Chapter Zero: A Foxglove Legacy

For thirty-three summers, he had been Keagon Hehasiel.

For thirty-three summers, he had kept the counsel of wood elves like his father, dwelling among them, travelling with them, but never quite being fully counted as one with them. Too stout was his jaw, too broad were his shoulders, too dark and coarse was the thin copse of curling hair which crossed his breast. Too thick was the human blood in his half-elven veins.

And in that blood lay a riddle, a riddle of a mother long past. A riddle of youth's fleeting memories, of a sister taken from their father's house near two decades past. A riddle of heritage which had breached his lips to find his father's chagrined ears.

In their native Elven tongue, Hehasiel led his son from their vigil over the sunrise and into their half-living house of green oak and dense, woven ivy. The jaguar Maya had joined Keagon home from a journey to the West three years past, and there she sat waiting at the door in compliance with Keagon's gestured command. Hehasiel wished privacy in that hour, and vigilant Maya would ensure it.

"Long had I known that this question, this hour would come," Hehasiel sighed, emptying a crystal decanter of moonblossom mead into paired copper goblets. "And I would do no justice in withholding its answer, burdening though it may be. For all of your life--until now--I have kept from you your mother's identity, and of a terrible legacy woven with it. You are familiar with the land and its human regents, the Ainsley family...yes?"

Keagon, like all others in Erluon, could not help but know that surname. At times, relations were good. But too often had the House's game wardens been too lax in preserving the balance between the human settlements and the natural order in which the wood elves thrived. Too careless had many humans been in their care for the groves through which they travelled, leaving fouled waters, burned trees and terribly wounded animals in their wakes. And too many cutthroats and mercenaries from near and knavish Boughbog had joined the drow elves in strikes against Erluon's halls and boughs in years before. But worse were the tales given legend among the wood elves, tales of the House's "Blood Lord" Borogon Ainsley, bygone for fifty years, who in his time made a grim and horrid sport of hunting his own kind as one would hunt the deer and quails, and from whose predations even the wood elves were not spared. Though it was ultimately a wood elf--the ranger Shaldia Lariarell--who struck Lord Borogon to his death as he hunted her for his amusement, the memories of elves are very long and enduring. Erluon would be loath to forgive the House of Ainsley for such inhumanities, even with the passage of centuries.

And yet enmity was not at reign between Erluon and the House. And with Hehasiel's passing words, Keagon learned more and more of these soured but strong relations.

"Her name was Prudence. Bereft and grieving she was with the loss of her knightly husband to murderous brigands. She found me at the stream where she lay weeping, and by dusk she had found solace in my arms. A chance meeting became a lingering affair, and of that union twins were born. For twelve years was I left to rear you and your sister, for Lady Prudence would be deeply shamed were her peers to learn of her ignoble and half-blooded progeny.

"But in that time had your mother and I come to a bargain: were the time to come when your mother no longer had cause to fear the scorn of the House, one twin would be left to her name, to return to the House and to carry forth your mother's affairs. The other would be left with me, to be heir to my humble home. And as the sun turned, that time came twenty-one years past, when your mother fell to pestilence and expired."

The mead rolled in Keagon's goblet as he stared into its basin, betraying his bewilderment as Hehasiel rose to strike the lanterns touched by the sun. "Your twin Keitha now lives among the forests of Bardosylvania, and I believe that she may serve the House as a warden herself. But know that to find her and reclaim her is to lay claim to the other half of your heritage: the House of Ainsley, and all that comes with them. And before you come to that decision comes a warning, a warning which comes as a quest, for all that you would ever need to know about the House of Ainsley lies festering in the soil of accursed Boughbog. Would you hear more of this errand, Keagon?"



Keagon >

Stunned by his Father's words, the reality of truth finally comes out. He had the feeling that something was missing for years. Sadness did grip him with the news of his Mother's passing and he had not known who she was. A past stolen and a future unknown with his sister. Lifting his head and looking into his Father face, "Why do I not have any memories of Keitha? If what you say is true, she shared our home for those many years?"

"Should I decide to find her, how will I be able to identify her or even better yet, how do I keep her blades at bay until she accepts the truth?"

"You might as well tell me about this other infortamtion concerning the Ainsley House before I make any decision."

"Of course," came his father's promising words. "Your memories are surely there, in the recesses of your recollection, even if time's passage has left them dull and distant. For an elf, such memories seem to linger indefinitely; for those who live for centuries, bygone years do seem to reach further into our futures, and one can only imagine what the eldest dragons and most ancient undead can recall from their dawning years. Alas, your blood is half-human, and with fleeting lives come fleeting memories. Perhaps that is why humanfolk invest so much effort into preserving their histories for ages yet to come, for without that effort the identities of their ancestors and their fallen empires would be forever lost."

