Of course, it’s the elf that makes him who he is. Of course, it’s the cultural philosophy mixed with the traditions of the Gur and Rashemen that are fused within him. Of course, he is a "civilized elf" who looked into the cauldron of wilderness and decided to become a bridge.
On top three puzzle pieces of inspiration which made Tramahsthas – Tramahsthas
"There, in real life, are so many cultures that work similarly, yet are not the same: Shinto, Druidism, Native lore of diverse lands, Shamanism, Animism. These are 'spheres' that exist on their own, their philosphys and believes, overlapping and creating anew, only to stand alone again. More similar then one might be aware. "
A glance into the Mirror
1360 - before the 21. Eleint
A deep inhale, followed by an even deeper exhale. A sigh of a burden of the moment felt lifted. A sigh of relief. Tramahsthas walked around the room in the Erevan Jest, where he was resting these days. So much had happened. So much to think and meditate about. Consulting the spirits. Speaking with all the elves and others he encountered. Traveling more and more rarely with his gur friends, even though they urged him to reconnect with his kin, as long as the caravan traveled the western heartlands.
"This will be for a long time. Long for us humans, Tramahsthas. So don’t worry too much. We will always be around, and the Winds will always bring you back to our bonfires. If we need you. Or if you need us. We are friends. You are family to me. To Brenna and our children. To Dulgon. And sure—I would like to see you here, at our fire, day and night. But I see the cracks in your mask, which weren’t there ten years ago. Finer than a hair of the fey folk. But I am able to see. We are not out of the world. But you need rest. Deeper and more than we can offer you here. Even if we want to."
Tamas looked out from his wooden mask, which resembled a stylized wren, with his rich brown eyes, right into Tramahsthas's pale green eyes. And beyond. Tramahsthas knew this glance. He knew every little fleck of golden shimmer in the deep, rich iris surrounding the black pupil of his friend. His care-child. But there was no child anymore. Tramahsthas knew this too, yet the elf had to remind himself more often than he wanted to admit.
There stood a man in front of him. A descendant of Rashemen. A knowing one of the old lands, the winds, and the roads they traveled. And this man spoke not only to the elf but to his spirit guide, protector, and soul partner. Paw, the badger spirit, given to him by Angharradh, the elf's Patron Deity, rolled himself up right beside Tramahsthas's feet.
The wren spirit of Tamas, on the other hand, was perched on his partner’s shoulder, quiet for once. Staring almost, at Elf and Badger, intensifying the will and wish of Tamas himself.
Another sigh. Back at the Jest. Back in Doron Amar.
The Badger Mask lay on a table somewhere in the room. The Badger spirit was not trolling around. He never did when Tramahsthas’s other mask was not seen in the mirror. Nor elsewhere.
Tramahsthas was in deep, deep thought—almost depressing—unable to hold it, the weight of the world he thought he must carry on his shoulders. A shattered smile in the moment, which needed patience and time to “put every piece back in place, finely handcrafted, glued, stitched, and the scars of the break lined with gold and silver to distract.”
But at this moment, there was no mask. No mirror. No Tamas.
Just him… Paw and the wonderful feel of Elvencraftsmanship under his feet. His fingertips traced the finely carved chair he was sitting on now. This chamber—this room—was like a dream. And yet there was something lying in front of him on the table. A token and a letter with text in Espruar runes. Three signatures at the end. Making this dream _real_.
Again, a deep sigh of relief, of happiness, which had not been there moments ago. A ray of moonlight through his fogged thoughts.
For the thousandth time, he read the letter, inspected the token. A motivational breath inhaled and exhaled. He rubbed his face thoughtfully and stood up, just one tear rolling down his left cheek. His inner trembling faded along with his fogged thoughts. Sunlight shone into the room, onto Tramahsthas. Trust and respect found him. And he would answer to honor this.
"Paw, gleeful we are now! I am so, so happy. Off we go! The stage awaits us!"
Paw, the badger spirit, never to leave the moon elf with the wood elven blood, did almost the same, yet he was a spirit. He couldn’t remember when he needed to breathe for real. But that didn’t matter. Tramahsthas put his mask back on—and that was far better at the moment, seeing his partner otherwise.
And still… the badger spirit cared deeply for his partner, just as his partner cared, sang, and healed all the souls and lifes around. Hopefully, this place, these people, might be able to do the same for Tramahsthas.
Last edited by Labradorit on Tue Apr 22, 2025 1:03 pm, edited 12 times in total.
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
1360 - Late in Eleint - Passing the Autumn Equinox
After walking along and around for a while… back and forth… between the edge of the forest and the Friendly Arms Inn. Nearer and nearer, he slowly steps into the center, where, two days ago, a circle of a rite had been formed. It was when the time of the equinox "dawned," as it approached. He leans on his staff, silence around him. Only nature and the whispers of distant spirits and animals fill the air. The stars twinkle onto the firmament, and the moon watches in silver bliss over what lies beneath. He takes slow breaths, calm and steadily entering a half-trance-like state. Standing still, he simply exists in the moment of "here and now."
Then he takes his staff in his left hand and pulls out the silver branch—yew, adorned with five "antlers," each crowned with a silver bell of an almost otherworldly sound. With one unhurried, strong swing, he lets the silver bells call out into the night.
"Spirits near and far, of balance and twilight. Of the 'between'."
His voice is slow but strong in its words. He inhales deeply and exhales, swinging the branch again, releasing another silvery call from the bells.
"As you are in balance, so will I be, working as a bridge. For me… for you… for them."
He takes a third deep, conscious breath, and swings the silver branch for a third time.
"Cardinals of here and there, near and far."
He lets the silver branch find its secure place at his belt. Switching his staff to his right hand, he raises his left palm to the night sky.
"As above…"
Slowly, like a well-practiced dance, he lowers his palm to the ground.
"So below."
He breathes again, holding the moment, then raises his hand once more, this time facing north.
"I thank the forces of the North, of earth, winter, and the mother bear. Take with you what is yours and well. I hereby declare the end of the Autumn Equinox."
With gentle strength, his palm faces north. Then, turning clockwise, he directs his palm towards the south, again with gentle strength.
"I thank the forces of the South, of fire, summer, and the stag. Take with you what is yours and well. I hereby declare the end of the Autumn Equinox."
Another calm inhale and exhale in the "here and now." He turns slowly to the east, letting his palm face the eastern cardinal direction.
"I thank the forces of the East, of air, of spring, and the hawk. Take with you what is yours and well. I hereby declare the end of the Autumn Equinox."
As before, he holds his palm with gentle strength.
A new breath… a new turn, slowly towards the west. He gestures as before, with gentle strength, his palm facing the western cardinal.
"I thank the forces of the West, of water, of autumn, and the salmon. Take with you what is yours and well. I hereby declare the end of the Autumn Equinox."
He stands still for a few heartbeats, then slowly lowers his hand to the ground, touching the very earth.
"As below…"
With the same respect for the moment, he raises his palm to the firmament at last.
"So above! Let the wheel turn. May balance remain stable."
He pounds his staff on the ground three times.
"Oh spirits of the greater good, of nature, life, and the otherworld. I swear to build the bridge, to balance and peace. Blessed be."
With this, he falls silent again. Only whispers in the night surround him as he sits down. The silver branch finds its way back into his free hand, and he swings it so gently that the silver bells sing only in fading whispers. Then he dives into deeper meditation and reflection.
Hours later, he would close the gates, as the time of the rite and celebration of the equinox ended, together with Naer' at the little stone circle in the ShaarpTeeth Wood. Sealing what needed to be sealed. Leaving behind what was necessary, but not forgotten. Walking into the unknown future, following the Wheel of the Seasons.
He felt at peace, stronger than he had in quite some time. Returning to Doron Amar and to his room in the Erevan Jest brought a quiet sense of belonging.
The spirits, too, seemed to be at rest for now. His mask sat on a shelf near his bed, undisturbed. He smiled, pure and content, as he passed the mirror and prepared for a long, soothing bath.
Yet unaware of what might be lurking in the shadows ahead.
1. Reflections Beneath the Leaves – A Garden’s Whisper
1360 – Someday late in Marpenoth
The first frost visits Doron Amar.
As dusk settled over Doron Amar, the gardens took on a certain stillness, the kind that seemed to hold its breath just before nightfall. The air was heavy with the scent of earth and the quiet rustle of leaves as Tramahsthas wandered, his thoughts tangled in an unknown future. He had felt it for days now—something was coming, though he could not yet see it clearly. Every step he took felt heavy, as if each movement was bringing him closer to an inevitable conclusion, though its shape eluded him.
Paw, Tramahsthas' spirit companion and soulmate, found him among the trees, moving silently as ever. His presence was like the shifting of the wind—subtle and familiar, but still the pudgy badger as ever. The two did not speak at first. There was no need for words in this place, where the silence was so full it felt almost sacred.
“The air has changed,”
Tramahsthas finally murmured, his eyes tracing the birds that flitted between branches, their wings dark against the pale sky.
“The omens come and go, but none offer answers.”
Paw's gaze lingered on the signs around them—birds in flight, the occasional snap of a branch breaking under the weight of unseen things. There were signs of frost beginning to form in the morning's light, but they were cryptic. No patterns, no clear path—only the quiet uncertainty of nature’s subtle whisper.
“You know the way of it,”
Paw said, his voice calm but carrying an undertone of something deeper, something older.
“Some things cannot be read, only felt in the heart. And some roads... lead us only by the touch of the unknown.”
Tramahsthas nodded, but the unease in his chest did not dissipate. As much as he trusted the spirit guide’s words, he could not shake the feeling that something—someone—was waiting for him to act. The omen had not yet shown itself, but he felt it. It was closer now.
Without a word, he turned away from the gardens and made his way toward the west, to the great round oak by the west-river-side. There, in the space between the trees and the water, Fang—Tramahsthas' guardian spirit—had materialized. A still-restless spirit wolf bound to him. Though he had not seen the wolf these past days, the sensation of Fang’s presence lingered in the back of his mind, like a distant echo—or every time he touched the fang-flute to call the spirit wolf.
