Location: Arbola Forest
Time: 6th Age, 53 year, Spring
The transition from the scorched dust of the road to the borders of the Arbola Forest was not a subtle one. For weeks, the Drokka had traveled through the dry heat of the flatlands as they traveled along the Easton-Weston Road between Regalis and Arbola; now they were swallowed by a cool, damp emerald gloom that smelled of loam, crushed leaves, and an ancient, suffocating magic.
To watch the Drokka make their way through the dense trees was like watching a pair of iron slugs trying to navigate a spider’s web made of silk and starlight. Their journey was a slow, agonizing descent into a green so deep it must have felt claustrophobic to them—a vertical prison of living wood. The Amorosi did not use roads; they followed “veins”—winding paths of soft, bioluminescent moss that cushioned every step. Barkla and Brega, however, were not built for silence. Their heavy leather boots and the iron-shod hooves of their ponies made a mockery of the Elven peace.
Every strike of metal against the damp, sacred earth likely sounded like a slap in the face of the forest, a rhythmic intrusion of the industrial world into the sanctuary of the ancient. I could almost hear the trees wincing as the Drokka’s stubborn mounts churned the delicate moss into black mud.
The insult was made even more profound by the escort itself. The Amorosi scouts moved in a terrifying, effortless silence, mounted upon elvish horses that were as much a part of the forest as the weir-trees. These beasts were tall, with coats that shimmered like mother-of-pearl, and eyes that held an unsettling, human-like intelligence. They required no saddles, no bridles, and certainly no iron horseshoes to mar the earth. They responded to the slightest lean of their riders’ lithe bodies, weaving through the undergrowth with a liquid agility that made the Drokka ponies look like clumsy pack-mules. The Elves sat upon them with a refined, athletic poise, their silver-leaf armor clicking softly—the only sound they permitted to compete with the wind.
Barkla’s jewel-like eyes narrowed as he watched the El-Janus’ horse step over a fallen log without so much as a rustle of a leaf. He spat into the ferns, his hand tightening on the reins of his own mount. “Look at them, Brega,” he grunted, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. “Riding ghosts. They don’t even have the decency to put leather between their backsides and the beast. It’s unnatural.”
“It’s magic, brother,” Brega replied, his own pony stumbling as it caught a hoof on a hidden root. He adjusted his blood-red surcoat, looking profoundly out of place. “And in this place, the magic is thicker than the air. Not to mention I can feel a dozen bowstrings tensed in the canopy above us.”
Barkla surveyed the trees but couldn’t make out any watchers – although he too knew they were there. What the mighty dwarf did see were a number of unusual trees nestled amongst the more common forest fare – huge, pale weir-trees—looking like White Watchers—that loomed over them, their bark etched with living runes that pulsed with a faint, rhythmic amber light. The sweat beaded on Barkla’s pale, bulbous nose, and his jaw set so tight his black beard bristled. “The trees are breathing, Brega,” Barkla’s voice was a low, grating whisper that seemed to carry too far in the stillness. “I can feel the sap thrumming in the ground. It’s like being inside the belly of a beast.”
Brega nodded, “Perhaps better the belly of a beast than the open plains with the Skulz at our heels. But I don’t like the way that small one moves. He doesn’t disturb a single leaf.”
The party had barely breached the first inner circle of the White Watchers when the air seemed to fold in on itself. El-Janus, that diminutive shadow in iridescent grey, halted his mount with a gesture so subtle it was practically a thought. He didn’t speak to the Drokka; he turned his wood-ash gaze toward a tall, obsidian-haired scout named whom the others called Thalric and a single, sharp nod passed between them. Then, El-Janus looked back at Barkla, a faint, knowing smile playing on his ancient lips. Without a word, he nudged his horse into a thicket of weeping ferns—and simply ceased to be.
El-Janus didn’t ride away. He didn’t gallop. He just… melted. One moment he was a physical presence, a weight in the world; the next, the ferns hadn’t even finished swaying, and he was gone.
“Where did the little maggot go?” Barkla growled, his hand flying to the molded black leather of his axe-grip. He spun in his saddle, his jewel-eyes darting frantically through the emerald gloom. “He was right there! No horse moves that fast without a sound.”
Thalric mildly chuckled. “The Mysstro goes where he is needed. Let us move forward too.”
As they moved deeper into the humid heart of Arbola, the sweat matted on Brega’s neck. Like his brother, he knew El-Janus was still there. Both Drokka could feel him—a prickle of cold static on the back of their necks, a shadow that moved just out of the corner of their vision, a snap of a twig that came from a direction where no one stood.
