Chapter I.
The trees hummed whimsically as the lone figure followed the trail. Birds and leaves and crawling critters all sang their silent songs–instruments in an orchestra devised by Nature–bringing about a unique harmony to that wooded landscape.
Kasavir the Bard allowed his eyes to roll over his surroundings, as his lips moved seemingly of their own accord, producing a tune which was barely audible, yet it appeared to suit his fancy just fine. Subtly it rose and fell, as if it might have been played for dozens who gathered about him. Yet it was just the man against the forest–the Forest of Remembrance.
Though the shaded trees filtered in little light from the sun above (as it was, in fact, mid-day), still they compensated for this as they brought about their own luminescence. Perhaps it was the magic in which they had evolved over eons’ time, or mayhap instead it was just a gift from the gods since the Dawn of Creation. Regardless, from each canopy of leaves there came a sparkling iridescence, a memory of the world in its infancy, when so much more had been isolated in blissful ignorance.
So the bard continued, muttering his little tunes and counter-charms. All the while the land around him deepened in mood, before finally the sun rested low along the horizon.
It was during this time that Kasavir had parted a short ways to the side, gathering a small bundle of firewood–just enough to last the night–and erected a spit of badger over it. He turned his meal lightly, all the while occasionally busying himself with the lyre which lay on his lap. There he played many a song that the world had forgotten–tales of when the land was once young, and not even humans had walked those ardent fields and forests and jungles.
Though the clearing in which he sat was indeed a small one, it gave him just the view he needed so that he could marvel at the scant few stars overhead. They winked graciously in turn, and even they seemed to weep at his musical words, as the occasional fallen star fell thither.
After some time the minstrel noticed that there was a sound in the tree limbs just above him. He lifted a piece of burning firewood, which illuminated the creature that looked on him with a dubious appetite.
Evidently it was frightened that he had noticed it, but Kasavir did not flinch as he spoke.
“Ah! A nightwretch has neared my camp. Prithee come closer; for then I might have a companion to share my songs with. I have food, also, if you are feeling hungry.”
The nightwretch did not immediately respond. Its eyes shone with a malice that was not the wont of normal creatures. “Hist!” it spoke. “Tonight I crave human flesh! And you look to be my next meal, as you are lost and without a blade.”
The minstrel chuckled. “My dear fellow, that is no way to greet a stranger on the road. Come! Listen to my songs and relax by the fire!”
The beast was about to leap and strike with its twisted claws, all before the man muttered his song. The notes drifted about him–a shield against the nightwretch’s malice–all before passing to it, and its demeanor suddenly slackened.
The tune of which he sang was of the Old World, and how in the first fires of creation Darkness had been a key factor. For what light can exist without shadow? What life can grow if there is not void? For though many fear it, the bard had heard its somber song, one which spoke of peace and solemnity, a tune which we all must echo in our final days.
The nightwretch appeared deeply moved by Kasavir’s rhyme, and so its appetite was slaked for the moment, and it knelt on its haunches and spoke in a wavering voice.
“You are a fellow brother of the night! For there are few who know such a melody. Yet you speak it as if you were raised by the Shadow itself. And even if I tried, I could never feast on one so gracious as you. Tell me, where did you learn such a rhyme?”
“It is one I had heard whilst venturing through many dark caves in my youth,” replied the minstrel. “For I was a foolish boy there for a time, and thought that I might vanquish many creatures who dwelt in dark places. Yet I soon came across a wretch not unlike yourself, who showed me that even creatures of the shadow might still be merciful. It must have been a mighty thing for him to resist the tasting of my flesh, as I was both dying and wounded at the time.
“Yet the creature healed my wounds, and so my ears were opened by the ways of the dark. I listened to the cadence of its rhyme, and so half the world became suddenly clearer to my sight.”
The creature’s mouth stretched into a grin. “For such a wonderful tune, it’s only natural that I give something of equal value in return. First I must ask where you are headed. Perhaps I can help you in some way.”
“I am heading towards the other end of the forest,” he replied. “Apart from that, my business is my own.”
“Then I will tell you this much, O bravest of musicians: beware the hamadryads who dwell amidst this forest, and also their Will-O’-the-Wisps, who echo their wills with unfettered loyalty. They are cunning beings, and they and my kind have fought for many centuries. If you should find yourself close to them, do not listen to their bewitching songs! For they will twist your thoughts, and then you will disappear to gods-know-where. In the past, the same happened to a human necromancer who led us along this forest, and though many of my brothers still try to find him, I hold to the notion that he has been dead for some time.”
“Who was this necromancer?” the bard inquired.
