Taurandir

Elven tracker once of Wyrm Wood
Onen i-Estel Dove, u-chebin estel anim.

In the age before the scourge the Wyrm Wood was a vast beautiful place, a myriad of trees, plants and animals that lived in harmony with the elves that dwelled there.
Taurandir loved the forest, so alive, so much freedom, he could almost sense the life of it around him beating in tune with his own heart. Some of the elders wondered about the young elf, who spent so much time away from the villages and peoples, following trails and tracks across the wilds of the wood. So in his twenty first year, the year of naming, the elders gave him his Cuio'or, his gift of life and truename, Taurandir, the name of his adulthood.
Only one seemed to be able to speak to the him, a young elven maid called Dove who had chosen the path of the beastmaster and through the few times that the two spoke each felt a closeness developing, a friendship so close they oft felt they knew what the other would say or do... or even where they might be.

Wandering the edge of the forest one evening Taurandir found a strange print that looked more bone than foot. Curious he followed the trail as it wound around the edge of the wood, as if sensing the life within. The grass and plants around the tracks brown, decaying, the scent in the air one of death.
Then ahead he saw it, squatting in a small stream slowly extracting the contents of a fawns chest, spreading it amoungst the bubbling brook as the hapless animal weakly struggled on, oblivious to the wound that should surely have killed it. The thing was unlike anything that lived in the forest, or that he'd even seen, a body of bone and a head of blood red tentacles. He stood frozen for a timeless moment, the image of the hideous creature forever burnt into his memory. Then as the fawn gave the final kick of it's life it turned and looked at him with the empty sockets it had in place of eyes, never had he felt so exposed, so empty, so vunerable... Then with a hiss, but how? - it had no mouth, it was gone... bounding out across the grasslands and out of sight before he could even think to move...
Days pass, and his dreams become haunted with memories of the creature and its grinning visage. Now whispers of more of these things come to the ears of the villagers and he learnt what he had seen, a horror, a creature of fear and terror that feeds on the pain and sorrow of it's victims. More and more of these horrors seem to be wandering the lands now with the rise of the magick in the lands, but noone seems to know how to stop them.

As the reports of the horrors grow more frequent and dangerous the spellweavers of the wood began to weave magical defenses to the wood, to build a great living wooden Kaer, a haven from the horrors for the elves until the time of great magick has passed and the horrors have gone again.
But something in Taurandir's troubled mind told him that wood alone, even with the great weavings that are being bound to it, will not be enough. Tales speak of stone Kaers being build by humans and other races outside the wood; and his heart heavy he spoke to Dove, of his fears for the wood... he cannot bring himself to say how scared he is that anything might happen to her, but he begged her to come with him. But she refused, her faith in the spellweavers unshaken and the two part, after a troubled and awkward silence between the both of them after their final argument about the safety of the Wyrm Wood in the coming days...
Taurandir has no doubt in his mind, the bone face still haunts his dreams, the mocking laugh and the power of it's gaze over him beyond his ability to resist. He is one of the last to enter the stone city after a long and dangerous trek across the lands outside the wood, the horrors are more frequent now, and on more than one occasion he was lucky to escape with his life as he hid from them at night and traveled as fast as he dared during the day. The city is vast, built into a mountain with stone and spell. What the humans and dwarves have constructed is impressive certainly, he hopes even this will hold against the terror he has seen. His last sight of the world before the great gates close is the sun setting over a low mountain range, hiding Wyrm Wood from his gaze, the whole sky blood red.

Once inside the enormity of what has happened strikes him, he has to survive in this vast maze of tunnels and caverns until the horrors have gone, a few speak in hushed whispers that it may be decades before the horrors leave... others say centuries, some think even longer.
Within two days he is physically sick, his condition mystifies the dwarves and humans there, but he knows what it is; the whole place is so dead... so cold and lifeless, the only plants vast caverns of cultured fungi and algae which pass for food for the people there and the few livestock graze on. He spends as much time there as he can, and slowly recovers but he still longs for the green and bountiful world of the forest he left.
Two long years later, the stone walls seeming almost a prison more than a haven now, a voice speaks in his mind, the voice of the creature... he knows it is that which is speaking to him, even all he has ever heard is the hiss of it before it ran. It speaks in his mind of the lush green world above, telling him tales of how it has bloomed, left to grow unchecked, he shuts his mind to the tales it weaves, in the long silent days as the pass by one by one...
Two more months of constant visions of a world returned to nature pass by, the horror haunting his every moment now, he longs to go outside, he walk through the untouched lands outside...
He decided to go, to leave the Kaer and go outside, better to die in a world of green than let his body and soul rot in a rock coffin such as this, so he slipped to the gates past the guards, his mind filled with visions of trees and plants. The guards did not notice the elf as he struggled with the vast wheel that opened the doors, the designers never imagining that someone from inside would ever wish to open them unless it was safe to do so...