“He’s hunting us, Barkla,” Brega whispered, his voice trembling in spite of his bravery. “He’s in the leaves. He’s in the roots. I can feel that Mysstro’s eyes crawling over my skin like spiders.”
“Let him watch,” Barkla spat. “Let the little ghost see how a Drokka face fear. If he wants my throat, he’ll have to come through the steel of Rhokki to get it.”
In spite of the dwarves’ worries, Gruff, the great silver wolfhound, seemed to transition into the forest’s rhythm far more easily than his masters. While Barkla and Brega remained coiled like springs, their hands never straying far from their weapons, the hound’s demeanor shifted. He kept his head low, yes, but not in fear; his nose was twitching with a frantic, scholarly interest.
Every so often, he would pause to sniff at a patch of sunlight or a cluster of glowing fungi, his tail giving a single, slow wag. When El-Janus dissolved into the shadows, Gruff didn’t bark or snarl. Instead, he let out a low, huffing breath—a sound of recognition, perhaps even respect.
The Amorosi have spent eons whispering to the trees and singing to the creatures of the wild; Gruff, being of a royal, ancient lineage himself, seemed to sense that the forest wasn’t a trap, but a host. He could feel the lack of malice in the “invisible” presence of the Mysstro. He wasn’t tracking an assassin; he was acknowledging a fellow predator who had mastered the art of being part of the wind.
“Look at Gruff,” Brega whispered, his voice hushed with a mix of awe and irritation. “He’s practically smiling at the shadows. Do the Valdermakken have ways of taming things that should stay wild?
Barkla grunted, watching Gruff with a suspicious squint. “The beast is confused by the perfume and the trickery. Don’t let his ease fool you, brother. A dog might trust the wind, but a Drokka only trusts the stone beneath his boots.”
The Living Architecture
As they drew closer to the heart of the forest, the elven “village” began to reveal itself—though to call it a village was a stretch. The Amorosi didn’t build; they persuaded the forest to grow into the shapes they desired. Although there were plenty of bungalows on ground levels, there were also strange platforms of living wood were woven between the massive trunks, connected by bridges of braided vines that swayed in the perfumed breeze.
Barkla looked up at the soaring heights, his jewel-like eyes wide with a mixture of awe and deep-seated Drokka suspicion. He saw the shimmering veils of silk hanging from the branches, the lanterns made of captured fireflies, and the lithe figures of the Elven civilians watching them with cool, detached curiosity.
“Why do some live in the sky>” Brega muttered, his hand tightening on his shield-strap. “How can a people trust the ground if they never touch it?”
“They don’t trust the ground,” Barkla grunted. “Perhaps they think they’ve outgrown it?”
Eventually they were shown to a guest bungalow and their mounts were fed and housed.
The tiny house they were put up in was a marvel of Elven craftsmanship – that the brothers clearly loathed. It was a circular pod of woven living wood, filled with the scent of crushed jasmine and cedar. To Barkla and Brega, who were used to the solid, unyielding stone of the Rhokki Pass, the floor felt precarious—as if the forest were merely waiting for them to sleep before sucking them into the abyss.
For his part Gruff didn’t seem to mind and quickly lay himself by the threshold, his silver chin resting on his paws. He was the only one at peace, his tail occasionally thumping against the mossy floor as he watched the fireflies dancing outside the silk-screened windows.
A candlemark passed. Barkla sat on the edge of a low-slung bed, painstakingly polishing the black spike of his helm with a bit of oiled rag. “I don’t like it, Brega,” he muttered, his voice a low rumble that seemed too heavy for the delicate walls. “The air is too thin in The World Above. It makes a man’s head light. It makes him forget what’s real.”
“What’s real is the cough in Father’s chest,” Brega replied. He was standing by the window, staring out. He had removed his heavy leather boots, revealing feet as broad and scarred as granite blocks. “I can still hear it, even here. Like a shovel hitting dry dirt. If we don’t bring back the treasury from Akka—if we don’t find the relic—the healers say he won’t see the next winter. And then what? You’re King of three crumbling halls and a graveyard.”
Barkla stopped polishing. The firelight caught the deep lines in his brow. “I’m not a King, Brega. I’m a soldier. I don’t know how to rule a people who have forgotten the taste of full bellies.”
“Sssh.” Brega motioned for silence. “Someone approaches.”
