Location: Arbola Forest
Timeline: Sixth Age, 53rd Year, Spring
Alyssa had her lost lover again – now all she had to do was bring Alfranco back from the ‘dead’ state he stuck in. To do that she’d had the old gaffer transported to her at The Hot Springs.
The springs were a masterpiece of of Alyssa’s magic working in combination with Gaia’s life force as it pulsed through the veins of white quartz that provided the structure of interlaced grotto that collected rivulets of water that flowed through the forest into this secluded area. The covered pools were a sanctuary, sheltered by the massive, weeping boughs of ancient willows whose roots drank directly from the mineral-rich waters. Steam rose in iridescent ribbons from the turquoise water, clinging to the overhanging ferns and orchids that bloomed in a perpetual state of ecstatic opening, their perfume acting as a sedative to the weary and a tonic to the dying.
Now, in the center of the largest pool, the goddess moved like a beautiful swan. Alyssa was the quintessence of the Goddess of Love, her golden hair cascaded in waves over the voluptuous curves of the portion of her naked body exposed above the water, whilst her eyes reflected the emerald canopy above. She cradled the aged Alfranco in her arms, his head resting against her bare shoulder as they drifted together in the healing waters. Showering him with a tenderness that could have moved mountains, Alyssa brushed her lips against his weathered brow, her voice a celestial hum designed to knit his broken soul back together.
“Awake, my lion,” she whispered, her voice vibrating through the water and into his marrow.
To aid in his restoration, Alyssa summoned the Song-Weavers of Arbola—small, iridescent kingfishers with plumage that shifted between sapphire and gold. They perched upon the limestone ledges, their trilling songs harmonizing with the bubbling of the vents. This was no mere melody; the frequency of their song was designed to vibrate the stagnant humors of a mortal mind, shaking loose the cobwebs of trauma.
Nearby, a pair of Emerald Newts, creatures born of the spring’s unique alchemy, crawled onto Alfranco’s chest as Alyssa helped him float upon his back. The newts’ touch was cool, drawing out the negative fire that still scorched his subconscious. Meanwhile Alyssa used her magical spell called “The Knitting the Spirit” in which she gathered the iridescent moss of a plant called Aba’s Breath that grew at the water’s edge. Speaking the rites, the goddess pressed the moss against ALfranco’s temples – the plants pulsed with a soft light, attempting to reconnect the impulses of his shattered nerves.
Unfortunately, Alyssa’s magic didn’t work – the old man remained a hollow vessel. Alyssa’s chagrin turned to a simmering, divine frustration. The goddess had managed to make Alfranco’s eyes stay open, but his gaze remained fixed on a point far beyond the grotto, staring into a darkness that even the light of a goddess could not pierce.Alyssa’s brow furrowed.
“You hide from me in the dark,” she whispered, more to the shadows of his mind than to the man himself.
She placed a hand over his heart, her thumb tracing the slow, jagged beat of his pulse. Closing her eyes, she cast her consciousness into the “Murky Deep.” She bypassed the superficial layers of his identity—the tavern-hound, the grandfather, the storyteller—and dove for the foundational stone of Al-Corragio. Yet, she found far more than she expected when she tapped into the haunting, looped memory of a nightmare.
Incident at The Pub
As Alyssa delved deeper into the fractured psyche of her champion, she felt the temperature of the Hidden Springs vanish, replaced by the ghost-scent of stale ale and pipe tobacco. She was no longer a goddess in a grotto; she was a silent witness to the final, gilded hours of Alfranco’s sanity.
The Brandonale had been a roaring sanctuary that night, a pocket of warmth against the biting, unnatural winds of Pennal. Alfranco was in his prime element, his face flushed with the heat of the hearth and the joy of an audience. He stood precariously atop a scarred oak bench, a foaming tankard raised like a scepter – the king held court again.
“The weather!” he barked, his voice booming over the rattle of the walls. He dismissed the nervous whispers of patrons who had trickled in with tales of purple mists creeping through the valley and the ominous sounds approaching. “Since when has a bit of thunder stopped an Azop from a good drink? If the heavens want to roar, let ‘em! They’re just jealous they can’t get a pint of Aldom’s Best!”
Aldom Mercaldo, the tireless barkeep, kept his best customer’s mug brimming, knowing Alfranco’s presence was the main thing keeping the growing crowd from succumbing to the dread brewing outside. As the evening wore on, more villagers poured in – among them Jon and Sally Middleswarth, the young Neil Belzer, and even Doc Wirtz.