There was still much to be done, and though Fang had been dealt with in their pact, Tramahsthas knew that the spirit was not at peace as the elf wished for him. Not yet. He did not know what it meant, but he felt the weight of it pressing down on him. The road ahead would demand more from him than he could understand right now.
Last edited by Labradorit on Tue Apr 22, 2025 12:53 pm, edited 3 times in total.
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
Fragments of the Past and Present II
2. A Chosen Family – The Bonds of the Gur Caravan
1357 – Someday in Flamerule – Choicess.
The campfire crackled in the fading light as Tramahsthas sat with Tamas, the young Rashemar watching the dancing flames cast shadows on the faces of the caravan. Though the journey ahead had yet to fully unfold, the night held a sense of quiet anticipation, as if something was stirring just beyond the horizon.
The bond between Tramahsthas and Tamas had deepened over time, a connection that had formed through shared trials, teachings, and the unspoken understanding that came with their time together. Though Tamas was his own person—strong, determined, and capable—there was a part of Tramahsthas that still watched over him, like a guardian. He had helped guide Tamas through the trials of Dajemma so far, a duty entrusted to him by Tramahsthas' spiritual mentor, Garandrim, and it was a role that felt as if it would never truly end.
“The road ahead calls to you,”
Tramahsthas said quietly, watching the flicker of the firelight.
“I see it in your eyes. But do not forget—the caravan is a family. No matter where we go, we walk it together. You yourself taught me this.”
Tamas’ eyes softened, though his expression remained serious.
“I know. But sometimes it feels as though I must walk it alone.”
Tramahsthas gave a soft smile, reaching out to ruffle the hair of Hjiman and Brénna, the children of Tamas and Alexera. The warmth of their laughter filled the air, and for a brief moment, all the uncertainties of the road seemed to vanish. These children, this family, were the ties that bound them all together. It was in these small moments that Tramahsthas found his strength.
“You are not alone,”
Tramahsthas replied, his voice firm.
“We will always be there. The road may change, but the caravan will not.”
Dulgon, ever the pragmatist, stood nearby, his voice cutting through the quiet.
“The road may call, but it will not be answered by one alone. We will be there to answer it together.”
The words hung in the air, solid and comforting. Tramahsthas knew that no matter the path ahead, the Gur were his family. The bonds they had formed were deeper than blood, and together, they would face whatever the future brought. At least they thought that way these days.
Last edited by Labradorit on Tue Apr 22, 2025 12:52 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
3. Of Moonlit Threads – A Frockrock for Sehanine’s Blessing
1360 – Someday early in Marpenoth
Now you have done something, Captain.
The seamstress worked quietly, her needle weaving through the shimmering fabric with the delicate precision of someone who knew both the craft and the deeper meaning behind each stitch. The frockrock Tramahsthas envisioned had to reflect not just the beauty of the material, but the quiet strength of his beliefs. The fabric itself resembled the night sky—dark, deep, and full of movement. Silver threads, like stardust, shimmered as they were woven in, catching the light with each subtle movement. The frockrock was not only a garment, but a quiet testament to the intricate balance of his faith.
Though Agharradh was his patron deity, Tramahsthas held an equal respect for each of the three other goddesses in the triad. He did not see one as greater than the other, each embodying a facet of the world that he balanced within himself. However, if ever asked to choose for even a brief moment, Sehanine would likely be the one who would call to him. But that was only by chance, an instinctual pull in a fleeting moment—nothing more, nothing less. The three remained equal in his heart, even as he wore Sehanine’s moonlight on his brow.
As Tramahsthas held the silver circlet, he traced the delicate branches of leaves and the tiny crystals that sparkled like twilight. It was a quiet reminder of the goddesses' presence in his life, a reflection of the harmony he maintained among them. A small treasure he had freed from dust in recent days, embracing his life in Doron Amar, he had worn it again after many years at Naer’eanque’s storytelling event in En Dharasha Everae. And in this sincere moment he placed it on his forehead, letting the cool metal settle into place and feeling the subtle weight of it, like a prayer without words.
“I wear the faces of them all,”
Tramahsthas said, his voice soft but firm,
“but —the moon— guides me in ways I cannot deny.”
The seamstress, who had listened intently, paused in her work, her gaze thoughtful.
“I see. Perhaps the frockrock will carry more than just the moon. It seems like it could be just the beginning of a certain... collection.”
She glanced up, her lips curving into a playful smile. Tramahsthas’ lips quirked into a soft, knowing smile. He did not offer a direct answer, but his eyes gleamed with the quiet thought of how Lylan’Synor’s adoring tickle-tackling had nudged his love for fashion—a passion the winding roads of a caravan life had never truly nurtured.
Last edited by Labradorit on Tue Apr 22, 2025 12:52 pm, edited 3 times in total.
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
The caravan trundled along the winding road, the wheels of each wagon creaking softly as they cut through the crisp, early-autumn air. The rhythmic clip-clop of horse hooves and the occasional jingle of harness bells added to the symphony of travel. The leaves, still clinging to their vibrant colors, fluttered in the gentle breeze, marking the way with splashes of gold and red against the deepening twilight. A cool gust of wind rustled through the trees, sending a shiver down Tramahsthas's spine.
Seated on the front of one wagon, Tramahsthas held little Brénna, now a lively one-year-old, on his lap. He could feel the warmth of her small body against his chest, a stark contrast to the cooling evening air. Brénna squirmed as Tramahsthas deftly wove the girl's hair into playful braids, his fingers working nimbly through the silky strands. Her expression shifted between giggles and wiggly movements. Alexera and Dulgon, familiar with the same tale from their own youth, exchanged knowing smiles as they watched Tramahsthas begin his story, their eyes glinting with anticipation.
Tramahsthas leaned closer to Brénna, his voice low and conspiratorial. The rough wood of the wagon seat pressed against his back as he shifted his weight.
"What’s this I hear? A child of Selûne,"
he began with a teasing grin,
"and you don't know that the moon up there is made of cheese? Just look at it! All those crumbles and holes."
Brénna's small face twisted into a puzzled scowl, her fingers curling tightly around Tramahsthas's tunic. He could feel her tiny nails pressing through the fabric.
"No like cheese! Only goat cheese. Two goats! Caravan!"
she protested, her little voice half defiant and half curious, already trying to look out for her favorite animals to play with, not always to their consent. The distant bleating of the two goats could be heard from one of the rear wagons, as if in response to Brénna's words.
"Ah, this is special cheese,"
Tramahsthas said with an exaggeratedly serious nod.
"Moon cheese! Soft and light! Up high! Only brave moon rabbit can get it. And do you know why the moon is sometimes full and sometimes not? It’s because that rabbit nibbles at it by night! And all those tiny stars are crumbs left behind."
As Brénna listened, entranced, Alexera chuckled, nudging Dulgon gently with her elbow, her tone soft and warm.
"Do you remember hearing this story for the first time?"
An inhaling pause, one hand at her belly.
"Probably we were already too old to believe this tale when we met Tramahsthas then,"
she said, her gaze settling fondly on Tramahsthas, who still looked unchanged by the years.
Dulgon grinned, his eyes twinkling with the shared memory.
"I remember thinking it was a terrible waste, to leave all that cheese up there, just out of reach,"
he whispered back, unable to hold back a chuckle. His deep laughter following rumbled through the wagon, a comforting sound in the gathering dusk. Dulgon, holding the reins, was all ears, smiling as Tramahsthas continued his tale, weaving words with the same careful attention he gave the braids. The leather reins creaked softly in Dulgon's grip as he guided the horses. The twilight stretched across the sky, a soft mauve and dusky pink, as though painted by some celestial hand. It was late fall, and the season's breath chilled the air, nipping at exposed skin, though the gentle warmth of the sun still lingered on the horizon, mingling with the early evening mist. The road was dusted with fallen leaves of autumn, crunching softly under the wagon wheels or feet, hinting at winter's quiet advance.
Around them, the other Gur travelers moved in gentle rhythm with the caravan's pace, some walking alongside the wagons, others perched atop, wrapped in thick colorful fabrics and soft leather. Some wore masks as they traveled: simple ones bearing marks of Selûne's phases; others more ornate with symbols of stars and silver threads that caught the fading light, or even a remembrance of an animal. Tramahsthas subconsciously counted three in sight wearing their masks, two more might be doing so as well. All other members had secured their masks on their belts or held them nearby somehow else.
To the Gur, hair and masks were more than a marker of appearance, it was a vessel of spirit and memory. It was not rare among them to keep strands of hair bound in talismans, charms, and amulets tied to their past or loved ones lost to the road. The belief that hair could hold such power was part of why Tramahsthas's role in braiding and cutting hair was so valued and handled with respect from them and the elf. Even a small gesture like braiding held a deeper meaning for the Gur, a quiet acknowledgment of their heritage and the spirits that traveled with them and the use of their remains.
Tramahsthas finished the last braid and tied it neatly, chuckling as Brénna looked up at him wide-eyed. The little girl tilted her head, staring up at the sky with newfound curiosity as the first stars began to twinkle in the dimming night.
"What happened to cheese? The... uh..."
Brénna fumbled.
"The moon cheese?"
Tramahsthas grinned, raising his eyebrows in mock surprise.
"Why? It was eaten by moon rabbit! You should be glad you're sooo brave! Not everyone takes this news so well."
Dulgon and Alexera, she resting in the wagon behind the driver’s seat, her hand often wandering to her rounded belly where new life grew—burst into laughter, remembering a particular night years ago when the story was shared with another child who had screamed in fear that the cheese-moon might fall from the sky. If such a large body of cheese were to crash onto the caravan, it would surely be a disaster, of course. It took days and a lot of comforting by the parents and Tramahsthas's music to calm the child's fears. Tramahsthas now leaned in with a grin, teasingly nudging Brénna, making her squeal with gibberish glee.
Alexera's laughter turned to a soft chuckle as she glanced back toward Brénna on Tramahsthas's lap, now nearly two, blissfully unaware of the tall tale she was now hearing. The night slowly settled around them; the sky deepening to a velvety blue; for a few more miles, laughter from Selûne's children filled twilight, woven into the rhythmic creak of wagon wheels and the warm glow of the evening’s fading light.
