by Renee "Kindrianna" Booke
There is another old legend in Voraniss; one that predates
the reign of Mon’ghora or the selfless sacrifice of Riel’iefyr. It takes place in
the years prior to the golden age of the Elves documented a mere four hundred
years in the past. This was a time before Human settlers had ever set foot
within the forest, and the Animal-kin were less organized and wilder. Calandia became the seat of Elvish
power during this historic period, making it the oldest city in our beloved country.
What many outsiders do not know was how Calandia came to be built, or how the
Elves managed to flourish in such a hostile and untamed wilderness.
Before Othorion Elderheart was a King, he was a Ranger. In
the early days when the Elves had just begun to lightly settle the lands and
worship in the groves, he could be found walking
the forests with a bow in his hand. He tried not to eat meat, so the bow was
mostly for protection. He was content to scavenge for nuts, berries, edible
plants, and greens to sustain himself
when he could. When he really wanted a treat, he’d find a way to boil the
rootstocks of Purple Avens, adding a little milk or dried fruit for sweetness.
This made a tasty beverage that had some resemblance to what we now know as the
flavor of chocolate. Othorion had a
plethora of knowledge like this, and if a plant had both edible and medicinal
properties to it, even better.
He put himself to use, stockpiling the food and herbs that
he found like a squirrel preparing for the winter. People grew hungry during
the hard times so it didn’t hurt to prepare. Sometimes he was even called upon
for medicines to treat livestock, for you see…Elves do not get sick in the same
ways that other peoples do, but their animals certainly did. Othorion loved animals and always hoped he
would be able to help when he was asked to come and make an assessment. Beyond
the fact that livestock were a valuable
community resource for food and livelihood, the Elves believed that the animals
were blessed by the Goddess Gaia and to celebrate them was to know her love.
One day, Othorion was
out in the forest, as he usually was, when he ran into a problem. His favorite
tree for acorns had a pack of wild pigs rooting about the bottom. He ducked
into the brush nearby and watched them, waiting. Wild pigs in other parts of
the world stood about four feet high off the ground if they were on the higher
end of height range. Wild pigs in Voraniss stood four feet high off the ground
minimum. Everything was bigger here, and scarier. It was like nature had never
imposed her limits on the wildlife and they had grown beyond what was typical
or customary. It was the same with the plants too. This place just had its own
magic and the flora and fauna reacted to it.
Othorion didn’t want
to make any loud noises and startle the pigs, so he couldn’t leave to go find
another oak tree, and he certainly didn’t
want to attack them for no reason. Patience seemed like the best course of
action. He would wait them out. Unfortunately for Othorion, he had no idea that this pack of pigs was home to one particularly
ornery old boar who didn’t take kindly to his watching.
This boar was not a solitary creature despite his age and
maturity, but he certainly showed some hermitlike behavior. He didn’t get into
the fray with the other pigs or stand next to them. He kept mostly to himself
on the outskirts of their foraging area and would grab at any rogue acorn that
found its way to his feet, chasing off any pig that came too close with an
angry squeal or grunt. Othorion assumed
that all the pigs were content with their snacks and had no idea that the boar
was watching him as much as he was watching it.
At some point, he lost
track of that particular pig and shrugged
his shoulders thinking that it must have wandered off for a nap. That was a
mistake, and he soon realized it when he heard the rushed plodding of cloven
feet from behind him. The old boar had circled around Othorion in order to
attack him from his vulnerable side. How was such a creature so remarkably
intelligent? Othorion didn’t have time to
ponder such mysteries with his life in danger.
As the boar charged, Othorion
attempted to dive to the side and roll out of the way. It wasn’t enough, for
the angry creature would come at him again and again, giving frenzied chase. He
sustained several wounds as the wild pig gored him with its tusks, biting and
snapping at him. Othorion knew his best
bet was to climb a tree and get up where the boar could not follow, but his
legs were quickly filling with lacerations and stinging wounds. Being charged
didn’t give him a good shot of the creature’s broadside or shoulder area where
he knew he stood the best chance of piercing the vitals or lungs. No, the only
way out was to climb like his life depended on it or pray that the creature
would tire of the chase. Othorion decided
to put his faith in the trees.
He scrambled to a nearby Elm and started to pull himself up,
relying on his fear and the strength of his arms to get him to safety. His
fingers worked their way into the deep furrows of the grayish bark as he
climbed, hoping to get hold of one of the lower branches or the break in the
trunk before he lost his momentum. The flat ridges that separated the furrows
in the bark had a strangely corky texture to them that he felt every time his thumbs
pushed hard against the tree. His legs ached so badly that he didn’t dare look
at them. He knew he was losing blood and he didn’t need to know how much until
he was in a position to do something about it. Othorion
had underestimated his wounds, however, and mid climb his hand slipped when he
paused to wince and fight through the pain.
Down, down, down, he fell; closing his eyes as visions of
the end of his life flashed through his mind. He kept waiting for his back to
hit the ground and for it all to be over, but he never felt the impact. Maybe
he was already dead and Gaia had been merciful enough to spare him the extended
pain of a violent and embarrassing death.
He finally cracked his eyes open, daring to see what might have happened when
his curiosity got the better of his dread.
Much to his surprise, one of the branches of the tree had
moved and reached out to catch him by the cloak as he dropped. He was dangling
there in the air now, the ends of his cloak pinched between what looked like
branchy fingers. He blinked a few times, hesitating before he reached up with
his hands to grab hold of the branch and pull himself up to safety.
“You should be more careful, little one,” came a low and
rumbly voice. It was friendly and calm
but appeared out of nowhere causing Othorion quite a scare.
The Elf fell back onto his butt, reaching for an arrow in
his quiver with trembling hands as he collapsed upon the branch. “Wh-who said
that?” he gasped.
“I did,” came the voice again.
“I don’t see anyone!” Othorion
insisted, looking around the trunk of the tree back towards the ground. His
eyes also scanned the branches looking for other Elves that might have been
hiding there too.
“How can you not see me? You are sitting right on me.”
The tree began to shake a little, and the leaves rustled all
at once like a playful breeze was tickling them. That was when Othorion finally
figured it out. The voice was coming from the tree.