An Ill Omen
My eyelids threaten to flutter open, but I resist the urge, knowing that yielding would shatter the spell enveloping me. The melody of the ancient forest grows more intense, its haunting tune filling my ears. Only those attuned to the natural magic of the Ageless Isles can hear this symphony, a connection to the essence of this veiled, wild land.
Then, a soft creak of a branch reaches my senses, followed by a sense of movement above me. A bird lands on the branch, its beady eyes fixed on me. Though I can't see the bird, I sense its trepidation, feel its heart racing. It wants to convey something, I'm certain. I wait, holding my breath, wondering why the forest has sent this messenger.
I refuse to open my eyes, not now when the forest's melody is at its zenith. Ancient trees seem to chant an enchantment, and I can't afford to break the spell. But then, a raven's ominous caw pierces the harmony, stealing my breath. I try to calm my racing thoughts, focusing on anchoring myself. Something is amiss, or perhaps it's another test?
Ravens are harbingers of death, messengers of conflict. My heart stills, threatening to cease altogether, before thundering with the impending news carried by this unwelcome messenger. I pant, my pores threatening to flood me with salty sweat. What does it mean? Why today of all days? Then, as suddenly as my breath quickened, it slows, just before I lose my meditative state. I can't afford to lose focus, not when I stand at the brink of a crucial shift. I've waited and prepared for this moment my entire life. Doubts and hesitations swirl in my mind, but I grit my teeth and try to push the bird's warning to the back of my thoughts. I have to concentrate; nothing can disrupt the shift.
With all my might, I silence my doubts and surrender to the forest's rhythm. The ancient music returns, and the breeze strengthens. Brittle leaves descend gracefully, heralding the imminent shift. I take a deep breath, allowing the magic to consume me. Only through steadfast meditation, years of study, and arduous preparation can one attain the shift, as ancient as the Isles themselves.
Finally, I open my eyes, and the blurry surroundings gradually come into focus. I can sense that the shift has occurred. The forest's magic teases my senses to life. I've been in deep meditation for four days, preparing for the pilgrimage—an ancient rite of passage for Wood Elves like me on the Ageless Isles, my home.
"My name is Faelyn Nightsky," I whisper to the wind. I'm a druid in training, and after this pilgrimage, I will unlock the ancient wisdom of my forebears—if I can navigate the treacherous path that lies ahead.
As I open my eyes, I'm instantly awestruck by the beauty of the forest. When I closed my eyes four days ago, the forest had been the same familiar one I had grown up in—full of beauty and wonder, but nothing compared to what I'm seeing now. A soft glow emanates from every leaf, branch, and blade of grass in sight. A gentle rhythm flows through the forest like never before, a rhythm that has been unseen until this very moment.
The ancient forest guardians dance merrily, still unaware that I can now see them. The forest is alive. It's a living entity with a wondrous voice that hums playfully in octaves my keen Elvish ears overhear for the first time. It's something I've been told about and have studied all my life, but until this very moment, no scroll or lecture has done it justice. Particles of glowing dust and leaves waft in the gentle breeze, and everything in this enchanted realm pulses with a rhythmic energy.
As I breathe deeply, I revel in the forest's flavor, losing myself in the moment, and even the scent is intensified. A disturbance interrupts me, and I shake my head awake because I'm forgetting something extremely important—I have limited time.
Even with my acute perception and quick reflexes, I take too long to respond to the thunderous thrashing of leaves behind me. It all happens in the blink of an eye. Before I can turn, a blur of furs and leathered boots races past. I won't let anyone catch a spirit guardian before me. I leap to my feet—and in one fluid motion I snatch my blackthorn staff and race after the owner of the leather boots, Neason Dreamleaper—one of the fastest elves I've ever known, second only to me.
Swiftly catching up to him, I shove him aside as I rush by. He falters momentarily but steadies himself before leaping over a rotting log and cursing me.
"I won't be last, Neason," I declare, rushing forward and reaching for a fleeting sprite who now knows we can see it. There are five of us neophytes, all competing to catch a sprite and race to the Lunar Grove to unlock the secrets of our ancestors. Only one of us will receive the druidic Oath, and I'm determined it will be me.
"Always cheating, Nightsky," Neason huffs behind me. I can hear him swipe at several glowing sprites in vain as they blink in and out of existence at will.