A soft, melodic chime rang at the entrance of the bungalow—not the heavy iron knock of a servant, but a sound like a silver bell muffled by velvet. A young Amorosi woman, draped in robes of pale willow-green, glided into the room. She carried a tray of polished pear-wood, moving with such effortless balance that the liquids in the crystal carafes didn’t even ripple.
She placed the tray on the low, woven table with a shallow bow, her eyes carefully avoiding the sight of Brega’s bare, scarred feet. “The Regent sends his compliments,” she murmured, her voice like wind through grass. “A harvest from the High Boughs to restore your spirits.”
As she slipped back out into the twilight, the brothers hovered over the tray like two bears investigating a beehive.
Barkla poked a finger at a bowl of translucent, shimmering spheres. “What in the Seven Halls is this, Brega? It looks like frozen frog-spawn.”
“I think they’re dew-grapes, brother,” Brega muttered, picking up a small, silver fork that looked like a toy in his massive hand.
The dinner was a masterpiece of Elven light-fare that included petals of Saffron-Lily poached in honey and sun-wine, whipped Cloud-Nut Cream served in hollowed-out rinds of bitter citrus, thin slices of Moon-Melon that glowed with a faint, internal luminescence, and a salad of blue-veined moss and edible orchids, dressed in a vinaigrette of fermented nectar.
Barkla picked up a lily petal, sniffed it suspiciously, and popped it into his mouth. He chewed for a second, his brow furrowed, then swallowed with a look of profound disappointment.
“It tastes like… a Drokkina’s poem,” Barkla spat, reaching for his waterskin to wash away the sweetness. “It’s air. There’s no weight to it. I could eat this entire tray and still be lighter than a mountain goat.”
Brega sighed, looking at a small, elegant loaf of bread that was so light it practically defied gravity. “They don’t eat to live, Barkla. They eat to experience. I’d trade this entire ‘harvest’ for a single strip of that buck Gruff caught earlier.”
As if hearing his name, Gruff let out a soft whine. Barkla looked at the dog, then at the moon-melon, and finally reached into his travel pack. He pulled out a hard, salt-crusted slab of Drokka Way-Meat—dried mountain goat that was as tough as boot leather and twice as salty. He sliced off a hunk with his long-knife, the sound of the blade through the preserved meat a jagged rasp in the quiet room.
“Here,” Barkla said, tossing a piece to Brega and another to Gruff. “Real food. This lily-meal is for people who don’t intend to do any heavy lifting tomorrow.”
Brega returned to their earlier conversation, “You’d have help, you know? Vola wouldn’t let you fail. She’d have you organized before the coronation ended.”
Barkla gave a gruff, dry chuckle. Vola was the daughter of the Master of the Forge back home—a Drokkina with arms as strong as any Drokka warrior and a temper that could melt iron. “Vola wouldn’t marry a Prince of nothing. She told me the last time I saw her that if I didn’t come back with enough silver to re-roof the palace, she’d marry a Derkka goblin just for the spite of it.”
“She’s a terror,” Brega agreed, sitting down on a stool that groaned under his weight. “But she’s our terror. Not like these… these silk-wrapped statues out there. I saw you looking at that Amorosi scout leader. Too tall for you, brother. You’d need a ladder just to steal a kiss.”
“Hmph. I’d rather kiss a mountain lion,” Barkla grunted. “At least a lion is honest about wanting to eat you. These Valdermakken… they smile and speak of peace while they watch our world burn.”
“What do you think they’ll tell us tomorrow?” Brega wondered.
Barkals expression darkened. “They’ll tell us what they always tell the Drokka. To wait. To pray. To be patient.”
“They have ten thousand years.” Brega mused. “We have ten.”
“Then we don’t wait,” Barkla said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, stony register. He looked at his broad axe, the runes on the silver plating glowing with a faint, reflected light. “If the Council won’t give us the maps or the scouts, we go anyway. We’ll find Akka by the scent of our own blood if we have to. I didn’t come this far to be turned back by a Regent who’s afraid of his own shadow.” He reached out and ruffled the fur on Gruff’s neck. The dog looked up, his eyes reflecting the brothers’ shared resolve.
“To the North, then?” Brega asked.
“To the North,” Barkla confirmed. “For Father. For the Rhokki. And for that spitfire Vola, before she finds herself a goblin.”
They sat in silence for a long time after that, two brawny dwarves in a house of glass, clutching the memories of a dying kingdom like shields against the coming dawn.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 