The sound of Brénna's voice broke Tramahsthas and Alexera from their thoughts, each.
"Done!"
she declared triumphantly, her little hands running through her braids inspecting them like a masterpiece. She gave him an exaggerated frown when she found a loose strand; Tramahsthas couldn't help but chuckle at her quick critique. This playful recollection brought a smirk to Dulgon's face and laughter from Alexera, both clearly remembering times they witnessed Brénna's tantrums in her early days, a fierce little spirit in a small body. There was a teasing edge to their laughter; an unspoken acknowledgment of how they once thought this "curse of impatience" was far more troublesome than it ever really was.
"Well, that was a lot of work for a very small braid,"
he teased, brushing a stray lock of hair from her cheek.
"Not small!"
Brénna protested, eyes wide with mock indignation.
"Perfect! Wait see!"
Before he could respond, a voice called out; it was Dulgon’s deep baritone near.
"All clear ahead, Tramahsthas! The road’s getting rough up ahead! Keep steady, we're almost near the pass."
Tramahsthas nodded, glancing ahead toward the leading wagons; the distant outline of the next pass loomed dark, full of mystery, like an unknown future. The caravan’s journey was never without challenges, but there was always something comforting in the rhythm of the road, the steady pace of wheels and feet, and the fleeting wind around them. Even with changing faces and shifting rituals, the Gur didn’t seem to disrupt that rhythm, they were part of it, just like the trees, the wide grasslands, and the sky.
He shifted slightly as Brénna squirmed again, her braid now a mass of loose strands, but her smile was wide and full of pride. He allowed himself a moment of quiet, letting the last warmth of the fading sun settle into his bones, then looked over at Alexera, who had turned back to watch him, sharing a look of quiet understanding.
"Time flies on the road,"
Tramahsthas murmured half to himself, side-glancing to the badger spirit curled up unseen at Alexera's side.
"But in the end, it's all part of the journey."
Last edited by Labradorit on Tue Apr 22, 2025 12:51 pm, edited 4 times in total.
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
In the dense green of Elventree - already outskirts of Cormanthor, where trees rise like ancient giants, Daedre’nal and his cousins spent their „carefree“ days. The arguments and playful challenges they engaged in reflected not only their youthful energy but also the role each sought to carve out within the fabric of their community.
Thareendar, just a decade older than Daedre’nal, often carried himself with a natural air of authority, though it wasn’t always justified by size or strength. As the eldest of the present elven children, he saw himself as the “protector,” relishing his role in teaching the younger elves. His black hair was often styled as nobles of distant Houses might, a sign of his commitment and his hope that his little half-brother would join him in this display. But ever since, Calae’ithor’s own black hair had somehow remained unruly.
“Daedre’nal,”
he said in a lightly patronizing tone,
“life isn’t a daydream. You must seize it with a firm grip, or it will slip away from you.”
Yet behind his words always lurked a mischievous undertone. When Daedre’nal frowned, Thareendar would nudge him playfully yet bit too tough, challenging him to another race through the treetops.
Sylthilas, with his shimmering silver hair and graceful demeanor, seemed like a breath from the fairy realm. He embodied a playful independence, always moving as if defying gravity itself. His water-blue eyes and copper-green skin made him already a striking woodelf, setting him apart from the rest.
“Come on, Daedre’nal, you’re not giving up, are you?”
Sylthilas called, effortlessly leaping from branch to branch. Daedre’nal felt torn between fascination and irritation as he watched Sylthilas. Too often, Daedre’nal felt the opposite of his cousin—always searching for excitement and novelty. He sought the peace of his daydreams. Despite being only a few years younger than Daedre’nal, Sylthilas radiated the self-confidence of a born leader. His presence often overshadowed the others. He had a masterful way of entertaining the group with his sharp tongue and cheeky fey-like smile. Nearby, he observed the events with a knowing grin, instinctively knowing how to move the others to his whims; his charm and self-assurance always placed him in a superior position. Daedre’nal often felt uneasy around him, as if Sylthilas held some invisible silver thread that he could tighten or loosen at will.
Daedre’nal, more reserved and introspective these days, often felt conflicted. While Thareendar and Sylthilas constantly tried to draw him out of his quiet nature, he instinctively yet unconsciously sought the company of Calae'ithor. The younger half-brother of Thareendarf, 54 years younger and still naive—a child—in many ways, looked up to Daedre’nal, perhaps seeing him as more than just an older cousin, and often spent hours silently admiring him when Thareendar even allowed it. When the tension between Thareendar and Sylthilas became too much, Calae'ithor would often glance at Daedre’nal, as if he were a calm rock in the stormy sea of elven youth. In the years to come, Daedre’nal would grow to the touchstone for Calae'ithor, helping him understand the world—not through words, but through the way Daedre’nal simply was. Perhaps it could be said that Calae'ithor, in his journey toward maturity, would at least learn to view the world as Daedre’nal did—as Tramahsthas might eventually see the world as valuable. A contrast to his older half-brother Thareendar, which was already beginning to take root.
That evening, after a particularly heated dispute between Thareendar and Sylthilas had left the group exhausted, Daedre’nal withdrew to the edge of the clearing, into the quiet of the forest. He pondered Thareendar’s words, the challenges of Sylthilas, and yet felt a growing uncertainty within himself. The corners of his mouth curled 'lead'-ing downward, heavy like lead.
And then again… everywhere, they were—shadowy figures and their whispers. Sometimes just a sensory feeling—elusive, gone the moment he tried to listen, look, or touch what wasn’t there. He tried to escape it, but more often than once, he failed. A shadow crawled over Daedre’nal's face. Since Koehavain’s death, "it" had grown stronger. Deeper. Denser. As if the voice and silhouette of his closest beloved friend’s whispers were among them, letting Daedre’nal drift further into his daydreams—away from his carefree, jesting and the Erevan Ilesere-followed nature of his past.
He tried to share his feelings, and the more he told Shanae about this, the gap between them grew, widening with the loss of their dear friend. The moon elven girl—once a childhood friend—was growing into a young woman herself. Perhaps these were some of the many reasons Shanae and Daedre’nal—despite how close these three elven children had been, and the bonds of the House Auvrea’elrvius to other familys—grew distant in their "juvenile" years without Koehavain to hold them together. Day by day, they drifted apart, like quartz sand slipping in a velvet flow through fingers, impossible to reclaim. Shanae had moved with her family to Evereska, away from Elventree.
The feeling was mutual. And like the last grains of quartz sand running out of their hands, their letters grew rare over the years. His thoughts grew more tangled with every heartbeat.
These were the draining moments, when Thareendar and Sylthilas paid the most attention to Daedre’nal—because he seemed to be the one who did not belong. Daydreaming, his fingers tracing the crumbling bark of an ancient tree, as if painting with invisible colors on the spaces between wet soaked moss and rough brumbly bark—creating a picture that only he could see or wanted to.
Calae'ithor, who had secretly followed him, sat down beside him and seemed to pause for a moment before speaking quietly.
“You know, Daedre’nal,”
Calae'ithor began,
“sometimes I think you belong more to the whispers of the forest than to us.”
His words hung in the air like an unwritten secret. Daedre’nal looked up and saw in Calae'ithor’s eyes the reflection of his own doubts—and perhaps, for a brief moment, the understanding of a friend who saw him in a way Thareendar and Sylthilas never would. Perhaps, for the first time, he truly saw his younger cousin, “completely.”
Last edited by Labradorit on Tue Apr 22, 2025 12:49 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
1360 - The last days of Marpenoth to the first days of Uktar
Tramahsthas had left Doron Amar right before dawn broke that day. The stars still glittered in the slowly brightening night sky, and soft clouds swayed gently, resembling little sheep. The air was cold—it reddened the skin of Tramahsthas' fingertips, trying to bite away the warmth, even though he wore gloves. But his heart was not cold.
His path led north to the meeting point with the source of his heart's energy and joy. The Gur caravan had called, and thus he was on his way to their rendezvous to travel onward. Seeing them again—after these tendays of troubles and teachings on the Sword Coast—did not only warm his body and soul but made his heart sing.
He hummed a certain melody beneath his mask as he wandered toward the outskirts of the Glimmerwood. With every mile bringing him closer to the meeting point, his humming turned into a quiet song. The tune on his lips? It was the song he had composed about the tale of The White Stag.
This tale, told by Naer’eanque during a storytelling evening in En Dharasha Everae, had a wonderful lesson woven into it. That very night, inspired by her story, Tramahsthas had created the song he now sang. Days ago, he had handed Naer’eanque the lyrics, already written on a scroll and now we was eager to bring this song to his caravan.
Perhaps it was the joy of seeing the Gur again—especially young Brénna and her little brother, Hjiman—that lifted his spirits. Tramahsthas imagined them listening to this new song of his. And this time, it would be a tale of his kin, the elves! What a story to share with the two little Gur children.
And so, he sang: "Do You Hear the White Stag's Laughter?
Laughter between branches and mists"
Once there was need of nourishment and health,
An elven hunter on his run, dove through nature's m‘rror,
To gaze and aim, yet unaware, at a prey of wealth,
Held back by a noble huntress' voice—*“It is my prey, stop this error!”*
A voice then spoke in both their heads, it told:
*"Spare your arrow, restrain your greed, go back through the shallow m‘rror.
What you need shall be found, for both homes, against winter’s cold."*
They thought, then paused, moving on with fleeting trust, seeking more.
"Do You Hear the White Stag's Laughter?
Laughter between branches and mists"
The hunter of forest’s blood returned and saw,
Help had come from animals, berries, and the like.
Wealth was gathered, but they longed for protection from a foe's claw.
So once again, they sent the hunter on another hike.
He dived anew, but not alone, becoming fast aware.
The huntress of noble moonlight, she stood there once more.
Hesitation grew in his heart, now m‘rrored in his stare—
Both were tamed again by the White Stag’s voice they’d heard before.
"Do You Hear the White Stag's Laughter?
Laughter between branches and mists"
A second time, their wishes pleaded—protection for what was lacking.
Guardians were unseen, no archers anywhere.
*"Go back, seek and find on your own,"* the white-crowned spirit speaking.