With a noise like the splintering of the mountain itself the door opened just a crack... he peeks through the tiny gap as with a triumphant hiss the horror slips through the crack in the door with several more of its kind, Taurandirs eye sees a world turned half to desert, the ground cracked and nearly devoid of anything living... his mind and heart scream as the horrors rampage into the Kaer, the shocked guards overcome and killed in moments.
He turned quickly back to the gate wheel as they vanished deeper inside the Kaer, turning it back slowly the gate snaps shut again, denying entrance to any more of the horrific creatures.
Screams and cries, of men and things far darker echoed up the tunnels to his ears as he fell to his knees and wept, wept for what he had done and what he had seen, but deeper within the Kaer the horrors meet a determined group of spellweavers and swordsmasters who have hastily grouped together to destroy the invaders, and after a long and bloody struggle where they loose more than half their number they succeed.
When they return to the gates they find the remains of the guards and the elf, weeping quietly by their bodies. Not sure what exactly has happened they treated his wounds and buried their dead. Taurandir's mind recovers slowly now that the haunting taunts of the horror have gone, but now the deaths of all those the horrors have killed sicken him to the point where he hides in the caverns of algae away from any who might find him...

Time passes...

As he reached the top of the rise the forest finally came into view, the trees somehow more sharp and angular than he remembered. Taurandir shrugged to himself and continued to walk towards the treeline, a lot could change in four hundred years, doubtless even the great wood could have seen great changes as a result of the scourge. But as he reached the blackened shrubs that marked the edge of the wasteland and the beginning of the forest the differences became more and more apparent, thorns sprouted from the vegetation, angular unnatural looking spikes that poked from every piece of greenery in sight, sap weeped from the plants where these wooden knives pierced their surface, as if the plants were crying, or bleeding.

Blinking to clear his one remaining eye, the other long ago been replaced by a emerald gem, a magical charm that improved his already remarkable ability with the bow, he scanned the trees again, scarce believing what he saw, the once proud and beautiful forestland a maze of alien looking spikes and needles. He swallowed, his mouth dry, he had been prepared for changes to the land, devastation or even the destruction of the wood, but nothing like this. Even after he had travelled for nearly half an hour through the wood his eyes still strained to see a single untainted plant amongst the web of splinters but to no avail, even the flowers, blossoming in a myriad of colours around him like a explosion of paints amongst the greenery, had not survived; their gentle petals bent under the weight of the crude wooden daggers that sprouted from them.

The hour of travel it took him to reach the settlement seemed an age of walking compared to his fortnights travel across the wastes, and he felt a lump rise in his throat as a similar horrific sight greeted him. The people too, it seemed had not escaped whatever had happened here, suspicious eyes looked at him from the grand tree houses as he stared, unable to comprehend what he saw, the people mirroring the plight of the plants, their skin pieced with cruel thorns marring the gentle beauty that was hallmark of the elven people.
"Dove..." he croaked, his mouth dry, as he saw her step through a nearby doorway and walk towards him, her graceful steps and face so familiar, her skin too riddled with thorns, from head to toe.
"So," she almost spat "You return from the outlands now the scourge has past."
"Dove, I... I..." he stuttered, unable to believe the changes in her.
"Don't even try to understand," she cut him off, "you are no longer one of us, this is Blood Wood now," she continued, lifting her head up hauntily in contempt. "We have survived the scourge despite your reservations and we are a stronger people for it. This place is no longer your home. Leave now."

Taurandir hung his head remembering begging her to come with him to the Kaer outside the wood, where he was to spend the scourge, hoping, praying that he had been wrong, that the great Elven forest would survive the sundering of dimensions as the horrific astral beings ravaged the land.
So many years of waiting, the only thing that had kept him sane in the ill-lit caverns of the giant underground Kaer had been his thoughts of her, tens of decades had passed but he had recognised her immediately, even after the terrible change that had come over her.
He stumbled away from the village, dragging his feet through the rough undergrowth towards the edge of the forest, the plants catching at his clothes and skin, tearing and ripping. He ignored them, tears weeping from his eye, his mind a jumble of emotions and pain reeling from what he had seen. His hopes shattered, his life feeling so empty, so cold, so alone.

Once outside the forest he turned to look at the trees one last time, his mind still reeling from all he had seen. The forest seemed so foreign to him now, so unfriendly and cold, an involuntary shudder shook him as he held his gaze for a few more seconds before turning to walk away into the wasteland the brown desolate lands seeming to mirror the feelings inside him. Looking to the horizon he scanned around, hoping for a glimpse, a sliver of green amongst the unending earth, but there was none.
Tilting his head back he looked to the skies as the sun cast warm, gentle rays over his face, clouds hung above him like giant balls of cotton, slowly moving their way across the vast sea of blue above him. The first step away from the forest felt like his legs were made of lead, the second scarce better, still he continued to stumble slowly away from the place he had once called home, into the wilderness not knowing or caring where he was going...