"You're just too slow, Dreamleaper." Getting a sprite is no simple task. They are tiny balls of light that defy the physical restrictions of our world. Even with our Elvish speed and agility, the sprites seem to be one step ahead of us, and time is running out. The spirit sight will last only a few more minutes, and whoever doesn't catch a sprite can't continue the pilgrimage, facing exile from our village—the same fate that befell Malvolia Willowbane.
Not being able to catch a sprite is an ill omen, casting a dark shadow on one's fate. According to my father, eighteen years ago, in a ritual similar to this, Malvolia had been a neophyte just like me. The forest had been cast with magic as jet black as her hair, and despite her being the favored one to get the Oath, she hadn't been able to capture a sprite. She had returned empty-handed, and they say she had been possessed with rot and decay. The villagers had banished her immediately, and she had fled to the Feral Expanse, a punishment as harsh as death, and some say, even worse.
Barlan Willowlock, an excessively bothersome elf, bounded ahead of us, chasing a sprite with the agility of a demon. Neason and I struggled to keep up as we pushed through the dense foliage of the forest floor. Suddenly, Barlan's outstretched hands grasped the sprite as he leaped off a long, creaking branch, avoiding a fatal fall with a swift roll.
"I'm favored by the forest guardians!" he boasted.
I rolled my eyes at his foolishness, hoping he would fail the pilgrimage and leave us in peace. I adjusted the strap on my leather pauldron, feeling the weight of my hide armor against my skin. As a Wood Elf, I valued agility and mobility over heavy equipment.
"I will catch a sprite or die trying," I vowed to myself, determined to prove my worth and avoid the fate of an outcast like Willowbane.
My heart raced as Maeddes and Cokko Barkblossom, two arrogant High Elves dispatched from the Capital, barged into our race, catching me off guard and shoving me to the ground. Despite the chaos, Neason stood firm and sprinted to their side. I loathed High Elves with their self-righteous demeanor, sickly pallor, and garish hair. They fancied themselves as the ones closest to the ancient spirits, but no one was more attuned to the forest's magic than us Wood Elves.
I scrambled to my feet and charged ahead, focusing all my energy on catching up before all the good sprites were gone. As I crashed through a thorn bush, my heart sank as I saw both Maeddes and Cokko laughing and sauntering back to me, taunting me with their freshly caught sprites. I took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill my lungs, and raced deeper into the heart of the forest.
Dammit.
I see Neason leaping and bounding within a glade, still unable to catch a sprite. I still have time. Maybe I won't be the last. I reach for a sprite right in front of Neason, but he elbows me out of the way and launches himself halfway up a wide oak, then scrambles onto a thick limb after the sprite. I lose sight of him, but within moments I hear him boast, "Beat you, Nightsky! Looks like you're the last neophyte to catch a sprite. If you can catch one at all."
All I can do is curse at him, then feverishly search the thicket for my sprite. I have to get one. I just have to. I won't be like Willowbane. I can't be like Willowbane. I throw the thought from my mind and scramble across a capsized log fallen across a bubbling brook. The slippery green moss squishing under my leathers do nothing to deter my speed.
I see a cluster of sprites and make my move. Leaping into the air, I outstretch my hand and grasp at one, but it vanishes before I could snatch it. Another pops into sight as I land gracefully on the ground, and I cup it in both hands but am dismayed when I open them and see nothing.
Frantically searching now, I see a stray sprite floating back across the mossy log, and I race toward it, gripping it in my hand. I am ecstatic and electrified simultaneously. I am euphoric with glee until I'm not.
Darkness washes over me, and I am no longer in control of my body. My Elven eyes watch as the sprite in my hands blinks from white light to darkness and back again. I am rigid and paralyzed with fear, unable to move, breathe, or think. My eyes snap shut, now awash with a murder of ravens, befouling my sight and addle my senses, delivering a vile message of nausea and dread. I can't tell if they are actually surrounding me or if it is a dream. But it seems so real. So nauseating.
A putrid acid rumbles in my belly as the dizzying horde of demons now sully and defile my mind. They are made of smoke and ash, blurred and featureless. A face appears in my mind and starts hissing and screeching at me.
I am powerless to stop it as it overtakes my mind's eye. I feel myself falling into darkness.