Returning, they found what was asked, *yet faded another care.*
A third time, hunter and huntress passed through water’s thin veil,
Again came pleas for shelter from future looming dreads.
They asked for high walls, protection for all, with their bows ready to hail.
The stag’s bright laughter rang, and dizzy, they felt now their heads.
"Do You Hear the White Stag's Laughter?
Laughter between branches and mists"
They awoke, alarmed and unsure of what had passed.
Beside each other, they now stood—two villages had become one.
Strange and beautiful, old and new, glimmer danced around as they asked,
But their question remained unspoken, for truly the stag was gone.
Two had become one, intertwined and tangled in sheen,
The white-crowned stag, never again to be seen.
Yet, beneath new horizons and moons, his laughter still whispers,
Between the rustling of the leaves.
Dawn was already painting the sky in shades of pastel—pink and violet, a faint light blue, followed by orange and golden yellow. This mixture of warm and cool colors, as if honey and berries were blended together and laid out to dry for some sweet tooth’s delight, was always worth pausing to admire and breathe in.
Tramahsthas looked down from the little hill where he stood. Below him, on the trail, he saw the caravan slowly making its way along. The lights in the wagons and the torches carried by some members glowed like an invitation—an invitation he gladly followed.
The song was still on his lips, and now he no longer lowered his voice.
It was Tamas, seated in his wagon, who first heard the voice lingering in the crisp morning air. It took only a moment before he was sure:
“It’s him! Tramahsthas is back!”
He set aside his carving tools, leaving his work in the wagon, and looked outside, eager to see the elf approaching.
Soon, all the Gur could hear the voice drawing closer, as the dawn slowly brightened into day. The cold air melted away, replaced by the warmth of light laughter. Caravan members waved and called out to their companion, who sang a song to greet them.
---------------------------------------
Almost a Tenday later...
The ruins lay quiet now, their shadows cleared by the caravan’s unity and effort. The village nearby was at peace. With the quest complete, the Gur prepared to move on, and Tramahsthas knew it was time to part ways again.
The last evening together carried a warmth that even the crisp air couldn’t steal. Alexera, sat by the bonfire, a calm presence amidst the hum of voices, her needle deftly mending a tear in one of Hjiman’s tunic. Brénna leaned against her, half-drowsy but still clutching a small cloth doll, while Hjiman clambered around Tramahsthas’ knees with all the energy his three years could muster.
“You! wolf!”
Hjiman proclaimed, tugging at Tramahsthas’ sleeve.
“Me! hunter!”
Laughing, Tramahsthas bared his teeth in a playful snarl, sending Hjiman squealing and darting behind Alexera.
“A brave hunter to face such a beast,”
Tramahsthas teased, glancing up to see Alexera’s warm, smile illuminated by the flames bright shine.
Together they dwelled in this moment of shared peace until silent snorring singnaled the childrens sleep. Later, as the children slept, Tramahsthas found Tamas sitting near the wagons, his knife moving rhythmically over a small piece of wood.
“You’ve brought us through another trial,”
Tamas said, his voice steady but low.
“Not just with your hands, but with your heart.”
Tramahsthas looked at him for a moment, the words settling like a gentle weight.
“It was never just my doing,”
he replied, his tone quiet, measured and dear.
“The strength was always yours, Tamas. This time I only reminded you where to find it.”
Tamas paused, meeting his gaze.
“And yet, you always leave us better than you find us. It’s no small gift.”
They clasped forearms briefly, a silent understanding passing between them. For a moment, Tramahsthas felt the urge to pull Tamas close and ruffle his hair, as he used to when Tamas was a lanky teenager. But he resisted, glancing instead at the adult Gur before him. There would be a next time.
When dawn broke, Tramahsthas stood at the edge of the caravan’s camp. The sky bloomed in hues of pink and gold, its beauty reflected in the frost-crisp air. Behind him, Alexera stirred, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders as she silently watched him prepare to leave.
“Save travels, Elf. May the winds be with you.”
She said softly, her voice carrying a quiet fondness.
He inclined his head, the faintest smile tugging at his lips, before stepping forward to lay his arms around her. It was a hug of deep friendship, one she returned with equal warmth.
“And may your path be as bright as the fire you keep, Gurri. May the winds guide and protect you.”
As he walked away, the echo of Hjiman’s laughter and Brénna’s sleepy murmurs stayed with him. His boots pressed into the frost-kissed soil, and a certain soft song rose on his lips—a melody of parting, but not of farewell
"Do You Hear the White Stag's Laughter?
Laughter between branches and mists"
Last edited by Labradorit on Tue Apr 22, 2025 3:56 pm, edited 4 times in total.
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
Were there omens in the clouds and in the leaves withering on the cold ground? Did the last bird-songs tell of what might have come to his eyes and ears?
Tramahsthas noticed a lot of omens – though many of them weren’t telling anything clear. Like always, the future was mystified by Sehanine’s cloak. The sadness over the loss of the rescued elves was like thick air, as though one could cut through it.
Naer’eanque told him everything in short and advised him about the report. Dear Angharradh – what a mountain of papers to read, he would witness as soon as he got to them.
Naer‘ was not the only one – not the only heart that mourned. He felt it among the people he met. Doron Amar herself might cry tears of sadness, filling the river with her sentiment. And there was more. Resentment lingered beneath the veil of sadness. It tickled the skin, if one would just take the time to “look” around. “Hear” the silent crying of people and place. “See” the lamenting spirits around. The crisp of the frost grew stronger every day near winter, crawling through every possible gap in the clothes one might wear, biting the skin if not “protected.” But this frostbite seems less than a gnat bite in comparrison to the feelings around.
The sadness gripped his heart as well. Seeing Naer‘ in this state. Lylan’Synor’s luxurious, ever-flowing golden hair cut short. This incident did more than just bring “sadness.” Elves died – or at least – they were dead already and were freed by the cruel beaming brightness of the sun, burned to ashes as they were released from their “vampiric prison” at dawn.
He still did not fully understand the situation. And it did not matter. Already in the Erevan Jest, as he was “introduced” to the news and to a new face to him, but an old face to Doron Amar, eventually – Valendia – he had an inspiration and a deed in his mind of what to do.
Ironic. Not two tendays ago, he talked about his hobby of creating wind chimes and talismans. He was already working on some since he became a citizen of Doron Amar, but it was more a “given task by free time.” As he traveled with his caravan, he had spoken with Tamas and the other Gur of the caravan about this way of weaving sounds together into harmony. Sometimes it became so strong that evil eyes and spirits weren’t able to pass – at least, not without being noticed. Wind chimes, certainly, weren’t something unknown in Elventree, where he came from. When he witnessed that the Gur did similar things, his heart sung. The way the wind chimes looked in their crafting was somehow different – yet as though it had been known forever. Here was a meeting point of wood elven culture and Gur culture, found and connected.
The Gur showed him ways of possible stylings, and one he became very quickly fond of. Little bells where a “paper” or “bark” piece was hanging on a thick thread, often embroidered with signs of protection or a verse of banishment. The bell could be made of cast iron, bronze, or even glass – sophisticated and an influence of the unapproachable East and beyond. The Gur really are a melting pot of knowledge and traits.
Ironic, again. He wanted to work on the wind chime talismans to bring a gift to Doron Amar. That he had to do this so quickly and with “instant” urgency – that was not predicted, not even by the omens he noticed. Or did he, and wasn’t able to “read” them?
Anyways – it shall not matter.
Thoughtful and careful in his work, one could see Tramahsthas hanging the wind chimes and talismans near certain locations. In the canopy of the river. Near the council hall. At the shrine of the Seldarine. Around the balcony, the grand Angharradh statue, and the Jest as well. And of course, one would be found at the Angharradh temple. Those were the easy-to-see ones. And perhaps there might be more scattered around Doron Amar.
And as he started, Tramahsthas sang a lament, weaving the magic of sound together, to let the souls and spirits breathe and mourn as they should. And with every “placing,” there was the sound of light bells, rhythms of knocking wood, and little talismans for protection in the air. Oh Angharradh – Oh Sehanine. In their grace, he sings…
Beneath the boughs of twilight gold,
Where sorrow lingers, soft and cold,
The trees bend low, their whispers weave,
Of hearts that stay, of souls that leave.
The stars above, a tender light,
Guide weary spirits through the night,
And though the shadow walks beside,
The dawn will come; the grief will bide.
O friends who fade like autumn’s breath,
Your roots run deep beyond this death,
The song of life will rise anew,
And we will walk again with you.
Take heart, dear kin, though tears may fall,
Each life we share uplifts us all,
And when the frost claims bough and leaf,
We hold the warmth beneath the grief.
So mourn we now, yet softly sing,
Of every joy their love did bring,
For though the winds may bear them far,
Their light endures—a guiding star.
This lament will be heard throughout Doron Amar at dawn and at dusk. It offers the mourning elves a solace, something for their spirits to "lean on." The sound of the wind chimes will be heard as long as the time of mourning dwells in Doron Amar.
Last edited by Labradorit on Tue Apr 22, 2025 3:58 pm, edited 3 times in total.
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
Dear DM, citizens and friends of doron amar, please feel invited to write a post of your charakterspoint of view how this "event" was for "them". I would love to read about this interactions. thanks in advance
Winter’s Stillness and an Unexpected Visit
1360 - The first days of Nightal
Winter’s breath has wrapped Doron Amar in its quiet embrace. The air carries the faint, sharp scent of frost, and the trees seem to hum softly as their spirits withdraw into a deep, contemplative rest. Tramahsthas feels the season settling in his bones too, though not just from the cold. His left arm, carefully bandaged and tended by Priestess Sylvara of the Angharradh temple, reminds him daily of the need for patience.
The injury, though severe, is not life-threatening, yet it has shifted his life’s rhythm for the time being. It happened close to Doron Amar—a moment of misjudgment during a quest to aid the enclave. Perhaps it was a root that shifted, a spirit’s sudden cry, or simply fate and bad luck. Whatever the cause, the result was a sharp pain and a deep wound that left him unable to raise his arm, which hung at an unnatural angle in the moment.
