The day was breaking in the realm of Norlotha. The sun beginning to rise in the village of kern; its rays seeping through the morning mist, bounding over the rustic wooden buildings and waking the woodland creatures from their rest, and with the song of the curbird, the scuttle of the horned gnome and the groaning call of the angel frog, the villagers of kern also began their day.
Kern was quite a large village on the island of skeros, it's people known to outsiders as 'wildfolk' (or officially 'skerans'). As a people, their lives were well protected against the ways of the mainlanders, as life to them was quite enough without the noise and mess of industry, war and conquest.
It was a peaceful place and a peaceful life. But of course to maintain this life the skerans had to know just how to defend their island, and that they did.
Though rich with craftsmen, hunters, tailors, cobblers, and all sorts of hard working folk, many of the islanders were trained from a young age to fight and a good few were soldiers, armed with some of the fiercest weapons in the realm.
Which brings us to TharĂĽn, the blacksmith.
Inside a round, stilted hut, lit only by a fire in the centre of the room, a young man pulled a glowing blade from hot coals, striking it with a hammer.
Sweat beading from his weathered skin, he blasted away at the weapon, with concentration and conviction in his eyes, an expert smith.
TharĂĽn was well respected among the other villagers as not only a skilled craftsman, but the son of the great healer GarĂĽn; and of course as a man that would help and protect each and every one of his people.
He stood at around six and a half feet, an average height for the skerans. His hair an almost white grey and his skin pale. He was fitted with modest clothes; clinging to his broad shoulders, dirtied by his hard work in the forge.
Before TharĂĽn could bring his hammer down again, the door abruptly swung open.
"TharĂĽn! A letter!"
There stood a short, stout and rather sweaty young man with emerald hair and a now quite red face. It was Bryffin, TharĂĽns young apprentice, holding open the door, trying to catch his breath.
TharĂĽn placed his hammer aside and cast the unfinished blade to quench, steam hissing from a large, iron bucket.
"You mean… THE letter?!" He said eagerly.
"Yes! Your mother! Look, read it!" Bryffin rushed to meet TharĂĽns hand with the letter from his apron pocket. The envelope was worn, and had a wax seal stamped upon it. It was addressed to "my dearest son, TharĂĽn".
A feeling of dread and anticipation boiled in his belly.
"Seven years Bryf'..." He unfolded the worn piece of paper.
"It's been seven years .." said TharĂĽn as he started to read.
Silence filled the room, all that could be heard was the crackling of the forge. TharĂĽns face dropped.
"Well? What is it sir?!" Bryffin whispered.
"It .." Tharün stammered, fighting back a well of emotion…
"It says 'Leave with the chosen. Find me at the clearing in the forest of souls. The island is in great danger.'"
TharĂĽn flung open the door of his workshop and scrambled down its steps, barely touching the ground as he darted onward into the village.
Rushing past his fellow skerans, most of whom looked confused and shocked at his haste, as he whipped between people in conversation, jumped over market tables and dodged through the crowds. He had someone that he needed to see, who's words couldn't be more important. Farlön the Eldar.
TharĂĽn arrived at a shack, clad in runes and hanging stones, the roof quilted with grass from the ground right over. He paused for a moment to catch his breath; and proceeded on.
Bashing his first against the wooden door he shouted,
"Farlön! A letter! It's my mother!"
A grunt is heard through the door and quick footsteps approach.
The door swung open, clattering through chimes that rang out and before Tharün stood the village Eldar himself. Farlön.
"My boy! Is it true?"
An old, bulky man looked up at TharĂĽn, his round, aged features peeking through a scraggly grey beard. He hangs onto his ancient staff, with beautiful, precious crystals embedded in the tip.
"Yes! It's got to be! I mean, it sounds ridiculous but its definitely her!"
Farlön nodded along.
"It's a warning, and I think the island might be in danger. I need your guidance, please!" TharĂĽn said, his breath short.
"Come in my boy, and calm yourself down. Let's see what light this old wizard can shed on this letter…"
** talk about wizards and magic ***
He led TharĂĽn through the door and sat him on a stool by his table.
Atop the table were maps, drawings and stones, strewn chaotically across the surface. A full cup of steaming tea slid across the table and arrived in front of TharĂĽn.
"Drink. And tell me what the letter says" said Farlön.
TharĂĽn sipped from the cup, instantly feeling a sense of calm break through his anxiety.
"It says leave with the chosen. I'm guessing that means at the festival in a few days, to leave with the young students to the mainland. But why? I'm not meant for that! I'm just a blacksmith!"
"Hmm.." grunted Farlön. "None of us know what we're meant for. What else did it say?" Farlön began to pace, looking up at one of many bookshelves he had in the shack.
"Find me at the clearing in the forest of souls… what is that?" He takes another sip.
Farlön plucked a seemingly old book with a tattered green cover from the shelf and opened it onto the table, flicking through the pages to arrive at a map.
"Ha!" He yelled.
"You see, in the mainland of Norlotha, the four kingdoms have been warring with each other for hundreds of years, but when they meet in the clearing…" his boney, wrinkled finger slid over the rough parchment.
" …all past quarrels are to be ignored. They meet there to speak of peace. But that hasn't happened for some time." Farlön scratched his beard.
"Right… well it goes on to say that the island is in trouble.. is it?"
Farlön stood up, grasping at his stick. "Who knows?! But a warning like this can't be taken for granted." He paused …
"The seeing stones!" Farlön reached into his robe and pulled from it a pouch.
He cleared the stones and jewels from the map on the table, drawn with symbols and diagrams over it; and held the pouch above his head.
"These ancient stones will tell me the path that is laid before you…" his eyes glazed over a glowing blue and he began to speak in Eldar; an ancient language known only to older generations of mages.
"Fulfgarn, Elfempesh, Iskarion, Gemselsiar."
He tipped the pouch and white stones fell out, bouncing onto the map. They sat for a second before glowing the same blue as Farlöns eyes.
He looked down at them.
"What is it? Am I to leave the island?" TharĂĽn held his breath.
Farlöns eyes return to their usual green.
"The stones have spoken destiny's intent. A chaos alignment in the stones only tells me that your future has been shifted."
TharĂĽn paused for the old man to elaborate.
"So yes, you'll leave the island. But not alone. You'll have to choose two of your fellow skerans to go with you, as the road you walk mustn't be taken alone."
TharĂĽn stands.
"You haven't got anything stronger to drink, have you?"