leader, the fabled Corentin could not stand idle and see as his people suffered: Unable to hunt, unable to tend to the fields, unable to gather the rich fruits of the land. It was only a matter of time before the already dire situation would become unsalvageable. And the village knew this, looking to him desperate for guidance, and although that terror grew on his heart like a tumour, he knew their survival was doomed if he did not act swiftly. Yet the task ahead was herculean in proportion: to face a foe so forged in nightmare, wielding power far beyond that of mortal comprehension. Daunted and uncertain, Corentin sought solace in faith.
To the Shrine of Eirlys the Winged he travelled, a sacred site known to be touched by the Santel herself. Nestled within a quiet glen, the place was archaic beyond fathom; primordial carvings worn down by the wear of countless years gone by. The saintly protector had long since been seen as a beacon of wisdom and grace; her presence said to be felt by those who approached the shrine with only the purest of intents. Before the altar Corentin knelt, words trembling as he prayed desperately for guidance. But what he asked for was not power nor vengeance, rather what he sought was the strength of wisdom, enough to save his people from the darkness that had taken hold.
The air grew eerily still. Completely silent beyond the faintest rustle of feathers that would seek to stir the emptiness. A glowing light, almost blinding yet unmistakably warm and inviting, descended onto the shrine. Its radiance only grew and grew, before the great glen was illuminated in its entirety by the soft sight of Eirlys. A vision of holy majesty; her hair cascaded like an ethereal silk, her great wings shimmering like the first light of dawn. Her very being there consumed the landscape in an otherworldly calm, and for the briefest of moments Corentin felt the weight of his burdens lift. The Santel did not offer words, yet her voice echoed profoundly in his mind in this grand symphony of compassionate authority.
"You seek to protect," she said, voice resonating as the wind's song does along the treetops. "But know that protection cannot come from the conquest of fire and steel alone. It must come from balance. From understanding. The spirit you fear is not your foe, they call this place home just as you do."
Her hand extended, palming laying flat as she offered Corentin her boon: A single jagged sprig. Delicate in its silvered sharp edges, it hummed with the great energy of potential.
"Take this," she so commanded. "What you hold in your hand is the potential for balance: For harmony. You must not walk into the shadows as a conqueror, but as a mediator. Only then can the calamity that calls for your people be prevented."
Sprig in hand, Corentin vowed to honour the Santel's guidance. And as swiftly as she came, she was gone. And the darkness encroached once more. With determination renewed, he ventured deep into the woodland dim, the curtain of trees stretching into this impenetrable canopy of the unknown. As he delved deeper, each step felt more and more like another realm; blurring the barrier between this world and another. The cries of a creature unseen tore through the thicket, foreboding of the task that laid ahead. At long last, the hero came face-to-face with the spirit of the forest, Cernaros, who stood not as some towering monster of murderous intent, but instead a being of unquestionable power, paired with a primal grace. It was almost majestic, as the great Oaks were. An amalgamation of the forest itself, its antlers of gnarled, twisted wood stretched wide and high; its eyes like springs of moonlit water; its form both animal and abnormal. What Corentin was faced with was not a beast of rage, but a being of fear. Fear for the lands that it calls home. Fear of the ever-encroaching hands of those who would abuse its home.
For days did the two speak beneath the ancient boughs. They shared the wisdom of their experience, revelled in their joint compassion for the lands they shared and spoke on their fears of the future. Plead did Corentin for his people, driven to the edge by famine and hardship within the valleys they did not truly understand. In turn, the forest spirit demanded respect for the natural lands, that the delicate balance be kept so that the wilderness may survive and thrive. Finally, a truce was forged between the two's shared understanding. Cernaros would provide for the people, ensuring that they would find themselves with game, shelter and resources aplenty, so long as Corentin vowed that his people would treat the land with the reverence it deserved; ensuring preservation by respect, by elegance and by grace.
The pact was sealed when the sprig of Eirlys was planted. From it, the great Medwyn Tree grew; a soaring sentinel that stretched far taller and stronger than any that came before it. Its bark shimmered with the Santel's silvered sheen, its leaves humming with life aplenty. From that day on, the Medwyn Tree stood as a symbol of the pact. A living reminder of the harmony between the people and nature. Beneath the protection of its ever sprawling branches did Corentin's people flourished, building livelihoods that honoured the land rather than exploit it.
As Corentin rose to become the first Patriarch of House ad Medwyn, he made sure that the pact would endure for generations to come. In time, the tree grew to represent more than just that pact from many moons ago: It became the embodiment of the values that would shape the family. Stewardship of the land, reverence for the arcane and divine, and an unyielding commitment towards finding understanding before violence. Even as they rose to prominence within the Regalian Empire, the story of their origins was never far. The Medwyn Tree remains at the heart of their ancestral lands, ever standing as a living beacon of their legacy and a reminder to strive for balance and harmony in the face of adversity.