Alfranco had already held them captive with the Terror of Tonka Town and his accounts of strange days in Arbola. He had just finished the Feasting of the Morati, describing the ghastly undead who’d dined upon the unfortunate fallen soldiers who lined the battlefields of The Last Great War – a story that always sent shivers of delicious, shared terror among the crowd. Then, with a wink, he promised the patrons he’d have another yarn soon and made his way back to the bar to find some sustenance.
As the old gaffer sat at the board, chatting with Aldom while tearing into a crust of bread and sharp cheese, an unknown patron slid into the seat next to him. The man was dressed strangely for a traveler in Pennal; he wore a coat of iridescent, beetle-wing green that seemed to shift colors in the firelight, and a hat pulled low, woven from reeds that weren’t from any steams in this area.
Assuming the visitor was a traveler passing through, the always friendly Alfranco offered a warm greeting. The newcomer remained quiet, watching the gaffer with eyes that seemed too bright for the tavern’s gloom. Later, when Aldom was distracted by a rowdy table of farmhands from Pryde’s lands, the stranger produced a silver flask—etched with swirling vines that seemed to move—and held it out towards Alfranco as he said,”To a man who knows how to live.”
Never one to turn down a free drink, Alfranco drained the dregs of his ale and held out his empty mug. As the stranger poured, the liquid caught the candlelight, glowing with a faint, unnatural emerald hue. It didn’t pour like liquor; it flowed like liquid silk, thick and shimmering.
“Never seen the likes of it ‘afor,” the gaffer admired, peering into the glowing depths of the mug. “What be it?”
“Eos-Aurelius,” the traveler replied—the Wine of the Dawn.
Alfranco swallowed the drink in a single, hearty gulp. It tasted of summer honey and ancient sunlight. Invigorated, he sprang back to his feet to begin another tale, even as stranger dissipated into the press of the crowd, eventually vanishing through the door as if he had never been more than a shadow.
Another candlemarks passed, and soon the green spirits were beginning their heavy work. A profound, irresistible lethargy settled into Alfranco’s marrow. His tongue grew heavy, his stories slowing until he felt more tired than he had in a hundred years. Murmuring that he needed a “moment’s peace,” he retreated to a dark, quiet corner table, resting his head on his crossed arms. That was the moment Alyssa’s magic took hold, pushing his consciousness into the Divine Slumber.
Shortly after that, the world outside descended into an apocalypse—the panicked patrons of the Brandonale rushed outside – only to discover the Myz Kaoz moving through the streets like a reaper! The screams of Alfranco’s family and the countless others who fell to the monster’s wrath were drowned out as Alfranco was locked in a crystalline Dreamworld. As the village burned, the old storyteller was in a far away land – in his mind, he was Al-Corragio again. He was young, his hair raven-black and his heart untainted. He rode a magnificent white stallion through the high glades of Arbola, the wind whipping his face as Alyssa laughed riding beside him on her own philly, her hair a golden banner in the sun. Alfranco heard a rhythmic, earth-shaking thunder and smiled, thinking it the sound of a grand parade of forest lords or a glorious battle he was destined to win.
He never realized that “thunder” was the sound of the another building’s oak beams snapping. Nor that the “warmth” of the Arbolan sun was actually the radiant heat of the neighboring houses burning to the ground.
When he finally awoke the next morn, the pub was empty of life, save for a thick, suffocating layer of grey soot that covered every table like a shroud. Confused and still reeling from the emerald liquor, Alfranco stumbled out into the Parkway street. He found not a village, but a smoldering graveyard. The “sun” was a pale, sickly disc through a sky of ash. He had slept through the end of his world; he had dreamed of love while the screams of those who shared his blood were silenced by the Myz’s fury.
Alyssa pulled back from his mind, her own eyes shimmering with a rare flicker of guilt. She had intended the slumber to save him—to keep her champion from being broken by the Myz—but she had failed to account for the weight of mortal conscience. Alfranco wasn’t catatonic because of the trauma; he was hiding in the dream because the waking world was a reality he felt he had no right to survive.
“Oh, my brave, foolish lion,” Alyssa whispered, her voice thick with a new, fierce resolve.
She looked at the broken old man, the “gaffer” who had been crushed by the weight of a goddess’s interference. She realized now that the “Butterfly Effect” hadn’t just changed the world—it had trapped her lover in a prison of his own making.
“I gave you the sleep to keep you whole,” she murmured, pulling him closer until their hearts beat as one. “But I will give you my love to bring you back. I will wash the ash from your soul, Al-Corragio. I vow it by the Deep itself. You will not hide in the shadows of Monthaven forever. I will make you remember who you were before the fire, and I will make you want to live again.”
