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Within the walls of this fair city roam a variety of people that have woven their lives' tapestries into the heart of Stormpoint. Some of the citizens call this home, but for others home is hailed in another land. There are many stories to be told by the people of Stormpoint.
Some tell of their lives before coming to this fair city, for others the tale is in the journey to Stormpoint. Within their tales, is a wealth of myth, legend, and lore... Some tales of lore and myth have been passed down from generation to generation. So sit back and "meet" some people of Stormpoint.
The Song of Nimrodyl
Ivar and the Ice Witch
In the early ages, when the Silver Forest still stood in the realm of Men, unclaimed by the mists of the fey, there was a young man named Malchais. He was a bard by trade, and had widely traveled the four lands, seeking tales of good and evil, courage and valour, justice and sacrifice with which to work his craft. He sought always the elusive story, the one which lay just beyond his grasp, and it kept him ever wandering. And though crowds gathered in firelit circles to hear his songs at every village and travel-worn hamlet, his search left him ever alone as each city faded from his sight and memory with his continuing quest.
And so it was that he was alone when he entered the elven woods west of the Elyrst River. Few mortals had passed their boundaries at this time, and the paths they held were not meant for the eyes of Man, for in this age the Elves knew little of Men, and trusted them less. Night fell quickly beneath the thick canopy of green, and Malchais took his rest by the wide roots of a juniper tree near a small glade, falling quickly victim to the comforting touch of Somnus, an old, but fickle patron of many a bard. But Somnus' touch was light on the bard this eve, and he stirred from his sleep while the moon still cast her silvery glow on the forest floor.
Half-rising from his bed in the crook of the tree, he held his breath and cast his eyes, for many a tale was told of the creatures of the wood; and though many of those tales were true and many still remain untold, the terror of which they spoke slept deep that night, undisturbed by the bard and not tasting his sudden fear. But in the dark light of the forest another figure stirred, and in the glade before him stood a young maiden, though whether she be elf, or dryad, or sprite, Malchais couldn't tell.
She was lithe of limb, but full of spirit which shone forth from her deep blue eyes, and her hair glittered like pale silver in the light of Isil's glow. Malchais was stricken instantly by her beauty, but when she began to sing, all her fairness paled in comparison to her voice. Her song was haunting, and though the words were unfamiliar, her voice and tune resounded deep within the bard, calling forth memories long forgotten and some which never were. All that lived in the forest seemed to merge within her voice--the dulcet sound of the waters, the clear song of the birds, the gentle rustling of the trees, and other, older sounds never heard by Man. Clad in a gown of green that moved with the leaves as the warm night wind brushed past her, she was the very essence of the forest, and Malchais, as if bewitched, reached for his lute and added his song to hers.
With the first echo of the strings she turned her head towards the juniper tree and smiled gently at the bard, but her song continued, growing, changing, and appearing, like the woods around her, to be without beginning or end. And so the night passed, until rosy-fingered dawn cast the first rays of morning though the boughs above them and Malchais' hand, subject to the weakness all flesh, failed him at last, falling from the lute with tire. And when the echo from the last string faded, she was gone, as suddenly as she had appeared, and though the bard searched for her, the forest kept close the secret of her going.
Bereft with her loss, Malchais collapsed with a weary emptiness next to the juniper tree and wept bitterly. Gone was his need to find tales of courage and valor to work his craft, for he had found the story, the song, his heart had always sought, and through his own failing had lost her. Grief still held his heart within its unforgiving grasp when another of the forest's creatures approached--a satyr, half goat and half man, with all the cunning and vices of both. His footstep startled the grieving bard, but the creature sought to put him at rest, "You have heard song of Nimrodyl," he said in a sad, yet comforting tone. So great was his sorrow that Malchais could not respond, and he stared at the satyr with pain-filled eyes. "She may return," the satyr's smooth voice added, lighting a spark of hope within the bard's soul, "but she will always flee when the song ends, for her heart is of the forest and you are not a part of it." The tender spark, small and newly born, faded with these words Malchais' spirit fell further into despair.
With a heavy sigh, the satyr placed a deft and sympathetic hand on the bard's shoulder, "Perhaps there is a way," he started, searching the other's eyes, feeding the spark once more, "perhaps, yes, there may be a way." Pausing only to fan the flame of his creation, the creature continued, "but it is costly." "Anything," Malchais offered, at last able speak, "I'll pay anything to hear her song and win her heart." He reached for his purse, but the satyr raised a single hand, "I am but a simple creature of the wood with little need or want for gold or silver." "What then?" Malchais asked, his eagerness rising to quick impatience and naive trust, "You have but to name it." The satyr studied him with a careful eye, taking in his measure and his gift, and when it looked that Malchais could stand no more, the creature spoke, "Your talent. I want your talent."
"My talent," Malchais asked, nearly laughing in surprise, "How can I give you my talent?" "Never mind," the satyr answered, "Will you give it?" Thinking the creature to be simple and confused, Malchais answered, "I will, but her, how do I . . ." Again the satyr raised a single hand, cutting short the stricken bard, and with his other he reached into a pouch a pulled forth a simple wooden flute. "Take this," he spoke, "and when she returns and begins her song, you must play." Malchais reached quickly for the flute, his desire overcoming all doubt. The wood was warm and smooth in his hand, and he raised it to his lips to play. "No!" the satyr said, stopping him yet again, "Do not play until she sings." Malchais nodded without speaking, staring wide-eyed at the flute within his hands. "When you have played and won her heart, I will return for my payment." The creature spoke no more, but left as he had come, leaving Malchais alone by the juniper tree to wait until nightfall, and the return of Nimrodyl.