Sylvara’s guidance has been clear: healing must come slowly. The physical wound could be mended quickly with high magic, but the spirit heals differently.
“There is no shame in taking your time,”
she said one evening while wrapping his bandages with a touch as gentle as twilight.
“Scars of the spirit run deep when we do not listen to our bodies. You of all people should know this.”
The last sentence held a touch of scolding, intended as warm teasing. It was the truth, though none of them fully understood why this wound ran deeper than others before. An unknown imbalance, a mystery cloaked in sehanines mists? Nonetheless...
And so, Tramahsthas has embraced the quiet of recovery. He watches the frost lace the gardens each morning, listening to the distant whisper of leaves falling—their descent now a solemn dance. Paw lingers at the edge of his vision, his once-amber eyes watchful. Somewhere further, Fang’s spirit prowls unseen but felt, a reassuring presence in this stillness.
The days pass gently, though not without surprises. Word came from a caravan, sighted more often near Greenest—a letter carried by a respectful messenger, written in a hand far neater than Tramahsthas would have expected from Dulgon. The message was heartfelt:
"To the People of Doron Amar,
We humbly ask for permission to visit our friend, our family, Tramahsthas, who has taught us much and guided us far. We wish to see and aid him, to offer our respects, and to share news of the roads he once walked with us. We will come in peace, with gratitude and care for your home. If this is acceptable, send word, and we will journey at your leave.”
Not ten days later, as dawn painted the frost in soft gold, the caravan delegation arrived. The Gur approached the gates of Doron Amar with quiet reverence, their boots crunching against the frozen ground. They were a sight to behold—each of them wore a mask, as always when marking a special occasion. With or without a stage, this kind of rite displayed their cultural respect and pride.
Tamas, walking at the front, wore his mask shaped like a wren, its delicate curves reflecting his connection to the small, clever bird that guided his spirit. Beside him, Dulgon’s broad stride was matched by the imposing features of his owlbear mask, a touch of playful pride in its exaggerated design. Alexera, graceful and calm as always, followed with a mask adorned with a waxing silver crescent moon, its form of gender shifting in the light—fluid and mysterious, much like the moon.
The older daughter, Brenná, brought a spark of whimsy to their procession with a mask that seemed to blend the grace of a dryad and the playful mischief of a cat-sidhe, its carved details alive with motion. The younger brother, Hjiman, wore a bold silver dragon mask, the proud gleam of the paint catching the morning’s rays. Walking at the rear was a quiet Gur woman with many silver streaks in her probably once-dark brown hair. Her mask portrayed a serene cow with a crescent moon upon its brow. She moved deliberately, as if the Taurus spirit accompanying her lent her strength and steadiness.
At first, the masks stayed on—a silent gesture of formality and respect, yet declaring who they were. They stood together at the gates, waiting for a welcome, their bright eyes watching the elven enclave with curiosity and awe. It wasn’t long, however, before Doron Amar’s warmth reached them. A jest from a passing elf, a knowing smile, and the gentle invitation of Tramahsthas himself coaxed them to shed their wooden visages one by one. After passing the gates, walking on paths of safety, their masks came off.
The children rushed to Tramahsthas the moment they saw him, their small hands pulling at his good arm and filling the air with excited chatter. Hjiman chattered about new adventures and pressed a small, shimmering rock into his hand, declaring it a “dragon’s tear.” Brenná, quieter but no less heartfelt, offered him a carved token—a small charm shaped like a blooming flower, rough but lovingly made.
The adults hung back slightly, their gazes lingering on their friend. Dulgon, with his characteristic bluntness, asked how Tramahsthas could possibly be sitting still for so long, earning a warm chuckle from Alexera.
“Even elves have to rest sometimes,”
she said softly, her gaze meeting Tramahsthas’ with quiet understanding. Likely, Naer’, Lylan’Syor, or another citizen of Doron Amar close to Tramahsthas would agree, each offering their own comments while attending this Gurish visit. It was a chance to finally meet the humans Tramahsthas had spoken of so often. Every elven citizen was invited to this meet-and-greet, not only to interact with the Gur adults but also, perhaps, to impress the two young children.
For Tramahsthas, the visit was a balm to both body and spirit. Merry hours were shared among elves and Gur, children and adults alike. Though his arm remained bound, his heart felt unburdened, reminded that the bonds forged on long roads do not fray with distance or time. The laughter and voices of the caravan blended with the air and sounds of Doron Amar, their presence a small but radiant light in the stillness of winter.
As the group prepared to leave, Tamas lingered a moment longer, placing a hand on Tramahsthas’ shoulder.
“We will return, as often as we’re welcome,”
he said, his wren mask tucked under his arm still standing in the Erevan's Jest.
As the Gur left the elven tavern, Tamas had already placed his mask back on his face. The silent Gur woman followed suit, as did the others as they passed through the gates, saluting the elven enclave and their friend residing there.
The frost clung to their footsteps as they departed, their shapes fading into the pale winter light. Tramahsthas watched them go, feeling a rare and quiet peace. Though his healing would take time, the paths of his life, like the cycles of the seasons, continued to intertwine with those he held dear.
Last edited by Labradorit on Tue Apr 22, 2025 3:58 pm, edited 3 times in total.
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
The letter came with little flourish, as always. Alexera never writes more than she must, just enough to stir the deep waters in his spirit, a tingling in his chest.
The Gur caravan moves again. And with it, a thread once tightly woven now trembles between tautness and return. He did not rush. No, he wandered first through the gardens of Doron Amar. Spring, having fully coaxed winter’s grip to loosen, had settled in with ever-growing, warmer days. Young leaves dancing with the wind, blossoms like whispered promises opening to the sun. His hands, ever gentle, moved from root to root, brushing soil back around a stubborn seedling here, tightening twine on a swaying vine there.
He picked up the work he had started in previous seasons , right for the time of this one. A soft murmur of words passed his lips - not spells, not prayers exactly, but something between. His chants to land and spirits. Into the trees and bushes, he wove his quiet talismans anew. A loop of silver-threaded bark here, a chime of shells there. Subtle things, meant to hum only when the wind bore the right spirit with it. He did not say farewell. Only later, to the leaves and bark:
“Grow well. Be heard.”
The spirits of land and nature watched. Some lingered, others retreated unseen but one, always close, tilted his head. Paw, silent and wide-eyed, caught the glint in his gaze, the growing edge of something wilder lingering under this comfortable way of living.
"This place has grown on me, has it not? Slowly, like moss on stone. Yet it had taken root."
And still, the road called, like stars twinkling in the night sky. His feet remained unruly if there was too much time spent in stillness.
Thoughts of the Gur he would soon meet flooded his mind, washing over other thoughts.
Brénna would be taller now. She’d grown so fast, just like her brother. Hjiman might have forgotten the lullaby he once begged for each night or had he claimed it immediately again? Tamas, would he speak of dreams again, or had silence returned to cloak his heart? Or would Alexera be with him, holding each other? Sometimes his arm around her shoulders, but often hers around his. She was indeed the leader of their fireside, and he, the chosen of her heart. Dulgon would be the stoic, dry-humored rock against the tides of ill, trying to protect the entire caravan. Tramahsthas chuckled, wryly, at the thought of Dulgon trying to tease and tickle the "old elf" and friend, something Tramahsthas both eagerly and reluctantly anticipated. A memory of their first meeting echoed above the more prominent ones. So young, around mid-to-late teenage years.
Dulgon the eldest, Tamas and Alexera only a few years apart. They had been children back then, nagging teenagers when Tamas became Tramahsthas' carechild. Only a few more years had passed… for an elf. Twenty, by now. And now they were in their thirties, grown-ups, their bodies and minds shifting. For Tramahsthas, though, they were still children counted by the years passed. How much time might he have with them? Sand runs incessantly through the travelers' hands. Another saying often heard on the roads leading to bonfires. That thought inevitably turned his focus to Brénna and Hjiman, and a soft sadness tinged his anticipation to meet them. Time had passed for them. That was the way of humans. The turning of the Wheel. Theirs…
But not for him. Not quite.
He had changed, yes. Softened, perhaps. Weathered.
But not aged in the way they already had.
This truth stirred something sorrowful beneath the joy of reunion, like light playing on a cracked bowl. The shape remained. The crack did too.
Still, they were his. Not by blood, but by promise. And he was theirs, even if the shapes of their hands no longer matched the memory.
With similar feelings for Doron Amar and her carechildren. Both at once.
In the dark of the night before departure, he watched the moon rise. Full, pale, not bright but present, in the way spirits are.
But in the quiet between thoughts, he could feel a guiding line connecting both places: Sehanine, like dancing on a silver bridge in silver hush. A mask and a mirror both. Between Selûne's care of the Gur and Angharradh's protection of his kin. Not one and the same. But linked somehow. And that lightness, that is what had let him grow close to the Gur, since they had traveled together. That is what had allowed him to step into their songs, their dreams, without forgetting his own faith.
The moon wasn’t just a starry body to him, but a presence. She watched what he could not name. Knowing of the wind and love, all connected.
And yet something had shifted again. As ever, with the turning of the wheel. Perhaps it was not meant to be understood, only honored.
It began before the time of the spring equinox, the festivities of the Green Enclave and Doron Amar, but it grew in that time. He had felt it deeply as he had dwelled in his own ritual, in solitude from others, beneath a giant tree in the green fields far behind the borders of the Glimmerwood.
Many days before the equinox, it was something Aerakiir had said that had felt like a seedling planted into soil, searching for that very one seedling.
That had shifted something in him. Not violently. More like quiet tension. The dreams of smoke trails, pine shadows, hooves on stone, an elven woman seen from afar, grew thicker. And at the edge of them walked, behind a badger, the shape of a wolf. Omens on omens, unwilling to unfold. Like a totem figure, not revealing its purpose to the unknowing.
Adding to that feeling, Fang’s memory was always a mystery, for there were only emotions, but no knowledge left—remains curled into the carved flute in his armory. But this presence... this was something other. Not a ghost. Not yet a guide. But protecting. Somehow, a part of Tramahsthas' soul he was just now slowly connecting with. This piece of soul had always been his, without knowing it. It fit so easily into this puzzle, like a silken glove tailored for his hand. A scent on the wind. A gaze felt, but not met. Not fearsome. Not gentle either. He did not understand it yet. But Paw had seen it, he felt her stillness when she watched him from the low wall near the roses. Her ears forward, her gaze fixed. Not warning. Not concern. Only witnessing the flow of time around Tramahsthas.
