Unable to shake the dream, he stood and cast his eyes towards his lost quarry. The possibly injured doe would have to wait. One did not simply have a dream within the Silverwood and carry on with their day.
The Silverwood stood as a forest of sky reaching silverbark sequoia whose grey trunks grew thirty feet around and played tricks on the eye to appear as silver as a swordsman’s blade when the light hit them just right. This part of the Elvan lands lay far southeast beyond Lath’limnieir’s Wall and the Greenwood Dale, deeply entrenched in a winding valley that had remained protected from the ever expanding dreams of man. The Elvan thought themselves safe there. They were supposed to be safe there.
Hands on his hips, Serenthel took in a deep breath of loamy air scented by tree sap, dark earth and a nearby stream. The breeze tugged through his auburn hair, lifting it from his shoulders. His nose wrinkled at an unexpected sour note to the wind and he glowered in the direction from whence it came. The herd. Perhaps he was too late and the doe had died. With a disappointed sigh, he gathered his pack and resolved himself to sending a scout to retrieve the poor creature’s corpse so he could at least investigate the cause.
It had been a hard winter, he reminded himself. The doe could’ve been sickened from malnourishment or the infected bite of a wolf hunt not so perfectly evaded. There would be little good in fearing the worst without seeing it with his own eyes. Carnath and its blight, after all, lay a long journey north and beyond the wall.
Even if the blight said to be plaguing the northernmost kingdom of man was truly as bad as the rumors led him to believe, to think it could pass the wall’s protective wards raised more concerns than were prudent without evidence. The troubles of man, he knew, had a bothersome habit of spreading to other kingdoms like wildfire, and with them came the fear and ignorance that could upend entire nations. It had been nigh on a thousand years since the last great helyn’tir, but like the trees surrounding him, the memory of the Elvan people remained long enough to remember it well enough to be worried. The memory of man was short, however, and their kind seemed doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again.
With a high whistle, Serenthel called to his friend and walked towards the river where he knew his friend would be waiting. His friend came to greet him a small distance from the riverbank and gave a low rumbling call and a shake of velvet covered antlers. Serenthel patted the elk stag’s thickly furred neck and received a customary nuzzle in return.
“Vastha lythel, Forfolyn,” Serenthel greeted and checked the loomed cloth riding blanket draped over Forfolyn’s strong back. The stag stared off to the forest behind and dug one front hoof against the earth. Serenthel gave his friend a pat of reassurance. “No, I did not find the doe, my friend, but other troubles must direct our path now. I have had a dream.”
Forfolyn turned his large head back to look at Serenthel, as if understanding those words and their urgent nature. In Forfolyn’s large brown eyes, Serenthel saw the wisdom of the forest reflected. “Do not worry so, my friend,” Serenthel assured as he lifted himself gracefully onto the elk’s back. “We will go and see our Mother. She will know what to do.”
Forfolyn set off along the riverbank without even the slightest nudge to his ribs from Serenthel. They’d been friends for onwards of twenty summers, the Mother’s magic allowing the elk to age at a slower pace in keeping with Serenthel’s own natural progression. Forfolyn ran with the vigor of an elk a quarter his age, and Serenthel had last year concluded the rights of Hyn after reaching the age of thirty summers, passing from youth’s sweet embrace to a role requiring more responsibility. Appearing no more than sixteen in the years of man, Serenthel knew he had barely scratched the beginning of life’s journey. He had over a century and a half of growth yet before reaching Hynna’durai, the age when you chose to lay down life’s burdens and rejoin the land which birthed you, or to become a voice of the land for the people, like the Mother.
Of which option Serenthel would choose when he got there, he had not decided. As it was, he believed the same as his kin: the journey, and not the destination, was what mattered most. And now that he had been gifted a dream, where that journey may take him held uncertain but wondrous promise. A dream, as rare as they had become and even as frightening as his had been, were often the start of great adventures as retold and shared in memories passed down from one generation to the next. Portents of great upheaval and change, yes, but did not all great adventures begin with a great change?
Serenthel did his best to cast off his excitement and maintain a calm presence as he entered the Mother’s Grove. He nodded to the sentries posted in front of two large silverbark trees whose arching bowers served as the entryway. Built along these trees in an ancient technique that could support structures without harming the trees themselves, stairs rounded upwards into landings, communal houses and gathering places. Rope bound wood plank bridges stretched across from tree to tree at dizzying heights. Everbright lanterns lit the way, their soft white glow dotting the tree
