A Refugee of Flame and Shadow, pt II

         Coarse dirt crunches underhoof as he trots along the path. A soft mist clings to the ground, blanketing the underbrush. It swirls around his legs as he walks. Vibrant blue flowers peek up from the surface, bastions of life among the chill fog, continuing down the path ahead of him.

         Soon, there was a fork in the trail. The left side continues forward before curving further down the left. A chill wind pushes out from that direction as shadows dart from trunk to trunk. The right side leads further into the forest, and opens up into a clearing beyond. An archway made of woven branches leads a path into the center, where there is a grand cornucopia. Behind him, a thunderous blast shook the ground. He whips around, seeing a broad, dark plume of smoke begin to rise into the open sky. Fire takes the path far behind him, consuming the underbrush, trees and ground. It roars in the distance. Another column of smoke rises far to the east. Then another to the west. They pour into the sky, replacing daylight with darkness.

         A figure, far off in the distance, just enters view. It runs wildly in his direction. Dry dirt and crumbling leaves kick up behind it as a deep and calming voice, seemingly originating from every direction, fills the clearing, “Creature of the forest, be not afraid, in my sight I have seen you. Your kingdom burned, ashes of home and bone left to drift abandoned in the wind,” the figure approaches quickly, its form coming further into view. A centaur of black coat rides up the trail, patches white dotting the legs as it runs. A bright white mane flows in the wind, tail whipping behind the figure. A blanket of linked chain wraps around the form, bound by leather straps, “I have seen what you have accomplished, and I can see into your heart.”

         The dark sky opens up, letting in a single beam of light. It envelops the centaur running forward, the chain glinting like an ocean catching the midday sun. The light follows him as he continues forth, coming to a stop just a couple feet away. The sunlight parts from the clouds, bathing them both in warmth. Sweat drips from his disheveled black hair as he glances back and forth, down both paths.

         “The Oakenshade has fallen. Purging fires took the trees and the people, leaving nothing. I see the guilt, the self-loathing in your eyes, child. You feel helpless. Alone.”

         The clouds break further, showing in all its glory the shining sun, a beacon of hope upon the sky. Shaded figures appear from behind the flickering flame, their silhouettes stretching and distorting oddly. The black centaur, seeing this, chooses the right path. Under the arch and into the clearing, a vast and open grassy field sits before him. The sky opens up, displaying in its blue center the bright, and radiant sun. He sprints through the grass, feeling the wind in his hair. A booming voice fills the clearing.

         “I am Lathander, God of Redemption, and say you, Vrel’dani Brokenshield, are worthy of this path of holy redemption. Carry my light, and with it, smite the darkness. With it, heal the unwell and sickly. Bring my light to this world, child, and walk this path." A wide trail opens up on the opposite end of the clearing, beckoning to the centaur. He arcs widely as he runs upon it, soft dirt flicking up behind him, and gallops forth. The straight path ahead, flanked on both sides by waves of rolling green, ends with the treeline. The sun moves itself to above the trail, just caressing the horizon. Words echo throughout the clearing as he runs.

         “You will defend those who cannot defend themselves. You will inspire hope for those who have none. You will help those in need, and never fall to the darkness; but will guide those who have.”

         The treeline approaches rapidly, where a glistening, magical veil shines and sparkles, playing with the sunlight. The medallion around his neck begins to glow, floating gently above his chest. Light envelops the wooden symbol before settling back in place, bouncing up and down beneath his tunic. The voice, this time fading away as it speaks, “Always remember, just as the day will drive the night away, I will be with you.”

         The centaur breaks through the treeline, a bright and sudden white light taking hold of his mind, then everything goes black, silence and sleep taking him once again.