And as Tramahsthas was done with the gardens and seedlings, the talismans and chants, he would bring notice to the Councilhall about his travel and surely inform the elves encountered during his preparations.
He packed before dawn.
The flute. His mask. A few roots, dried meat, and nuts wrapped in cloth.
A braid of rivergrass for Brénna, with a single strand of moon-silver thread woven in, and one for Hjiman too, his tied with feathers so small they might’ve been lost, like the ones he tried to chase in the wind. A silver-threaded token for Tamas. An oddly heart-shaped hag stone for Alexera and some food for Dulgon, both from Doron Amar.
And in the quietness of the trees, the chimes would sing in his absence. The seedlings would grow.
And he?
He will walk the road again, with song and tune, along with tales and omens yet to unfold.
The wheel turns.
The moon watches.
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
It was late into the night when the Gur bonfires flickered low, casting long shadows across the silent landscape and their wagons. Tramahsthas sat apart, his gaze lost in the dance of the flames. The embers wove and curled, taking on shapes like forgotten dancers, whispering their stories into the night air. He could hear his companions around him, their laughter and songs blending with the rhythm of the world, but his thoughts were elsewhere, drawn to a time not far past: a month ago, during a ritual of reflection tied to the spring equinox.
There were memories that lingered like the faintest scent of a spring flower long past its bloom. And within those memories, there was that ritual, a dance, a calling, a moment when his spirit had nearly or seemingly touched the edge of something greater than himself. At least, that was how it had felt. It was a dance that mirrored what he longed to become. Not fully his, yet it stirred something deep within him.
In the stillness of the moment, Tramahsthas allowed his thoughts to slip away from the present and return to that moment, that dance, recalling the delicate ritual he had crafted alone, under the sacred boughs of an ancient tree, somewhere in the green fields. The cool breath of spring had brushed his skin. Leaves had whispered above, as if listening. And beneath his bare feet were the damp grass and earth, soft, living, and real.
The time had come for him to become something more than a follower, he thought, to embody a truth that echoed within his soul. Not in the way others had done, but in his own way. A path had opened before him, and though it was quiet - silent, even - it was his to walk.
With a slow exhale, he closed his eyes, letting the memories swirl around him like the flickering embers of the fire.
And then, the dance called his spirit back to that moment, a glance into the recent past.
---------------------------------------
Part 2
Dancing to an Ancient Song – The Equinox is Nearing
1361 - Chest, before the 19th day
So many things… events… accidents… had happened.
As the days and nights passed, Tramahsthas had found refuge in the temple of Doron Amar, among the faithful. At least, among Priestess Sylvara and the few other citizens who worshipped the Triune Goddess as he did. Of course, the temple’s services were open to any in need, that was never in question. And yet, the circumstances that led him to engage even more deeply with the temple of Angharradh were not merely a matter of “luck.” The healing of his broken arm, physically and mentally, was an ongoing process. And while he sometimes felt stuck, as if caught in an endless cycle, there were moments, like soft chimes in the solitude of his thoughts, that reminded him of small, good things. After the evening at the Friendly Arm, the event Maevyn had called for, he had accompanied Councilor Naer’ and the Glimmerlady Vanira to lend aid. He had learned much. Seen much. And after guiding Naer’ back to Doron Amar, he once again sought shelter in the temple.
There, in the sacred space of his goddess, he found a measure of peace, a soothing balm for a mind that had grown... clouded, somehow.
But he made a choice. Leaving something behind does not mean forgetting it. With that energy, he began crafting small paper charms with a particular purpose. In his spare time at the temple, he prepared what he thought of as spring heralds, little talismans in various shapes and materials. These were the ones Sane had asked for, the Equinox talismans for the enclave’s celebration. And since he still had to wait before he could fully recover, he had ample time to craft. And so… many spring talismans were made. Perhaps a fellow devotee of the temple would join him in this almost ritualistic act. Perhaps Priestess Sylvara herself would craft talismans alongside him for Doron Amar. If she did, it would be the perfect opportunity to speak with her, not only about their goddess and her teachings but also about a matter close to his heart.
It was Aerakiir who had reminded him, who had drawn his thoughts back to a knowledge he had carried in his mind but never truly pursued. Tramahsthas had heard of them through legend and tale, but had only met one by chance while visiting his house’s branch in Evereska. Only seeing her from afar. Radiant and cloeaked in mistlike mystery - at least for him those days.
Totem Sisters of Angharradh.
Special priestesses of silver elven heritage, keepers of totemic knowledge and ritual, like druids and shamans of the Triune Goddess.
As the name suggests, these particular priestesses were, indeed, women.
And he, no surprise, was a man.
Certainly, that was one of the "greater" reasons he had never explored the possibility sooner. A Totem Brother? Was that even allowed? Was it something he could become? When he had toyed with options, considering different paths in his faith, it was the moment Aerakiir remarked that Tramahsthas’ way sounded similar to that of the Totem Sisters, aside from their unique magic, that something inside him began to shift. It took time. A great deal of thought. Spiritual work. But from that moment on, Tramahsthas began to open his eyes to new ways of seeing. And these very thoughts, these questions, he brought to Priestess Sylvara:
"Have you ever met a Totem Sister?"
and if so a:
"What were they like?"
would follow.
"What do you think of them?"
"Do you believe I could follow... create... a similar path? I know, of course, that it would be different to them! But still a path I can go? My path?
And perhaps many more questions would follow.
Whatever Sylvara’s response, the very act of speaking his thoughts aloud to the voice of his goddess gave him wings. It rekindled golden light in his heart. It allowed him to step through the cloak of mysteries, toward becoming something he had perhaps always carried within. A herald of his goddess, that was something he had identified with for many years. As naturally as the shifting of day and night. Ebb and flow. Seeing the diversity in life and spirit. And somehow, this role seemed to fit him like a second skin.
He didn’t need to be the voice of his goddess - a priestess or a Totem Sister.
He could be the herald of Angharradh - a Spiritsinger and a Totem Brother.
A servant. A healer.
Her fang.
---------------------------------------
Part 3
A Path in Silence – Ritual for the Coming Spring
1361 - Shortly before the Equinox Celebrations
After the preparations, the crafting, and the meditations, everything was ready for his ritual, welcoming the spring, honoring his goddess, and the spirits. With the spring heralds, talismans, paper charms, and other offerings, he left Doron Amar and the Wood of Sharpteeth, a chant-like prayer on his lips. The journey and the ritual, each a part of the other, had begun. He walked without knowing where the path might lead. The air still held winter’s crisp breath, but signs of spring whispered from the earth, buds tucked beneath bark, the faintest flush of green edging the ferns. Tramahsthas moved not with urgency, but with rhythm, guided more by instinct than intention, and by this instinct, he had put on his badger mask without thinking about it. Each step part of a dance, each breath a verse of a song only he could hear.Leaving the glimmerwood, he walked deeper into the open fields nearby. But far into the fast green.
He stopped when the hush deepened around him, a natural hollow where the wind softened, between giant roots where an ancient tree stood, moss-veiled and remembering. Beneath its enormous branches, covering what might soon unfold, the ritual would root itself.
He began by marking the directions with talismans:
• East received a folded paper bird, wings inked with dreams.
• South, a bundle of cedar and gold thread.
• West, a polished bone etched with a spiral.
• North, a leaf pressed flat and pinned to bark with ash.
At the center, he placed a small bowl of water, a flower’s reflection trembling on its surface. Around this he moved slowly, barefoot, tracing steps in the soil, soft syllables falling from his lips like petals, laying down the paper charms in a circle around. Not a spell. A remembrance. He called the names of spirits not written in any tome, probably unknown to anyone else or known only to those who listen:
Silivhûn, of the thawing pool. Ilharra, of the sleeping root. Nerethil, of the broken branch and regrowth
And above all, he called to her, the Triune One, in all three faces and in none, Sehanine’s dream, Hanali’s warmth, Aerdrie‘s gaze. Then silence. He knelt, fingers resting lightly on the moss. His voice was low, yet clear:
“I walk as I am made.
Not in imitation, but in echo.
Not in shadow, but in shimmer.
Let me carry what truth I may,
Let me listen where others speak,
And walk a path no less sacred
Though no Sister, still called.”
The last word lingered on the wind. Before its meaning could thin, before the air reclaimed the breath, he rose... slowly, fluidly. His hand closed around the silverbranch he had brought, the golden crown-bells tied at its tip catching the light like droplets of dawn and dusk, an instrument for his rituals of folktale-ish value. Nature seemed to hold her breath. And then he danced.
It began not with grandeur, but stillness. A single step. A shift of weight. The turning of his wrist. Each movement unfurled from the last, like wind through leaves or water finding its course. It was not a dance taught in steps, but one passed down through feeling, from Garandrim, the wood elf living in Rashemen and his teacher, who had once said:
"The body remembers what the soul has not yet spoken."
The silverbranch cut lines through the air, tracing crescents and circles, weaving the boundary between seen and unseen. He turned, slow at first, then faster, the rhythm guided not by music, but by pulse and purpose. His breath matched the rise and fall of his limbs - inhale, reach - exhale, release-like waves against a shore of spirit and memory. The bells chimed with each movement, not loudly, but as punctuation. A herald’s whisper. A spirit’s nod. As the dance deepened, his body arched and swayed with the fluidity of fire, not fierce, but ceremonial. Like flame drawn up toward stars. Like a story told in motion, of sorrow and survival, renewal and reverence. It was a dance to honor the divine and a call to the spirits of the land, a sign that the veil was thin, and he was listening. To honor the awakening spring.
Hands to sky. Feet to earth.
Breath to wind. Heart to flame.
This was not the dance of a Totem Sister. It was not the song of a priestess. It was his. A becoming Totem Brother’s rite. Born at the borders of Cormanthor, rooted in Rashemen, carried along the songs of the Gur across Faerûn, offered now, in this elven mind, to a Triune Goddess who had always seen him.
