The icon depicts a tree stump.
Contents[]
A Mortal Morning[]
They were the harbingers of the Fall, these Children of Dust...
and they lit the forest with their fires, and then split it with their blades.
We crept back, shapeless in the darkness, silent in the trees.
But shadows are few in this age of mortals. The light beckons...
A Wearying Magic[]
Strange creatures, these mortals. They wake. They work. They worry. It is a joyless undertaking, life.
The Wolds now bear the mark of time, of smoke and frailty.
And there is more... a wearying of magic.
Did these mortals bring it with them in their tents and wagons, or is it a symptom of something much more sinister?
A Dimming Wait[]
Oft here have Faebourn friends stood and gazed on ancient stone.
Oft, too, have Alfar and Human stood just the same, silent, searching.
From crumbling rubble, what hymns rise from their yearning hearts?
The Children of Dust deny no gods, but they stroke these stones like statues, "Hand of Ynadon," "Hem of Lyria."
A Final Sunset[]
As we gaze down from our high hill, and feel the last warm touch of the sun on our backs, we wonder... is this the end of our endless day?
What hope have we in these changing seasons when winter comes and does not abate?
We watch, cold and dying, at what may be our final sunset.
A Fading Fae[]
The Fae dwindle in these forgotten hills.
Our magic fades as the mortals toil and mark the land with hoe and plow.
The Wolds were crafted from ancient winds and streams, and time, the countless seasons of the Great Cycle.
The mortals do not see the Cycle's passage in this tired earth.
But the fields grow older, and one day, so will the people.