The Forest Keeper

The caravan stopped at the edge of the wood to make a case for the night. The stars shown overhead twinkling about the dark expense above. Fires were started. Tents were constructed. A soft cold wind swept through the camp, causing the flames of the campfires to jump and spark, casting strange shadows throughout the camp. On the edge of the Jasol forest, the merchants readied themselves for a good night’s sleep. Laughter died and sleep overtook them. Silence embraced the camp.

Until somewhere from deep within the forest a lone shrill howl filled the night air. The night watchman stirred and focused on this sounds drifting from the forest. Again, the lonely note echoed from the forest. The watchman moved quickly and silently into a tent, his heart pounding inside him. He resentfully woke his master and told him about the noise outside. Bleary eyed and quite confused, the head of the merchants rose quickly from his mattress and stumbled outside, following the watchman. The howl rose again from the forest, much louder and closer than it had ever been. If the merchant’s eyes grew wide in the fading moonlight nobody could tell. He swayed as he stood, as if he wasn’t confident in his balance, listening to the haunting note. In all of his travels along the edge of this wood, he could not remember such an occurrence. He shivered when the note sounded again.

The watchman had stirred the coals in the fire and started a small blaze to shed some light among the limbs and boughs overhanging the campground. A chill raced down his spine. Then, he came to his senses—of course it wasn’t real. He figured he dreamt or the wind played some sort of trick among the trees of the forest. He told the guard to dismiss the sounds but to keep a watchful eye on the woods. Thieves had been known to reside in the forests. Yawning, he stumbled back to the tent and a good night’s sleep. The howls subsided and all was silent.

The Search for the Great River: Part I

"I will find it..." answered the elderly man.

"You cannot hunt Sanyx anymore...how do you intend to find the 'Great River' if you pass through the Western Plains--it is deep in Sanyx territory!" one of the villagers snapped. The people gathered around him nodded and grunted in approval.

"I shall not fail!" he stated, reaffirming his position.

"This is madness...you cannot be sure it even exists!" another objector claimed. "Besides, who will teach our sons while we hunt? Who will manage the affairs of our village as you do so well? Listen...you are of more value here in the village than wandering around the Western Plains, chasing a vision." Bursts of "yes" and "answer that?" erupted from the crowd, until the old man raised his hand, silencing the crowd.

"I must go..." he began, but a loud voice interupted him.

"He is mad...leave him to his crazy ideas," quipped one of the more prominent Sanyx hunters. "He has nothing to offer us now. Let us concern ourselves with him no longer." With a final sneer, the hunter turned and walked away.

At that the crowd began to disperse, leaving the elderly man alone with his thoughts and his pack in the town center. Whispers floated around the town as people passed each other, glancing nervously at him. At last, the old man rose and strode resolutely out of the village and down the forest path that led to the open plains and westward to the Great River.

Of Mollocks

The barren Xali Desert loomed to the north. The unending horizon of the sea stretched southward. Behind them to the west lay their home cities of Mizeroth and Paneroth. Before them lay the unexplored southeastern range: the Qara Mountains. The colonists moved eastward along the Dalan River Plain. The Kerean Post, an ancient watchtower built on a small mesa, served as the center of their winter encampment. But now, as the air warmed and spring blew life into the landscape, the colonists packed their possessions, ready to venture onward, past the reach of common civilization. None had ventured past the Qara Mountains, nor crossed the Xali Desert from the north. They sought a promised land. Two thousand settlers tore down tents and loaded wagons, beginning to filter eastward from the Kerean Post. Fifty horsemen accompanied the settlers to scout the terrain and protect them from the unknown dangers of their migration.

As the colonists began to move towards the snow-capped mountains, a bitter, chilled wind rushed down from the mountains to meet them. A foul whisper rode the frozen breeze. The horses became jittery and the nervousness spread like a disease among the settlers. Then, as suddenly as it started, the wind ceased. But it seemed to have summoned clouds. The air grew cold as storm clouds choked off the living giving light of the sun. The darkness enveloped them and their hearts. Some of the settlers began to speak of return to Kerean Post. Discontent settled in. Flakes of snow soon filled the air. The wind returned with a renewed ferocity and the colonists braced themselves for a bitter storm. Soon, the snow built on the ground and the procession stopped to weather the spring flurry.

Then, the ambush began. Five dark forms appeared in the distance, obscured by the falling snow. They grew larger, but no clearer. The colonists huddled together and the men grabbed any sort of weapon and moved to the edges of the circle with the riders circling around the settlers. The soldiers called to each other in the blinding storm, relaying orders and directions. The dark shadows now grew darker and larger as they approached. The horses' restlessness intensified and the men blinked in the blinding snow. Women snuggled against carts with whimpering children, wrapping themselves with extra blankets.

The lead silhouette passed through the veil of snow and gained texture and form. Leathery gray skin seeped from beneath the rusted iron breastplate the beast wore. It charged the settlers, lumbering towards them on two elephant-like legs. Standing the height of six men, its gaze fell on the defending soldiers. Two fiery eyes glared from behind the spiked war-helmet it wore. It clutched a blade the size of two men in its hands and it lifted it above its head with ease. A jet of steam blew out from its flattened nostrils. Four others followed it in the attack. It bellowed a war-call and swung its weapon when it came up on the first defenses of the colonists.

The Black Abyss I

The young man traveled down the edge of the escarpment. It was a thick, vegetated valley, its slope steep and perilous. He slid past trees and through the underbrush. He descended rapidly, forgoing any pretense of caution. At times, he could slow himself only by sliding through thickets. He placed his hopes of descending alive on his reaction time and availability of any roots or branches before various cliffs and boulders. And so he slipped and slid down the steep face of the Green Plateau. Near the bottom, his luck ran out and he plummeted the last twenty feet to the forest floor.