“I cannot say, myself, for I never followed the man when he walked among us. I saw true evil in his eyes, and since then I feared that he would enthrall me as well. Many of my kind are still swayed by his words, and even now they search for him in the night, making war with the fae spirits of this forest.
“But even so, do not allow yourself to come close to these hamadryads. You must stop your ears, and heed the whimsy of no strange sound.”
At this Kasavir merely shook his head. “I can do no such thing, dearest nightwretch, though I completely respect your intentions. My passion lies in the art of music and song, and where else could I be granted my inspiration? To deny one such a basic need would be none other than blasphemy, and I would rather be rotting in the earth than suffer such a Fate.”
“Very well,” replied the creature. “Then I will leave you now. Don’t blame me later if you are made to be their food.”
Thus the nightwretch left the light’s perimeter–but not before the bard had tossed it a morsel of his food. The thing was grateful, and so it left with a smile. Kasavir was once more left alone. He shrugged, before finally turning back to his spit of badger, ready for a meal and a good night’s rest.
Chapter II.
The sun rose, shining in several spots over the blooming, effervescent trees. The day was bright and wonderful as far as forests are concerned, and so Kasavir the Bard was pleased to hear the chirping of birds and rustling of leaves, and the clattering of all millions of creeping crawlers. Occasionally he strummed his lyre, but other times he contented himself with merely humming a tune as he had done the day before.
The day passed cheerfully, and before man or Nature was aware of it, night was already fast falling amongst the Forest of Remembrance. The flora gave off its sparkling hues as it had done before, and so the land became swept under the music of Dusk.
The tune was most pleasing, and Kasavir found himself singing along to the melody of the forest.
Eventually, he pitched camp once again; yet this time the wood was of a drier sort here, and the fire was quick to wax low. Soon it became a small spirit of fiery chaos, before the bard was finally drenched in darkness.
The silence appeared to reign supreme–all before Kasavir detected another sound, which came out of the inky blackness. It was clearly a melody set to entrance him.
Yet he was unperturbed as he weaved his own counter-charm, which only added to the original melody. Soon the night was filled with his own voice accompanying the other, and it seemed that not even the threat of shadow could stop this defiant soul.
Eventually, the first voice ceased; Kasavir respectively followed suit.
“Never before have I heard such a telling and wonderful voice,” it spoke. The thing emerged from behind a nearby bole, and the minstrel was surprised to see that the voice belonged to a shimmering orb of light. “I am a Will-O’-the-Wisp,” it continued, “a child of the forest, and guardian to the hamadryads who protect these borders.”
“Well met,” Kasavir smiled. “Truly I had not thought that I would be waylaid once more, especially by one as strange and kindly as yourself. Is my presence here really so threatening to your kind?”
“No–not at all,” replied the sprite. “But I must let you know that you are trespassing. Only those who are given special grace by the Father Tree are allowed close. In that sense, your being here is none other than a crime.”
“Oh?” spoke Kasavir.
The fae spirit nodded. “It’s not normal for man to stray so close to this place, especially when one hasn’t done so for nearly a hundred years now–not without being eaten by the nightwretches, that is.”
“I have spoken with the nightwretches of this forest, and they seemed a decent enough sort to me. Though I do not doubt that many of them are vicious creatures, the one I chanced upon just last eve was a rather amicable fellow.”
“Then surely you’re an ally of evil things!” the wisp spoke brashly. It sang its song once again, before it was again nullified by Kasavir and his own.
“That trick will not work on me,” he said. “And besides, I’m not your enemy here. I merely seek passage through the forest, and I don’t wish to stray too far from the road. You can tell your master hamadryad and Father Tree that much. My business is my own, and a bard’s work is never truly done.”
“But please!” the creature expostulated. “You must come with me. My master would be most pleased to meet you, and I think she would love to hear your songs.”
At this Kasavir shook his head like he had done the night before. “With all due respect, my path remains here. And I should really rest, for the day approaches with each passing minute.
“But I will leave you with this much, at least.” Suddenly the minstrel began to strum at his lyre, and his song was more beautiful than even the one the nightwretch had borne witness to. Kasavir chanted about the world in its beginning, and how the gods saw fit to gift the lands with the miracle of Nature. Thus out of the silence of Night, there came the lights of the trees, which mirrored that of both the moon and stars. This was before the sun had first crested the horizon, and so the forest was once given succor by those fainter lights.
At first there came only the creatures of the field, then the Four Winds, who deigned to rustle their branches. The sparkling lights grew fond of the winds and their howlings and their ceaseless yowlings, and so the Will-O’-the-Wisps were possessed by a mighty yearning to live.
