Once there was a little girl,
Vescaria,
with nothing and no one.
One day,
She dared to enter the woods.

The woods were a snarl
of moss and fern,
of rot and blossom,
of wither and bloom.
Few trod the path,
for it belonged to the faeries.
But Vescaria was not afraid.

Deep in the brambles
where the blueberries grew,
she met a man with
wings like glass.
King of the Faeries,
they called him ‘Dove,’
Sentinel of the Glade.

Dove wore a crown of gold.
Around his neck,
a grinning amulet.
Guardian of all things green
and good,
he saw in Vasceria
a sliver of himself.

She became his apprentice,
a Glade Sentinel to be.
He loved her as his own,
and she looked to him
as the only family she’d never had.

Kress,
God of Death,
had long despised the fae,
and the verdant woods
they called their home.
He could not reach Dove,
who was far too strong,
so instead moved to curse.
Vasceria.

But Dove would not allow it.
He pushed her aside,
taking the curse upon himself.
Like a daydream set aflame,
the sight of fire
would cause him to transform.
The Faery King became a beast,
soothed only by the sound
of running water.

It was Vasceria who forged
the staff,
from Dove’s golden crown,
and a meteorite
pitched from burning heavens.
Breaker of all curses,
the staff would free Dove,
and combat any foe.
It was nearly complete.

But Kress was clever
and cruel.
With his tricks,
he fooled the villagers,
who lived at the foot of the woods.
With fire and ash,
and soot and flame,
he placed their fear in Dove.

They believed him a monster
which they called
“The Befuddler.”
When they came to slay him,
he would not fight back.
And so they killed
the first Glade Sentinel.

The staff was shattered,
broken by villagers,
components stolen and gone.
It snapped with such force
that two chunks of the land
gave way,
splitting the ground
asea.
From this formed twin islands,
one called ‘Foundra,’
the other ‘Lostundra,’
named so by two
wily dragons.

They left only Dove’s amulet
and the blade,
stained blue with faerie blood,
for Vasceria to pocket.

The blood wrought
strange magic
within the amulet.
A fragment of Dove’s soul
still alive
inside.
And when Vescaria donned
the necklace,
a sprout on her shoulder
appeared.

From it burst
the first true befuddler,
A beast of the forest,
slender and green,
like a grayhound
of the Fae Wild.
Vasceria’s familiar.

This was not Dove,
but his love
given form.
Together,
they kept the woods.

Below the ground
past worms
and bones
and snarls of root,
the elves had hewn
their city.
There lived Phyra
and sister Vornalla,
children of House Do’Rahel.

Phyra was gilded in all things,
a shining example
of magic’s bright grip.
Vornalla was never so golden
and all she did
was second best.

Bitter with envy,
she sought the divine,
seeking to surpass
the prodigy.
It was Kress who answered,
weaving a deal
of power and blood.

She need only slay
her sister,
and fortune would be hers.
Fail, however,
and forfeit her soul
to Kress in one great gesture.
The pact was made
and cast in stone.

It was meant to be a picnic
when Vornalla
called up Phyra,
to the glint-green forest
Vasceria walked.
But the light blinded
the younger elf,
as the older drew blade
and dagger.

She would have died,
had Vasceria not been near.
Skulking back into the darkness,
Vornalla was run off
like a hound with
tail drawn low.
Phyra thanked her savior,
the second Glade Sentinel,
and beffudler at her feet.

As a stranger to the sun,
Phyra lingered
in the fae realm.
With Vasceria at her side,
she learned the taste
of happiness
for the first time in her life.
The prodigal child
had always been lonesome,
until this tiefling
kissed her.

For a time they were happy
alone on their island,
with salt wind
and sea glass
and sand.
But Vornalla again came calling,
taking the runegate up,
and appearing at their doorstep.

In a clash great and fearsome,
they fought beside the strait.
By nightfall on Foundra,
all four would lay dead.
The second Sentinel,
slain.
The Do’Rahel daughters,
slain.
The truest befuddler,
a crimson streak
between the trees.

Phyra’s last breath
came after Vornalla’s,
failing the sister to Kress.
And so the deal was voided,
her soul stripped down into a lich,
condemned to the island
to broker in death.
One-thousand lives
was the price of freedom,
as she hid her shame
in the Lonely Tower.

Phyra rose as a banschee
addled by grief and anger.
As a spirit
she could not leave the woods,
where her love had lived
and died.
So she stitched her soul
to a long-lost toy,
a doll they called
‘Elizabeth.’

Vasceria and her familiar
decomposed in one shared heap,
bones mixed together,
unrecognizable.
It was another elf
who dug them up—
Maydra,
Vornalla’s maid.

At request of her mistress,
she was to banish the corpse.
Into the sea
went all of Vasceria,
drifting out
back towards the mainland.
When the skull found land,
it rooted like a tree,
sinking in deep
through the wood rot.

Years rattled on,
beginning the chapter
of the Sleeping Wars,
of Ellen and Froki,
of Pithet and Zaydrosis.
But you know that bit,
so I’ll not keep you long,
let’s all hope
that this story
might end.

[A legend written for a DND campaign.]

© Katherine Steffeter