Time passes...

Another forest, leagues from the other, unfamiliar trees and people are a welcome relief to the painful memories in his mind... and that is all that remains now of that place for him, all that remains of her, save for the bow. The bow, a clothyard longbow that she gave him as he camped the first night away from the Bloodwood, on his way away from it, never back. The bow, like the wood now, is covered in cruel wooden barbs all over it, the message with it, 'Understand with this.'.
More time, lonelyness, a lack of purpose as he wanders the woods save to gather food that he might eat and water that he might drink. The bow seems to speak to him in his dreams, whispering memories of the wood, he is tempted to throw it away, but then that is all he has now, the memories hazy from shock, perhaps it can help...

The thread ritual took longer than he expected, the binding of one's essence to an object is a long, tiring task which enables understanding, oneness and use of items that are bound. The thread hangs like a iron chain from his neck after the ritual... so weak, so much blood for the ritual, only the bloodcharm saved his life afterwards, as the new day rises so does the first pain, a dull itching in his palms, as the first thorns sprout he realises with horror what he has truely done, bound an item of the bloodwood to his essence, and the ritual of thorns is burnt deep into all the branches there, including the tree where this bow came from...

Pain... pain like the stabbing of a thousand hot knives all over his body, the pain so bad that even the sleeping drugs cannot make him rest and no others seem to have any effect either... So much pain... life like this is worse than death... he decides to end it, rather than live in this waking hell. With a rope and a tree he prepares to finish the pain forever... so close... he ties the knot and prepares the noose, but words speak in his mind, faint words from someone, from nowhere, or perhaps a whisper of sanity from his past, telling him to stand up, to live however he can.
The words slap him out of the delirum, and with time he sleeps again, the pain bareable now through its almost routine feeling... it dulls his mind... weakens him... as if it is all he has ever known. Now the drugs help, just a bit, so that he can run without tripping and fire the bow, that bow, without too much concentration, but the weeks past like treacle as he searches for a way to undo the blood ritual that binds him to the bow...

Months of searching, months of the continuous gnawing pain all over, burning into him every waking moment, now it burns into his dreams too, the bow whispering faint barely heard words to him at night, more than once he wakes up crying, knowing not why, tears of blood.
Faint rumours of a mage who runs the Elven kingdom in this forest is all he's found, and his heart feels as heavy as his mud sodden boots as he treks this way and that through the trees and trails of the Silvermoon forest.

Then one day a new hope enters his life, a young healer called Arrion asks him about his thorns, not fear, no hatred, just sympathy, using arts he barely understands she halts the thorns growth, and over several days only weeping wounds remain, the pain now just an itching, gnawing all over his skin... it seems so long he can barely remember a life before the pain, so much he owes to this young lady he feels he owes his life, his soul to her for freedom from the agony.
He throws the bow away, into a river to be washed, he hopes, far away, but the link between him and it remains and the further away it gets the weaker he becomes, and still it whispers in his mind at nights calling him to him, he can almost feel the part of him that is trapped inside it calling him back to it, the memories of the pain and the strength of his new friend helping him resist its summons.
But the lady Arrion has a dark past as well, brought to light in brief flashes of memory that wake her screaming from sleep. He sympathises with her and helps as he can, but the haunting failures and pain of his own past gnaw at his heart as he does what he can for the young healer, even as a man from her past, wielding strange control over her by voice alone appears, Meridian.
She has a suggestion to his problems, to weave another thread to a bow she has given him, perhaps the ritual will unravel the threads that hang from him still, connecting him to the bow... or perhaps not, the words and pain of the last ritual are still clear in his mind... it is not something he would forget, the words still clear in his mind...

Bele'ambar elleth, ani'agar im'or
'Gol anim o' meleglain na hithlain y' morgul.
Hin nirnaeth an' fladrif nallon
le im onen
an rem anim an anim cu.
a'gurth y' cuio met'uva cuio.
Bele'ambar lhaw' anim aerlinn.

After some thought and her change of mind, where she argues against it, he decides against not to weave another thread, he is not sure he could manage to live with another at the moment, weakened enough as he is, with part of his essence already locked inside the bow of thorns. For now he decides to give blood to his bloodcharm again, so he can use it if the need arises, his mind too occupied with worrying about the lady Arrion and the man who is haunting her; the bow has lapsing into the back of his mind... despite its constant attempts to draw him back to it.
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