This the bard conveyed in his song, and the Will-O’-the-Wisp was much pleased with his wavering rhyme and meter.
So Kasavir the Bard bade the sprite farewell, and it assented without protest, for it was greatly moved by the power of his music.
The light of the wisp filtered among the trees and the forest ground; all before shadow and silence gathered once more; save for the minstrel and his humming.
Chapter III.
The next day passed in slow cadence amongst the Forest of Remembrance. The birds no longer sang their chipper melody; the boughs of brush wavered no more. Not even the crawling critters seemed to scamper about, as Kasavir once more made his march across that landscape.
The day was evidently clouded from above, and the gloom of the forest seemed more unnatural and all-knowing than normal. A cold mist was beginning to curl about the flora, giving the impression that all had been encompassed under a mood of sudden melancholy.
Yet the man ceased not in his music. Again he would whistle in place of the birds, and the forest seemed to lighten just a little as a result. Also the music from the previous night had all but ceased, and Kasavir imagined that he was now coming close to the edge of that forest.
Even though his gait was a steady one, and his pace did not slacken for the whole of the day, the distance between both he and the forest’s exit became suddenly greater as time passed. And he wondered if it wasn’t some presence that had hoped to keep him in that place.
Or perhaps it was merely just his imagination…
Either way dusk soon fell, and reluctantly Kasavir was forced to make camp for a third time. Now the darkness of night seemed heavier than ever, and even his magical tunes could only do so much to stave off the mood.
After a while the bard’s voice became silent, and for a moment, he busied himself with the hum-drum tasks of caring for his supplies, preparing for an unsettling night of sleep.
Yet the silence was soon broken by another rustling of bushes. The bard startled awake from his half-sleep, uncharacteristic for one such as he, and he gazed out into the night, unaware of where exactly he had heard that sound.
“May I join you for the night? I am lost and tired, and deathly afraid.”
The man looked on in consternation, still unsure as to which direction the voice was coming from. He bade that the stranger come forward–reveal herself among the light of the fire.
The figure did just so, and Kasavir noticed that a hooded silhouette was now moving closer to him. Indeed, her garb was most mysterious, as if she was intent on hiding something strange and unfathomable. Yet still, he sensed no immediate malice, and he allowed the girl to take another step.
“What’s your name?” inquired the minstrel, keeping an apprehensive look on her, regardless.
“My name is Scillith. I live just a-ways from this forest. My father has been sick for some time, and he requires medicine from the berries which grow only here. I was looking for these, when I suddenly became lost, and nightfall caught me by surprise. I was alone–yet I found the light of your campfire, and so I came hither.”
“Well, Scillith, I must say that you have come at an awfully strange time. For these last few nights I have been visited by Will-O’-the-Wisps and nightwretches both–amicable fellows in their own right–yet even so I am being constantly watched.
“But please, do not let my musings frighten you. Sit and make yourself comfortable. You may also remove that cowl and show your face; for you are among friendly company here.”
Reluctantly, the damsel did just so. Her face was one which showed particular vitality and youth, as she could only have been little more than sixteen years old. Yet the bard noticed that there was a hint of knowing in her demeanor, a curious look which only darkened his mood further.
He gestured for her to sit at a log next to him. She responded accordingly, giving him an innocent stare. “How long is the walk to your home from here? Surely it cannot be too far.”
The girl shook her head. “I can guess that it’s only a few hours. Even so I cannot see among this darkness, and I would need a guide if I were to return home soon.”
“Tell me–what sort of illness is afflicting your father, so that you are out here at such a late hour?”
“It’s a type of madness, you see. One brought about by the nightwretches who linger so close to us. I am fortunate that I ran into you when I did. Perhaps you could serve as a guide to return me to my home. And also protect me from those creatures…”
The bard gave her an even more apprehensive look. But eventually he shrugged his shoulders and complied. “In an hour or so,” he said, rather coldly, “dawn will be upon us. Then we might find our way back where you came.”
“Very well,” she said, as she now moved herself closer to the fire.
The time went by slowly, though Kasavir thought it best to break the silence with an idle song or two. Once again the musical notes manifested as streams of magical light. The young maiden gazed in wonder at what this bard was capable of, and she regarded him with a look of curiosity.
“Your music is among the most beautiful I have ever heard. You should have listened to Father when he was not plagued by madness. His songs were once both mighty and with feeling, aged but full of soul. Often I would dance to his unceasing rhyme, and there was a time when even the land itself seemed as if it would move along with him.
“Alas! Those times are all but gone now. I can only hope that one day soon he might remember himself, and sing once more those wonderful melodies.”