The dance waned only when his body could offer no more. The silverbranch lowered, its bells stilled like a final exhale. Sweat beaded his brow, but his expression was serene, eyes alight beneath his mask, not from exertion, but from clarity.
He had stepped through the veil. And returned with more than silence. And the spirits listened. The leaves did not stir. The sun did not break through the cloud.
But something settled... a stillness.
And in that stillness, acceptance.
He rose and offered the bowl of water to the soil, letting it spill and disappear. Then, with quiet steps, he left the grove, leaving the talismans behind, like seeds planted for the coming season. But the paper charms, now blessed by the moment, holding their own message, he carried back, his mask again secured at his belt, to let them meet their purpose.
---------------------------------------
Part 4:
Epilogue: The Dance Continues
Back in the present time: 1361 - Tarzak, between the 13th and the 21th day
And so, as the bonfire crackled down before him, Tramahsthas found himself again. The warmth of the flames reached deep into his bones, and the rhythm of the night was no longer a distant memory but an invitation back into his body. The here and now. His thoughts swirled still back to the dance, the ritual he had performed, the words he had whispered beneath the boughs of the ancient tree. It was a dance not just of body, but of spirit. It was a rite born of his own, yet somehow shared with all who walked the path of the goddess. A Totem Brother’s rite, he whispered in his mind. Unique, singular, yet part of something far greater, eventually. The Gur were still around him, their laughter still a steady hum. The journey was long, and the fire of the night might soon die down. But in that moment, Tramahsthas understood something important for himself.
The path was not one of instant clarity. It was a path forged in silence, in movement, in dance and perhaps most importantly, in remembering.
Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.
And with that, he stood, ready to take his next step. The journey was far from over, but the dance, his dance, would continue. And as he dwelled in that last thoughtful glimpse of his memory, as if the world itself was snapping him back to the present, as the rumbling voice of Dulgon pierced through night and thought, calling for Tramahsthas attention.
“You done with your dreaming, elf? We need you here, don’t make me come over there and drag you out of that trance!”
Tramahsthas felt a shiver of laughter rise in him, the mirth of the bearded Gur shaking him from his reverie. The seriousness of his thoughts shattered for a brief moment, replaced by the warmth of choosen family and the teasing nature of the one who always seemed to keep him grounded.
With a smirk, Tramahsthas turned toward Dulgon, the flicker of the fire lighting up the amusement in his eyes.
“No need to drag me, Dulgon. I’m right here.”
The broad-shouldered Gur laughed heartily, and Tramahsthas, feeling the weight of both his dance and the present, moved toward the warmth of his companions, stepping back into the rhythm of the journey ahead. Tamas and Alexeras eyes watched from the other side of the bonfire as Tramahsthas sat down. The dance of life, after all, was not only in the moments of stillness and solitude. It was also in the shared laughter, the calls of friendship, adventures endured, and the way they all moved together as one.
The flames of these bonfires burned low, but in his heart, the dance continued.
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
1361 - From the End of Ches to the First Day of Tarsakh
Warm and steady, voices spread through the air as the Gur of the caravan gathered around the last bonfire glistening. For now, the night cloaked the world in darkness behind the horizon far mountains, but already, the first hues of dawn stretched thin across this horizon, a slender promise of morning. "The Fey’ding at dusk" would soon return to being just "offstage mortals" with the coming light. Their last hunt was hunted, and their last play was performed for this journey Tramahsthas was asked for aid. Alexara's quest, where she called to her friend and step-parent like Elf, was successfully solved.
Now, the Farewell was near. Tramahsthas stood with Tamas for a moment, their eyes tracing the flames, their breaths rising and falling in quiet rhythm beneath the soft murmur of the others' conversations. All present, wear their masks this time, even the three children of the caravan. Nonbinary crescentmoonchild, but grown. Babyfelinetreespirit. Babysilverdragon. Wren. Waterspirits, one grownone small. Salmon. Badger. Owlbear. Mooncow. Fox. Featherdmoonwarden. Hawk. Buffalo. Dingo.
Only one person was watching this scene without looking out, of their wagon, cloaked in whispers and fading shadows of night. Inside the wagon, their nonbinary fullmoon mask, next to them. Their hare spirit, ears listening intently, was one of their three, present in the wagon. One feathered beak of whispers, nesting on top of the wagon, watching the scene. One scaled, scenting slither guarding in the shadows of the wagon.
The elf moved among the people around the ashening fireplace, slowly, without seeking attention, asking for nothing more than the silent acknowledgment born of shared travel and trust. With each person he passed, he pressed a folded bundle of three paper charms into their hands, his touch lingering for a heartbeat longer than mere courtesy, a quiet connection made. They accepted the gifts without question, trusting the silent language between them.
“You’ll see,”
he said after handing out all, his voice low, carrying the faint lilt of a song.
“Not for me. But for us. Not to fear. But to fight. Not ours. But for all of the Coast.”
„A beacon of moonlight forall of thecoast.“
Was the answer of all voices.
The Gur nodded, even if most could not grasp the full weight the charms carried. Tamas and Tramahsthas came to the conclusion, for the time being, it was better that there was compassion, but safety in not knowing everything. The paper, folded and sealed with simple reverence, needed no explanation, yet. Reason and Song they were all taught.
Rumor will spread.
It was enough that it was given. Enough that it was received. Even if the meaning would awaken only later, the moment itself already mattered. It was to fight something too big, that hope lied in the „magic“ of small things. As it was a goodbye at the dying fireplace, the flames danced on, bright against the fading dark upon the coming dawn. And as Tramahsthas watched them, his mind turned forward, toward the glimmering woods where his next steps would lead. Soon, he would leave this place behind. The road would call him again. But for tonight, there was a sense of completion, of something quietly fulfilled. This act, his offering, did not need a grand ceremony. It simply was. And that his chosen family, the caravan, accepted this quest of his and were willing to tune in… It surely would be the small things that bit into the slow, creeping dread, a light yet unseen but lasting. Like dawn crawling over mountains, rivers and fields.
The Gur, their paths already curving toward distant places, prepared to move on, their own fires, their own songs, carried with them. Yet all hummed here and there a different tune. One, that Tramahsthas had taught him with his bidding they accepted. And as the night thinned and faded into morning, the paper charms passed from hand to hand, they were carried along with the melody taught to be sung while traveling, and above all, when placing the charms to unfold at the destinations they would reach, wherever.
Thus the journey ended. Chosen family shared tears and laughter. Two of three children tugged at their step-elf’s sleeves, begging him to stay.
“Soon, I promise. Don’t worry! I will miss you, already, be assured!”
Friends who had grown together over the years embraced in farewells, their love quiet and sure. They knew they would meet again, not knowing when, not knowing where, but knowing it would happen. The winds will lead across the roads where bonfires sing of home.
And so, with the sun rising, the caravan of the Gur left the elf at a loop of the Chionthar River, where he turned inward, seeking the path back to the Glimmerwood, and deeper still, back to Doron Amar.
His tune on his lips.
A mission in his heart
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
1361 – Unknown when it started, but into Myrtul to come
Budding before Greengrass and blooming beyond
Nothing is as overlooked, small… invisible even, as if it is plainly presented. Or not? So or so. It would be assured that certain things are visible, but the path leading to them shall be covered by day and demure. Performance and well-played cover. The past days, and those after the first day of the coming Myrtul, the paper charms begin to spread and appear. Quietly pinned in places where travelers take shelter: on the boards of public gathering spots, pinned against the walls of quiet taverns, the kind that might host a passing Gur or wanderer on their venture.
They aren’t meant to stand out right away. They don’t shout for attention, perhaps? The message, though for everyone visible if spotting, seeks the calm attention of those who notice the small charm in the corner, or the faint song they hear in the wind sung, and might sing it at a pause. Quite the earworm eventually?
The charm is there. A reminder. The ink, the stark white letters, the chime, and the willow rings, it’s all there, waiting to be noticed. They blend into the background, eventually, because of the greige paper color, yet somehow, they feel ever-present, when noticed. The fire’s warmth lingers, and so does the message. Until shooed away or snatched off the place where found.
The paper charms are scattered across the trade way and potential settlements. Some will see them, some will hear the faint tune, and in that quiet space between the edges of night and day, this song will hopefully continue to spread. All paper charms are indeed unfolded by the time they are placed. One paper at a time is pinned where possible at the wide, near the Inner Gate, in the outer city, at the Friendly Arm, the Phoenix Company, Greenest, Gullykin, Beregost, and further. Eventually reached Triel, Windingwaters or along the Roaring Shore to Kraak Helzak. Soubar and Boreaskyr Bridge are aimed as even Nashkel is, perhaps even finding their way further along the trade ways. But who knows?
Tacked to a board, a tavern wall, or a market stall of willing, yet it is nothing that calls for a glance of “hasted,” “very important,” or “socially blind” eyes, but for these things:
• The ink and used paper: of stark white and greige, written in an elusively flowing hand of an artist.
• A charm sewn into the reinforced bottom: two willow rings, braided and intertwined, with a tiny chime swaying beneath them.
• And at the top, a title followed by prose, simple yet deliberate:
“Sylphen Whisper,
You know not my name, nor I know yours.
But let me sing, and if you, dear, listen,
You may find we walk a similar course.
Oh, folk and traveler…
Be you wanderer, merchant, guard, or guest,
Take these words, not as mere burden,
But as a moment of your mind’s and heart’s rest.
We’ve all heard the murmurs ,
Felt the sinister weight in the air.
The fog thickens, gloom creeping near,
Turning whispers and words into twisted blurs.
But now you, dear, know my names flare:
A song, a reminder, a small smirk and more.
Hope still lingers and glisters, even here, even there.
Don’t let it slip, nor skip it ashore.
I bid you, dear, well…
Let not the fog nest deep in your chest.
Strengthen your light against the glooming crest.
I am singing for you, to bring your souls rest.
Come join in my tune, dear, until all pale things fell.
Until soon, you hear this,
Sylphen Whisper.“
*If one searches for a signature, one will find drawn beneath:*
A white flower.