* * *


         The Oakenshade was one of the few places on this world where our realm of existence mingled with the Feywild. A bridge that connects the two. A number of peoples, like the centaurs who inhabited and guarded the inner forest, live in this enchanted wood. Many of these races have been outcast from the Fey realm, and have called the outer forest of The Oakenshade their home for generations. Small woodland creatures such as rabbits, touched and transformed by wild magic, also call this place their home. These are the harengon, a large bipedal leoprine people who’re full of hope, energy and aspirations to see and explore the world. The harengon originate from this forest, and can be seen sometimes as scouts, messengers and adventurers outside of their home. Inside their homeland, they live in small villages, led by druidic shamans, and occupy territory inside the boundary. The village elders always encourage the youth to explore and meet their neighboring villages. The wind shakes the broad oak leaves from their branches. They swirl and twirl as they glide toward the ground, an intimate dance between nature’s elements, before gently taking their rest.

         Along a dirt trail, the creeping ivy trimmed away neatly, and through a clearing in the woods is a gateway, shaped by druidic magic, where branches and vines gather to form a complex lattice design. Blue lilies dot the entirety of the entryway, withering away at the evening’s cold breath. The trail continues through the entryway and ends at a large cornucopia in the center of the village. Vegetables, nuts, and other foods fill it to the brim. Small fires are surrounded by burrows, capped by woven mats and carved between the roots of large oak trees, as people huddle near the heat. A stinging cold wind blows through the village as they move closer to the flame.

         Cuddled beneath her burrow, safe from the piercing breeze of the night, is a gray-furred harengon woman. Foliage pads the walls, insulating and comforting the otherwise cold and solid ground. She stirs in her sleep as soft conversations above begin to die out, and people finally begin to settle for the night. The firelight dims, and silence takes the peaceful village.


* * *


         The centaur is startled awake by a scream, a painful and familiar scream, as a new column of black smoke erects itself to the east of the clearing, covering the moon from his view. He reaches to his medallion and turns it over, the symbol of Lathander carved intricately and painted with fine detail. A warmth, though not quite as strong as before, comforts him as he returns it under his shirt. Quickly, repacking his things, he dons his armor and straps on his left arm the large wooden shield. He scoops up the gnarly warhammer and thunders through the forest.


* * *


         A sudden heat and screams woke the harengon woman from her sleep. Loud, commanding voices boom over the commotion. A man screams out for help as a low growl fills the clearing. Peering from under the mat, she saw the person trapped beneath a burning log, reaching out to a man in dark purple robes.

         “Please, you have to he-”

         The cloaked man stomps on his outstretched hand, “I have to what, now? I can’t hear you.” His voice is giddy as he leans in close, turning his back toward her. Another one, this time a blue-skinned tiefling woman, enters the village through the main gate. She whispers to herself, tracing a practiced arcane glyph in the air, and outstretches her hand. A wave of fire engulfs the elder’s burrow, and the ancient oak tree that houses it. The scent of burning herbs and medicine taints the air. She slides from beneath the mat, unnoticed by the cultists.

         From behind the tree that holds her own burrow, she pulls from the underbrush a longbow and quiver of arrows, as well as her leather armor. She pulls it over her fur, tightening the straps, and slings the quiver across her shoulder. Bow in hand she wraps around the tree, nocking an arrow.

         Another scream pierces the air as a perverted smile creeps up his face. The human twists his foot, grinding the trapped man’s hand beneath his boot. A plain circular symbol, black with a purple border, stands proud and center of the cloak. He spits in the elderly harengon’s face, drawing a scimitar from its sheath, “Everything and everyone you know is turned to ash and cinders,” he chuckles softly, brushing the blade against his face. A grin crosses his lips, “There is no help.”

         He raises the scimitar skyward; the harengon woman, already drawn and ready to fire, looses an arrow toward the cultist. It strikes him in the back, through the symbol on the cloak, pinning it against his body. She smirks to herself, “Bullseye.”

         He rears in pain, spinning around and reaching for the arrow as she nocks another. His face contorts with rage as he races forward, blade in hand. The wolf trails him, snarling and growling. The arsonist, pleased with her handiwork, drew forth her own scimitar, giving chase to this last, remaining survivor.
         No way was she going to let them burn her home to the ground and kill her people. She was going to fight, even if it meant burning with this forest.