Bruised and aching, he embraced the leaf-covered ground and let out a sigh of relief. He had accomplished his first goal of his quest. He lay as the fading afternoon sunlight abandoned the forest. The chill of the oncoming night finally prodded him to rise and seek shelter. He searched in the thickening darkness and found a suitable depression beneath the roots of a giant deciduous tree. The stars began to shine; a few of the sparkling lights filtered through the leaves and branches of the forest canopy. The boy gathered some leaves and formed a suitable bed for the night. Stretching out, he pondered his journey. Everyone who lived in the Emerald City had seen the Black Abyss, a shadow lying to the northeast of the Green Plateau. Yet, none had crossed the miserable marshes and ascended the ominous summit of Mt. Dulgar. He knew his quest and decided to lay his pains and worries aside for the bliss of slumber. He drifted off into the world of dreams. Silence consumed the forest. Night pulled its curtains on consciousness.

Sanyx Hunt

The wind whipped across the plains and snatched at the hunting party's cloaks. The man leading the pack stooped low to the ground as they came to a small ridgeline. He lowered his ear close to the short tough grass, which stood resiliently against the ever-present wind. Only the hollow echoing of the wind could be heard. The rest of the men stood silently gazing over the endless, grassy hills. The fall winds were dry and cool. Leaves and debris swirled and floated in the current of the wind, traveling westward across the plains. The leader rose and nodded. They resumed their trek, altering their course slightly northward. They marched silently onward, through gullies, over ridges, and deserted flats. They navigated the ocean of grass in search of their prey.

Today's hunt was not necessarily for food. Nor was it for tools. Vengeance superseded any of these. A Sanyx pack had ambushed the workers of a wheat field on the edge of the forest. The giant predators destroyed the farm and carried off several women the evening before last. The village elder now led the expedition, tracking the fearsome beasts to exact justice upon them. They were close now, the elder knew. The group jogged over yet another ridgeline and spread into a line at the top. Below them lay the Sanyx, basking in the afternoon sun. The men raised their spears and formed a semicircle about the basin where the giant cats lay.

Finally, one of the beasts caught sight of the hunting party and rose to its feet, snarling a warning to the other two Sanyx. The elder spotted the male...a distinctive stripe ran down its back. It was the male they would slay--for the females would retreat at his death. The two men standing beside him readied their bows. Sensing an attack, the male Sanyx, standing the height of two men at the shoulder moved forward, crouching low to the ground. The village elder raised his hand and his men pointed their spears forward. The archers drew their bows. The Sanyx stared at his attackers with unblinking eyes and crept ever closer. The females separated and came to face the men on the right and left flanks. Still hanging in the air, the village elders hand waited. The bloodlust sparkled in the deep yellow of the Sanyx's eyes and the hatred burned in the souls of the hunting party.

For a moment, everything froze except the wind. It was the silence before the storm. The hand hovered in the air. The predator crouched, ready to spring. The men stared held their pikes ready. Then, the hand dropped and a blur of motion followed. Arrows flew and struck. A blur of springing muscle exploded into the village elder. Pikes thrust forward. Blood spilt. Shouts and snarls filled the air. Then, as quickly as it started, the battle was over. Men leaned on their spears and sighed. A form disappeared over the next ridgeline. The village elder stood over the dead male Sanyx, weeping over his fallen brother. The hunt ended.

A Call to War

The frozen winds swirled about the messenger. Winter set its fury upon the slinking form. The messenger was wrapped in a fur cloak, trying desperately to hurry through the blowing snow-drifts. Finally, it reached the black door nearly buried under the ever-accumulating snow. It slipped inside, relieved to arrive at its destination. After brushing the snow off its cloak and shaking the last chill off its body, the messenger proceeded down the torch lit stone tunnel and then entered into the barracks.

A roaring fire bellowed in the middle of the room, casting strange shadows on the walls, its smoke rising up a small, round exit-hole in the ceiling. The dim light played on scaled faces and dark eyes. Strewn about the room, soldiers quietly whispered about the newly arrived messenger or pretended not to notice. Some slept, wrapped in the thin fur cloaks. None seemed ready for war...much less an invasion. Axes and bows rested on hangars along the stone walls, while their owners sipped on watered-down stew and bet on the news the messenger carried. The reptilian face searched the room quickly, sweeping back and forth. Its forked tongue tasted the air.

The warchief turned from his seat next to the fire and rose to greet the messenger. "What news from Csii?" the deep raspy voice demanded. The thick lizard-like snout wrinkled in anticipation and the dark eyes gazed at the visitor relentlessly. The warchief stood an impressive four feet taller than the other reptilian warriors and his looping steel armor was covered in parts by a giant fur cloak woven from a Sanyx hide. He carried a giant halberd, an axe-spear, at his side, and he fingered it as the messenger began to speak.

"The Council, led by the Chosen, declared war on the Ashtonian Empire...you are to march south to the Plains of Raida within the week. There our battalions will merge and the Chosen themselves will lead our assault on the Empire. General Halin will take control of our ground troops and General Kalin will lead our airborne and archer divisions." The Masok bowed slightly, but the warchief's eyes showed no sign of change. A short, eerie silence enveloped the barracks. The warcheif opened his mouth and let the silence linger. His tongue flickered into the air, tasting the tension present. Then a raspy sigh broke the silence and the giant Masok warrior turned to face his troops. "You heard him....TO WAR!!!" he bellowed, raising his halberd high in the stuffy air. The soldiers were instantly transformed. They immediately stood and echoed his cry. "TO WAR!!!" they yelled. The messenger disappeared back outside into the raging blizzard, journeying back to Csii, as raging battle cries emerged from the underground fortress.