She leaned down and pressed a long, shimmering kiss to his lips, her power beginning to hum, ready to battle the demons of his guilt with the relentless light of the forest.
The Healer and the Ghost
Another ‘goddess’ was providing a healing touch elsewhere in The Forest. At the house of Rian and Fara, their adoptive daughter Nathily attended to Emcorae. The headstrong youth had not returned to his former bungalow on the northern border, instead he was lodged – at least temporarily – at the Regent’s house. Nathily had demanded as much – the spirited elfess’ throwing such tantrums as her parents had never witnessed before. Trying to pacify their beloved daughter, they agree to let Emcorae stay in their cellar – a dry, cool space that felt more like a bunker than a bedroom – yet it suited Emcorae – for he didn’t want the sun; he wanted the weight of the earth above him to match the weight of the grief in his chest.
For the last week, whilst Alyssa cared for Alfranco at The Springs, Nathily did the same for Emcorae. She was the only light that dared to enter that cellar. She would descend the wooden stairs three times a day, carrying trays of broth, elven bread, and infusions of mushroom team to quell his rage.
“You have to eat something mroe, Em,” Nathily said one evening, setting a tray down on the low stone table. She looked at him with a gaze that was painfully tender. Her own appearance had changed; her face, though still beautiful, was gaunt from worry. “You’ll want your strength when you stand before the Council again.”
Emcorae sat in the shadows, his silver armor on a chair beside him was polished to a mirror sheen that reflected his stoic face in the candle light. He was sharpening his Azora katana with a whetstone, the rhythmic shhh-shhh of metal on stone the only music he allowed.
“I am strong,” he replied, his voice a gravelly rasp. He didn’t look up. “And I don’t need The Council’s wisdom this time. I only need their steel.”
“You need more than steel,” Nathily countered, sitting on the edge of his cot. She reached out, her fingers hovering near his hand before she pulled them back, a visible struggle playing across her features. She loved him with a quiet, desperate ferocity—a secret she kept locked inside even as her heart broke for him. “You need to breathe, Emcorae. You haven’t looked at the trees since you arrived. You haven’t even looked at me.”
“The trees didn’t save Monthaven,” he hissed, the whetstone stopping mid-stroke. He finally looked at her, and Nathily flinched. His eyes weren’t the eyes of the youth she had sparred with in the glades. They were cold, flat mirrors reflecting a world of darkness. “And looking at you… it just reminds me of…what I’ve lost.”
Above them, in the warm kitchen of the main house, the atmosphere was far less sympathetic. Fara stood cutting vegetables and stirring a pot of simmering broth, while Rian sat at the table, his brow furrowed as he looked over his notes from the day’s meetings.
“She’s down there again,” Rian muttered, his voice tight with frustration. “Feeding a dream and hoping for a miracle. He’s breaking her, Fara. Every day she spends in that cellar, she loses a piece of her own joy.”
Fara paused. “It is her dream, Dear. She reminds me of Alyssa – the way she dotes over a would-be lover. He may be a human, but never forget that Alyssa marked him for glory. Perhaps Nathily is drawn to that. And the maiden the boy loved is apparently… gone. As I told Nathily, the future is full of possibilities for those who are patient enough to wait for the ashes to cool.”
Rian looked at his wife, unsettled by the opportunistic glint in her eyes. “Amorosi and Pecora don’t mix. It’s not natural. I don’t think that’s what Alyssa brought him here for.”
“Who are we to guess the mind of the Goddess?” Fara countered.
Back in the cellar, Nathily reached out again, this time placing her hand firmly over Emcorae’s as it rested on the hilt of his sword.
“I won’t let you disappear, Emcorae Azop,” she whispered, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. “I don’t care about the Orkeny King, or the Arbola Council, or anything else. I care about my friend who used to laugh when we snuck extra rations behind El-Janus’ back. He’s still in there and I’ll stay here until I find you.”
Emcorae looked at her hand—warm, soft, and beautiful. For a second, his grip on the sword loosened – the “Darkness” inside him flickered. But then, a vision of Lynsy’s fiery death snapped in his mind like a whip.
“That man died in Monthaven, Nathily,” he said, gently but firmly removing her hand. “Don’t waste your time on someone destined for an early grave.”
He went back to his whetstone. Shhh-shhh. Nathily stood slowly, her heart a leaden weight as she climbed back up the stairs. She didn’t see the way Emcorae watched her go, a single, solitary spark of agony in his eyes that he quickly smothered with the thought of King Diked’s blood.
The Apocrypha of Azazel 