         With tears staining the fur under her eyes, she pulls back another arrow and prepares to fire.


* * *


         Hooves once again beat against the forest floor, this time with renewed vigor and energy. The smoke and cries for mercy were not hard to follow. Bounding over creeping vines and deflecting branches that try to whip his face, he approaches the burning village. Fire licks goldshoed hooves as he maneuvers around fallen logs and uneven terrain. Ahead sits a wall of burning fire that consumes the treeline and brush below it. He takes a deep breath and charges through it, using the shield to protect his front. The blaze burns hair and skin, fueled by the breeze, as that smell invades his nose.

         He bursts through the inferno and looks around frantically. A cloaked man and a wolf are racing toward the far treeline, while a tiefling brings up the rear. He tightens the grip on the warhammer, whose once flat surface, used for denting and crushing armor, is now jagged and uneven after many battles. A sharpened point adorns the opposite end. Seeing the straggler, the centaur races forward, picking up speed and approaching her from behind. He swings the hammer with full running force toward her center of mass. It connects, sending her flying into the dirt in front of him. He continues forward, smashing a heavy hoof into her chest. He chases after the rest.

         The wolf, after seeing its prey distracted at the newcomer, leaps forward, lunging for her throat. She raises the bow, jamming it into the wolf’s snapping jaws before shoving it backwards. Her back hits the trunk of the tree as the wolf moves into a pinning position. It once again lunges for the woman. She plants her feat and kicks off the tree, leaping over the wolf. She twists her body midair, drawing her bow back and releasing the arrow. It strikes the flank of the animal, and its growl weakens to a whimper before the wolf lies still, resting against the tree.

         Before she could have a chance to right herself, a hand grasps at her armor as she’s pulled against a seething, filthy human face. With a hatred in his eye she had never seen before, in anyone’s eye, he hisses, “You will burn in this forest, rat!” He lifts her body up, suspended among the acrid, choking air, the flame and the shadow. He slams her into the ground, the breath leaving her. The man lifts her up and slams her against the ground again, and again and again, his face a shade of deep crimson, he screams with each impact, “Die, die, die!”

         He lifts her up and throws her into the base of a tree. She tries to get up, but with no wind in her lungs, she stumbles and falls once again. He raises his scimitar, and brings it down with a desperate arc. It penetrates the leathers, lodging itself deep within her chest. She gasps as blood begins to trickle from her mouth, staining the gray fur around her muzzle. He leans in close, drawing a dagger from his belt, and whispers into her ear, consciousness slowly fading, “O Lady of Darkness, upon this night and unde-”

         His prayer is cut short as the centaur had moved into position behind the man. The cultist turns and sees, silhouetted by the moon glaring down on them, the equine form rear up and strike downwards with the hammer. It connects with the top of the man’s skull, caving it in as he drops to the ground, unmoving. Laying the hammer to his side, he shoves the body off the harengon. The armor is stained crimson, and her breaths are shallow and quick. He crouches next to the prone figure as his throat tightens and his vision blurs.

         He was too late. He was too late again. Tears flow freely now, falling upon the woman’s soft fur as he picks her up. She looks up toward him with fear in her eyes, “No no. It’s okay. You’re going to be okay. Just hold on.” Her breath slows, the fear leaving her eyes.

         “No no no, just hold on, damn it!”

         Her body goes limp in his arms. He raises his face toward the heavens and releases all his frustration, anger and disappointment of himself. A mournful wail fills the cold, night sky as he embraces the young woman’s form. The voice from the dream lied to him.

         He couldn’t even help a single person, his friends, this… this…

         A soft, yellow glow emanates from his hands, lighting the forest floor in front of them. He stares in disbelief as the wound on her chest closes itself, becoming nothing more than a scratch below her armor. She takes a deep, sputtering breath and looks around wildly. He sets her down gently, looking at his hands and shaking his head, “That was amazing,” he says in an awestruck whisper, standing himself back up. The golden glow slowly fades from his hands.