Kasavir halted his singing. “The sun is rising,” he murmured.
Even from the depths of a forest, not unlike the one in which our two travelers found themselves, the light of the sun was commonly noticeable in brightening the space under the canopies of leaves, albeit only among certain clearings.
It just so happened that the two were close to one of these clearings, so they could witness the day’s beginning. Kasavir collected himself, as he stood, gesturing for Scillith to do the same.
They were just about to leave when the minstrel turned to his companion.
“Before we head any further,” he said, “I would first know what you actually are.” Meanwhile, his feet subconsciously planted themselves in place.
The maiden stared at him as if feigning shock–all before shedding her disguise. The expression she bore was now a more serious one. Slowly she outstretched her hands, all before allowing her garments to fall at her feet.
What Kasavir saw had shocked him greatly; for where normally there would have been the feminine figure of a human lady, instead it was as if her body had been replaced by that of a wooden mannequin. Her limbs were long and spindly, and a number of splintering twigs appeared to cascade off her form. Truly to one who had only half-expected it, the sight was most unsettling, what with the carving of wood serving as a stark imitation of arms and legs and chest.
“I am a hamadryad,” she muttered, “yet what I say is nonetheless true. For my father, who is the great Father Tree of this forest, has been sick for quite some time…”
“So you aren’t lost,” Kasavir replied. “You didn’t come to my camp just to have me as a guide, did you?”
The fae spirit shook her head. “Along with his being insane, my father is always hungry. And he desires the flesh of humans most of all.”
“Do not think that you can charm me into serving your whim,” he replied. “I muttered a dozen counter-charms during our rest. There is nothing you can do against me now; not even the strongest of suggestions could bring me to partake in your father’s feast.”
At this the hamadryad laughed. Her arm then outstretched as if it were made of vine. It clutched the bard by the neck before he could do aught else. The man looked at her, surprised by his own foolishness.
Her elongated fingers then shrank somewhat–enough for Kasavir to behold her tortured expression. “There are other ways in which I can persuade you. And though they don’t involve song or paltry charms, you will still do as I wish.”
She twisted her limb to one side, which served to whiplash the one who was held at its end. Kasavir was soon hurled towards one of those nearby trees, his head colliding with its side, before he remembered nothing more.
Chapter IV.
The day was soon shrouded in mist, the Forest of Remembrance left among a state of forgetfulness.
No creature dared peek its head out from amongst the gloom, as something was evidently amiss; a strange sort of anger or rage crested upon the very winds, and even the distant nightwretches could not help but give out a shudder.
The only stirring of movement came from the hamadryad Scillith, and the human she bore with her. She could still sense the faint presence of life from within him, although that last blow should have surely killed him. No matter, she thought, for the Father Tree was only a short distance away, and that problem would be over soon.
In a way she even regretted that one such as herself had to perform such a grisly task. Truly this was not the normal duty of a fae spirit. Creatures like her were supposed to protect the forest and its denizens, not feed them to their master. Instead, she wished that they had focused on driving out those nightwretches. They had been the ones to drive her father mad, along with giving him this blasted appetite for human flesh.
Perhaps she was to be cursed for acquiescing to such blasphemy. Maybe it was even a result of some heinous crime that she had committed in a previous life. She had dwelt on the thought before…
Yet she could not let it get to her now. For there was still the matter at hand.
Kasavir, she saw, was now being carried by nearly a half-dozen of her Will-O’-the-Wisps. And though they were all evidently loyal beings, still their strength was not the best. And even with the lot of them, their progress was somewhat slow.
She could also hear the cries of the Father Tree. They were coming closer now…
The bard stifled a groan, as the vines which covered his mouth prevented him from speaking, and his hands were bound by the same material. There would be no counter-charms where he was going, she mused.
Kasavir’s head ached terribly. He was certain that the gods had been looking out for him; otherwise just the slightest turning of his head in that moment of despair would have surely broken his neck or caved in his skull. Luckily, he was still alive; but for how much longer?
The hamadryad and the wisps stopped in their tracks. Ahead he saw a mighty trunk, which was the largest he had ever borne witness to. The fae spirits suddenly dropped him beside it. He quickly turned, beholding that a large entrance had been hollowed out of it, surrounded by piles of bones and rotting leaves. The tree appeared as if it were itself a face and the alcove some voluminous maw–one which hungered for his very flesh and blood!
Scillith gave him an appraising look. “I am sorry that it must be this way,” she said, “but the Father Tree must be fed now. Otherwise, I fear he shall become only worse. Farewell, bard of the humans! May you have a better fortune in the next life.”