*Under the flower, eleven notes rest between three lines, all sketched in the same hand:*
h, g, f | h, g, f | h, g, f, e, f
This song was meant to be hummed or sung near Gur bonfires, carried by one caravan or another, spreading as it traveled. On Greengrass itself, whether joyfully celebrated or quietly observed, more and more people might have joined in the gossip, wearing a not-so-secret yet sacred sign: a stark white flower. Tucked in a braid, tied to a wagon, pinned near a tavern door, or resting behind an ear. A quiet invitation. A shared recognition. A celebration of Greengrass.
Along the coast, a troupe had gathered once more, having traveled with other Gur caravans to reunite for this very time. As the sun of Greengrass, the first of Myrtul, began to set, lanterns and colored lampions flickered to life around a small stage, marking the beginning of their second performance, the first having taken place the night before. Before a modest audience, welcomed again into a wagon-circle near a village or town, a man stepped into the glow. He wore a fox mask.
His voice was smooth and worn, like well-used leather, warm, inviting, and precisely measured. It charmed with a bard’s ease, yet held a sly, fox-like edge, always hinting at mischief or hidden meaning. Laughter lingered too long, phrases twisted just so, and listeners found themselves drawn in before they realized. Endearing and ensnaring, his words settled like smoke, comforting, until the sting revealed itself.
"When the last rays of sunlight kiss the earth, and the veil between day and night grow thin, we welcome you. Wanderer, seeker, dreamer… this night you travel with us, into a world beyond light and shadow. Between magic and myth.
We are the artists: Fey’ding at Dusk.
Let your sorrows fade, like the fleeing sun, and follow us through illusion and truth.
Dive with us into the enchanting dusk and beyond.
Let the show begin… [...]"
You know not my name, nor I know yours.
But let me sing, and if you, dear, listen,
You may find we walk a similar course.
Oh, folk and traveler…
Be you wanderer, merchant, guard, or guest,
Take these words, not as mere burden,
But as a moment of your mind’s and heart’s rest.
We’ve all heard the murmurs ,
Felt the sinister weight in the air.
The fog thickens, gloom creeping near,
Turning whispers and words into twisted blurs.
But now you, dear, know my names flare:
A song, a reminder, a small smirk and more.
Hope still lingers and glisters, even here, even there.
Don’t let it slip, nor skip it ashore.
I bid you, dear, well…
Let not the fog nest deep in your chest.
Strengthen your light against the glooming crest.
I am singing for you, to bring your souls rest.
Come join in my tune, dear, until all pale things fell.
Until soon, you hear this,
Sylphen Whisper.“
*If one searches for a signature, one will find drawn beneath:*
A white flower.
*Under the flower, eleven notes rest between three lines, all sketched in the same hand:*
h, g, f | h, g, f | h, g, f, e, f
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
Can you divine in all the Colors of the Winds? 1361 – 6th Day of Mirtul
Water drops fell from his chin. Some chill still clung to him like an old friend… wet strands of white-silver-blue hair trailing down his neck as he sat beneath the broad-limbed willow on the western riverbank, facing Doron Amar across the silver-glassed creek he had just swum in. The village shimmered beneath a veil of afternoon sun. Between him and her, a hundred little flows murmured, cradling stones, carrying leaves. Fang lay curled near the roots, spectral fur twitching, one ear slightly tilted toward him. Paw, ever upright, sat at his side... ethereal eyes half-lidded in quiet watch. The cards already rested in Tramahsthas' lap.
The cards lay still. But the winds did not... Tramahsthas sat beneath the willow’s boughs in reverie, yet awake, and waited... as if the answer might drift down, caught in a crane’s slow wingbeat or the hush of night leaves folding. He had drawn the cards again, not because he sought certainty, but because the world itself had begun to whisper questions louder than old songs could cover.
It began with a misstep in speech, really.
"Ethereal realm... like in the spirit realm?"
He’d asked that at the summit. A ripple of frowns, narrowed glances that day.
"I just don’t speak arcane."
Today he could almost hear Paw snort... not unkindly, but firm as always. The badger spirit's eyes-pale, reflective-glanced his way, ethereal and knowing.
"Arcane is not a tongue, leaf-child."
Tramahsthas ruffled his hair, half-laughing to himself.
"Haha, Paw. I know, I know. It’s not one language. Just a way of speaking. A tower's tongue, their way of shaping the world. Whether it’s dragon-word, heaven-speech, or the guttural rasp of the pits... I don’t speak it. It doesn’t root in me. I’m not made for the geometry of glyphs."
If he ever wanted to learn a tongue, it would be that of the winds.
But he was of the earth, and he listened to the skies. He already spoke several tongues, like the one of the fey do... his head filled with stories, songs, and oral tradition. He had bathed in the clarity of riverbanks, danced beneath falling leaves that changed their hue mid-fall. The world spoke in colors and breath, not books. His way was older. Oral. Knowledge passed through chant and word, not quill. The unseen badger’s gaze narrowed, the tilt of a spirit guide unimpressed. Tramahsthas chuckled dryly, ruffling his still-dripping hair. He flicked a card between his fingers.
"But it isn’t what I was taught. How is was taught."
His fingers moved across the deck without thought, slow and practiced. Not the smooth weavings of Evereskan scholars. No measured gestures from towers with ink-stained wands. He was his mother’s son more than his father's, though of course he "is." The stars, their charts-all his father's domain. But that path never resonated with him. He had listened instead to the trees, danced in leaf-fall, soaked in the clear songs of rivers. He had learned by watching, by listening... a practice of oral tradition. Korzairlan, his superior woodelven cousin, had taken the Evereskan road of the arcane archer, to lead their almost small house branch in Evereska. Strong, swift, proud... he carried magic like his bowstring's song. But Tramahsthas had always felt the stiffness pressing too tightly, especially in Evereska, leading to those visits "of need at least." He had left Elventree not in rebellion, but in yearning-to follow the roads of wind, song and root, not the spiral stairs of towers. To find "second-sighted" paths.
Now, in Doron Amar, the Evereskan song was strong again. He felt it… proud, refined, and finely tuned to higher elven harmony. It resonated in the wards, in the glasswork, in the pacing of scholars, in the craftsmanship of buildings and wordings alike, eventually. And yet, something unsettled had crept in. The harmony felt thinner, as if a note had gone missing, or a shadow had crossed the sun. There was someone he needed to speak to. Someone who might hold a piece of the answer. And the questions pressed at him, restless and insistent.
"What should I use?"
he had asked himself days ago, when a request for divination settled into his chest like snow... Cards were a tool not bound to one land. Every people he had met used something like them. Dwarven runes? No, that wasn’t their purpose. In Rashemen, some used bones tossed into circles... but they never sang to him.
No. For Tramahsthas, it had always been a blend: the flight of the crane, the color of the moon, the swerve of wind through stone and reed. And somehow, the art of the cards.
He let his hand move to begin. The soft chant hummed through him, low and smooth like the river:
"Shuffle, shuffle, twist for sight,
Energy flows to visions bright.
Spirit sparks for wisdom subtle,
Shuffle the deck to clear the trouble."
The cards fell, one after the other , and he studyied what he saw, the echoe of teachings in his mind as resonation to "you have now power over me":
((art own by: Stephanie Pui-Mun Law - Shadowscapes Tarot))
The Three of Wands
Upright:
Freedom, adventure, travel, expansion.
Hard work paying off, success, forward planning.
Self-confidence, growth, spreading your wings.
Reversed:
Lack of progress, frustration, holding on to the past.
Failure, disappointment, lack of confidence. The Two of Swords
Upright:
Difficult decisions, stalemate, being at a crossroads.
Conflicting ideas or emotions, needing balance and communication.
Avoiding making a choice, inner conflict between heart and mind.
Advice: wait for clarity, don’t rush decisions, be patient.
Reversed:
Realization of truth, breaking stalemates.
Creative disagreements leading to synergy.
Emotional upheaval, anxiety, tension.
Advice: gather input, avoid impulsiveness. The Fool
Upright:
New beginnings, innocence, freedom, spontaneity.
Taking risks, leap of faith, enthusiasm.
Embarking on a new journey, embracing the unknown.
Reversed:
Naivety, recklessness, distraction.
Foolishness, being stuck in comfort zone, gullibility. The Seven of Cups
Upright:
Multiple choices, opportunities, dreams, fantasy.
Illusions, wishful thinking, procrastination.
Need for realistic assessment and focused decision-making.
Reversed:
Clarity, reality check, decisiveness.
Avoiding illusions, missed opportunities.
Feeling trapped or limited.
He had drawn these cards, twisting them up and upside down. Four images. Four fragments of a vision still swirling, unclear. They pointed, but without a question, the path curled like thick fogs at midday. He had no crystal ball like „The fey’ding at Dusk“, his Gurcaravans People, and wouldn’t know how to look through it even if he did. But they had teached him the reading of the cards and he had other gifts. What shimmered in others as arcane, sparked in him as second sight, primal and divine. He called them chants, but spells. They didn’t nest in his mind, memorized and ordered, but arrived unbidden when the winds wanted them sung in tramahsthas needs.
But still... none of it yet answered what clawed at him. The reading was not enough without a question. And the question was tangled.There was a sense of unease, a feeling that something important had shifted. He needed to find the right question, and perhaps speak with the one who held the missing piece.
He looked down at the cards again. The river whispered. Paw gave a low grunt beside him, and the wolf’s ear twitched.He would ask clearer questions this time. He had to. And so he shuffled the deck again, returning the previous cards inside, and let his energy be guided by his voice into the next draw.
During his preparations and readings, he would use his gifts and tools of knowledge. For sure would he seek for the persons to speak with.
He would do this again, around the tower, if there was any chance to find something that could bring clarity to this divinational attempt.
As the crane flew over the forest,
As the leaves swayed and gently fell,
As the first frogs began to croak.
Tramahsthas Auvrea'elrvis [trɑː.mɑs.t̪ɑs aʊ.vreə.ɛl.rvɪs] Hail to Angharradh and Erevan
~~Not in imitation, but in echo. Not in shadow, but in shimmer.~~
~~Words wound deeper than any weapon known to this world.~~