         She glances back to him, relief filling her eyes, “I don’t know who sent you, but thank the gods you came when you did.” She begins making her way over to the burrows, the centaur following behind. She stops suddenly, looking at him, “Seriously. I would have died had you not come running in.” She continues onward.

         “Those people,” he nods towards the bodies, “They burned and slaughtered my people in their homes. Killed our King in his own palace.” He chenches a fist tightly at his side.

         “I am an Oaken Guard, sworn protector of The Oakenshade and its peoples,” he smiles wryly, holding the medallion, which feels a little warmer in his hands, “Maybe not anymore, but I’m done standing by while people suffer around me.”

         She sorts through a bag, “Guard or not, you’ve earned yourself one hell of a friend tonight,” she slings it over her shoulder, “What’s your name anyways?”

         “Vrel’dani Brokenshield, at your service.” he gives a slight bow, “And yours?”

         “Don’t know my real name, but the folk here,” she rubs the back of her neck, ”They used to call me Primrose. Primrose McHops.”

         “A fine name.”

         Wolves howl in the distance and voices echo from the village entrance. Primrose nocks an arrow.

         “You should hop on, I’m probably faster than you. But we should get going, quickly.” He says, tucking the medallion back in.

         She nods and jumps on, holding on tight as they take off into the unburned brush. Multiple sets of footsteps follow. Two wolves follow close behind; two more cloaked figures shout orders to them. Primrose steadies her aim while moving, drawing an arrow back. It shoots forward, missing its target, and sticks into the dirt. She mutters a curse and reaches back for another arrow. The wolves are close on their heels, but the cloaked figures disappear amongst the foliage. One of the wolves jumps for Vrel’dani’s hind leg, but he moves it out of the way as the wolf eats dirt, unable to keep up. He glances behind him - just one more left.

         “You got this!” He yells over the wind and branches rushing past.

         She draws her bow back, taking a breath and concentrating her aim. The arrow flies from the bow, piercing through the wolf’s hip. It halts it’s pursuit, limping back the way it came. She grins to herself before tossing the bow over her shoulder and sitting down, grabbing onto a leather strap for balance. He slows his pace to a trot as they continue through the forest.

         The trees are becoming more sparse the further down the path they go. Vrel’dani stops and looks around, “I’m not sure where we are exactly, but I figure we’re finally leaving The Oakenshade.”

         She points further up the trail, “We’re on the northern side of the forest, I think. The humans have their own village up ahead. I’ve been there a couple times, so just let me do the talking, yeah?” He nods.

         “We shouldn’t go now, though; I’m sure the villagers are asleep. I’m sure we can rest here for now, at least until sunrise,” Vrel’dani yawns.

         Primrose yawns too, “Good idea. We can make camp there.” She points off to the left. A large oak tree sits tall, its leaves reaching high into the night sky. They veer off the path and to the tree. Primrose hops off, tossing her bag to the ground, stretching her legs before sitting next to it. She unstraps her armor, sliding it up and over, tossing it aside. She leans forward and searches through her bag, eventually finding a cloth sack. She leans back and sets out her bedroll. Opening the bag, smiling sheepishly, she pulls out a pawful of carrots, crossing her legs on the mat.

         Vrel’dani, at this point rearing up and sliding out of his armor, kicks it to the side. He tosses out his sleeping mat, grabbing his own travel rations. They both eat in silence for a moment before Primrose speaks up, “So, ah, what’s the plan?” she asks between bites.

         “I don’t know what the plan is, to be honest. But it starts with a little food, drink and rest. Tomorrow we will see the human village, and go from there.”

         He takes a drink from his waterskin, “Besides, it’s not like we have a home to go back to anyways.” He pauses for a moment, looking at the ground. Small blades of grass grow among a forest of larger and taller ones. He sighs, before gulping down the rest.

         “Well,” he looks up, toward the sky, lifting his empty waterskin as a toast, “To better and brighter days ahead.”

         Primrose raises her own, “To better and brighter days.”