Suddenly Kasavir felt her foot pushing at his side, turning him over, causing him to roll within the jaws of that Father Tree. The rotten leaves and plants sank quickly as his body fell over it, and soon there was a mighty groaning which came from around him. It was clearly the tree stirring at his presence, as if it were about to bring down several rows of splintering teeth against him.
Though this didn’t happen, he could still feel the strength of its roots closing towards him. He saw that the vines were quickly beginning to wrap around him much like cobras. Panic blazed in his heart, and for a moment the bard was overcome with a sense of utter hopelessness.
But then he spotted a small glint to his right; it was a large piece of flint, sharpened on one edge which could possibly cut his bindings. If he could first free up his hands, then he might easily remove the vines from his lips. At least then there was some chance at survival.
He quickly set to work, though all the odds were against him. Luckily the crawling vines had not yet reached him, and so he was able to turn himself over again and again.
The sinking ground only made this task harder, and it took an exceptional amount of willpower for Kasavir to hold fast to his resolve.
After several moments, he finally made it, though the roots were now tugging at his feet, threatening to pull him away from his only chance at safety. Yet he paid it little heed, as he now brought his wrists up to the sharp edge of the rock. He placed his bindings just so, and began moving rapidly back-and-forth. All the while the pressure of the tree’s bulk was becoming only tighter.
Suddenly there came a snap! Kasavir was free.
He quickly placed his hands over his mouth, removing the covering there as well. It came off without resistance, and so he could finally hear his own voice unfettered.
The roots were already pressing tightly upon his sides, threatening to crush every bone in his body, as he finally sang forth his song. Yet it was not a melody sung by the familiar language of humans. Instead, it was an older speech, which barely registered as a hum to his own ears. The tree squeezed only tighter, but the bard did not relent as the tune slowly shifted–like leaves that sway on golden boughs among Summer’s Day. Yet there was so much more to what he sang–a peace, a calm, which spoke of healing in the face of pain.
Finally, it seemed that the Father Tree’s hold on him was loosening. Yet even so, there came a great stirring of movement as the vines ultimately slackened their hold. The mighty wooden roots were moving away also, and so Kasavir could finally move about freely.
Yet as the bard collected his senses, still not ceasing his melody, there was another thing which caught his glance. It lurked just a little deeper from where he now stood, but even from such a distance, he could still sense the evil which radiated from it.
He reached out with one hand and stored it in his bag. He then turned, and with an effort came back out into the opening of the forest.
Still before him was the hamadryad Scillith–her expression being one of utter shock–as well as the Will-O’-the-Wisps who still hovered close-by.
“I thought it impossible,” she said, finally collecting herself. “How is it that you could know such a melody of the Old World? That should only be known to us ancients. And even then, I have never heard one sing it so beautifully.”
The minstrel stopped before responding. “My dear spirit of the fae, I have traveled amongst these lands since I was just a young lad. Even then I had always held a fondness for music, yet it was not until I had met one of the other Father Trees, in a far-off land, that I learned of the power of song, and the influence which it can hold over one’s own senses. Thus I was taught one of the oldest rhymes known to this world. But I have always held to that knowledge responsibly, though today I believe its use was necessary.”
He briefly turned, seeing that the Father Tree was now subtly shifting in its form. It no longer appeared quite as monstrous a thing, though it still rose higher than any other he had ever seen. The illness of the forest had been cured, and suddenly, the minstrel moved his hand to one side, retrieving the cursed object that had brought it such misery.
The human skull gazed on in apathy, yet there was a knowing presence to it as well.
“This is what the nightwretches were looking for, along with what cursed the Father Tree in the first place,” he said. “The power of necromancers hold a peculiar sway over the creatures of night, as these humans would abuse the power of light and dark to their own nefarious ends. Even when they are dead, their insidious wills can still live on, cursing all who come too close to them.”
He let the object fall at his feet, before crushing it with his boot. The lingering soul essence spewed outward with a hollow, menacing expression, all before dissipating entirely. “This forest will be a much better place now without it. The nightwretches should also depart with time.” He nodded and smiled. “And with that I bid you farewell. May the gods look favorably on your abode, now and for evermore.”
Scillith made to protest, even offering for him to stay with them for a while. For truly he had saved the Forest of Remembrance, its memories now returning to it in full splendor. Yet Kasavir politely declined, showing genuine gratitude at the prospect.
He departed that place in silence, resuming once more his walking upon the road. Soon enough, he would finally reach the other side of those woods, where the brightness of the sun would finally show itself unmolested.
Thus he strode with a smile on his face, as he began forming a song for the Forest of Remembrance. For the latest chapter in the story of his life.