And when the last colors of dusk faded from the sky and Isil cast her silvery glow once more across the forest floor, the forest maiden returned and began her song anew. It held all the sounds of the prior eve, a symphony of the earth, and Malchais stood transfixed as she sang, forgetting the flute, forgetting his wish, forgetting all but her voice and the ever-changing melody which wrapped around him like the gentle cloak of night. He would have stood, frozen in her spell till dawn peeked through the boughs once more, but a soft rustling within the brush drew him back from the song's evocation, and he remembered the flute. With trembling hand he raised it to his lips and gave his breath and spirit to the song of Nimrodyl.
She looked askance at him again and smiled a knowing smile as together they wove a melody of light and dark, of joy and sorrow, of earth and fire and water and air, as old as time itself. And as before, the song continued, growing, changing, and appearing, like the woods around them, to be without beginning or end. And if by song they could forestall the dawn, the night they shared would ne'er have ended, but Anar ever follows Isil in their journey cross the sky, and dawn came as it always must in its golden splendor. The song continued as the light inched across the forest floor, drawing ever closer to the two; and when it last it reached the bard and shone across his face the flute fell silent as he raised a hand against the glory of the sun.
When the last wooden echoes of the flute faded in the dawn, the song of Nimrodyl faded with them, and she fell softly to the forest floor, still as death. Her skin was warm beneath Malchais' hand, but her breath came no more and her song was gone. Malchais screamed in deepest pain, the beauty in his voice hidden beneath the peals of agony, and his warm tears fell against the cooling skin of Nimrodyl. He held her all throughout Anar's tiring journey and the soothing return of Isil, both their bodies growing stiff as his tears continued to fall on her paling cheek. He would have stayed with her forever, or until his own spirit left to join hers, but a soft rustling within the brush drew him back from his grief, and he remembered the flute and its maker.
He turned to face the sound, still cradling the silent form of Nimrodyl, and cried when he saw the satyr, his face a red purse of anger, "She is dead! She fell to the earth 'ere end of her song. She was the life of the forest. The spirit of the wood. How could you steal her soul? How could you let me steal her soul? Deceiver!"
A small and wicked smile twisted the satyr's lips as Malchais shouted, flush with rage. "A satyr never lies," the creature answered, "you have what you wished for. You wanted her heart. You have it. There," he said, pointing to the flute in Malchais' hand, "she is there." Sickened with the realization of what he had wished, of what he done, Malchais fell silent in grief and shock, but the satyr's scheme was not yet finished, and he added with a heartless voice, "And now, my payment. Play." When Malchais did not stir, still frozen in his horror, the creature's eyes grew dark, and his voice feral, "Play!" With trembling hand the bard raised the flute again to his lips. And again the sound was beautiful, rich and sonorous, as beneath his skillful fingers the voice of Nimrodyl sang within the instrument. He played until his breath gave out, and passed with his spirit into the flute. And when the last echo faded, he was gone--his heart and soul joined forever with that of Nimrodyl.
His dark trick completed, the satyr kept the flute for many years, playing with their stolen souls until at last his own was lost. After his passing, the flute fell into the hands of another, and another, and another. None could bear to keep it long, for the sorrow it held burned within the breast of any who played. But the legend the says that within the flute, the two await the one who can withstand the grief, the one who can allow them to finish their long lament and at last begin a new song.
- written by Lady Eowyn's writer
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I's being a young ogre when I's be leaving me home. Elders frowned at Ivar and be saying 'You's not being ready for the leaving, Ivar.' But Ivar being proud, thinking elders just old poops not knowings the knowings of the leavings anymore. And so I's be leaving across the snowy mountains. I's not be knowing what I's be looking for...I's just be leaving... Later, I's just being lost.
One day Ivar be seeing little shack on big ice lake. I's being so tired and hungry, so's I's be going, slipping and sliding, crossing big ice lake, mostly Ivar be sliding on belly or bottom...When I's be getting to little shack, I's be knocking softly... no answer...I's be knocking hard... Giving up, I's be opening door, going inside, and shutting door.
"I's be living in shack for two weeks and nobody be coming home. Then one day, Ivar be waking up outside the shack. This being very strange. I's be going to get back into shack and the door is being locked. "Who there?" A crackley woman's voice be calling. "I's Ivar." I's be saying. The door be opening and a troll witch be standing there.
"Be off!" She cackled. I's just be standing there. "Be off!" She's be standing with big hands on big hips. Then she be doing something very strange with big hands, looking like she be having seizure.
Something be grabbing Ivar around middle. Then Ivar's being in big wet mouth with many sharp teeth... I's ok, big mouth being gentle. Up and up I's be going... into the air and above clouds. Thwap, thwap, thwap... I's be hearing big leathery wings. We's be crossing over high mountains; then we's be landing and big mouth be leaving go of Ivar.
I's be looking up at creature having big mouth... silver dragon... Dragon snorted and be pushing Ivar away from mountains. Dragon be turning and turned into witch troll. Dragon-witch be yelling, "Be off, I say!" And she's be walking away into woods.
And I's be finding road that be leading to Stormpoint. I's be wanting to join the watch, but I's being no good for watch.... I's not being in Ogrekvanian army.
- written by Darvydia's writer
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