The dimming memories kept with Keagon were quite halcyon, even in such a bleak land: young Keitha and Keagon together taming a black-maned wild pig to carry a bucket of water with its jaws, or fleeing for the trees together after venturing too near a black bear cub and exciting its mother's ire, or leaping into Itiril's Creek to wash the caked dirt from themselves after sliding into a fresh mud pit, or clambering among the treetop branches across the verdant and thriving North Ainsley Wood to buy melons from the lively village Ebirdaed. Likely Keitha herself harbored such gems from the past, though they were as likely to be equally foggy after twenty-one years apart.

"As for how you might know her or ease yourself back into her acceptance, those I do not know. But bloodlines have a way of joining people together, even across great distances or great durations. If such is meant to be, then it shall be. Of faith, I have that much. And if one half of your heritage does not bind you with you sibling, then perhaps the other will."

Hehasiel seized a scroll from the bookshelves with narrow fingers, unrolling it in the air between the two and spreading it across the oaken table for father and son alike to behold. "But I urgently hope that both of you are not bound too tightly with the House, for discord and calamity follow their influence and prestige. You know that Erluon has held quarrel with our enemies from the western mountains for longer than our eldest recall. But nigh two centuries ago, the human conquerors from the Northwest built a thorp in the lowlands between these forests and the swamps. The thorp grew into a hamlet, and then into a village. The drow elves kept their baleful gazes on us, but the ogres and the kobolds turned their clubs and spears on that human village. And so our forebears approached the humanfolk, and an alliance was forged. That village was named Boughbog, and between elven woodwork and bowcraft and human masonry and smelting, the mutual enemies of Erluon and Boughbog could never take an arm's reach of land from either without the sacrifice of more blood than they were prepared to shed."

Hehasiel paused to replenish his own goblet's draught, then returned to the beechpulp map and its scribed histories to resume his tale.

"But neither Erluon's elders nor Boughbog's mayor and his council suspected that the drow elves and the ogres would forge their own alliance against them. The drow folk sent a matriarch--the baroness Kautu Tenahail--to confer with the ogres' chieftain, Kaurg of the Black Stench. And between the baroness and the chieftain a clever plan to sack both Erluon and Boughbog was forged.

"One starlit dawn seventy years past, a great batallion of ogres and our dark cousins arrived to pelt Erluon with hurled boulders, jagged spears and arrows of silver and stone. The joined forces seemed overpowering, and our swiftest messengers were sent to bring our scouts and rangers home from Boughbog and the surrounding lands; with luck, they hoped, enough of our folk would arrive in time to shield the trees and towers of Erluon from razing.

"But it was all no more than a ruse. Too late did Erluon's wizards think to weave magicks of dispelling against the horde, and only then were three-quarters of the invaders shown to be no more than phantasms, cleverly woven and placed by the drow elves and their illusionists. The march against Erluon was a mere diversion, and the true threat came an hour later as a massed raid on Boughbog. With so many of the ogres' brutes and berserkers lined against Boughbog, and all of them backed with the venomous archers and spider riders of the drow, Boughbog stood to be brutally overrun. Baroness Kautu and Chieftain Kaurg rode with that army, hungry to divide Boughbog's spoils for a subsequent march against Erluon, a march which surely could not end so well for us.

"But then, the tides turned without warning. As the ogres threw themselves at Boughbog's walls of stone and timber to be rewarded with the quarrels and sling bullets of her defenders, a dark-clad and raven-haired witch strode from the forest in a black fog, bearing an infant child in her arms. The witch rose above the fray and greeted the throng of dark elves and ogre raiders with a crushing hail of ice swept downward in a frostbearing gale cold enough to peel their brittled skins from the sinews beneath. A great wall of fire rose from the earth along the outer wall of Boughbog, and those who did not flee the walls were burned to their bones. And then, bolts of lightning and swarms of fire and acid tore through the thick of the invaders, killing the matriarch before she could rally her dark, scattering kin for a rekindled assault. But then the witch and her child faded from sight to drift unseen among the battle's fallen, and Kaurg of the Black Stench soon found himself surrounded by his own slain tribesmen, rising from death to turn on their leader. Kaurg was beaten unto death shortly after, despite all his prowess in battle, and the lumbering undead tore his body to pieces before his surviving warriors could save him.

"It would be a desperate bid for the ogres and the drow elves to regroup and renew the attack without their leaders, whom the witch had strategically removed from the board. But before they could do such, Erluon's archers and soldiers arrived with their blades still drunk in the blood of the deceitful illusionists. Between the wood elves and the humans, the invaders were soundly routed and driven into the surrounding swamps. But the humans' militia, led by our elven trackers, pursued the fleeing dark elves and the ogres into those swamps and, by all accounts, cut them down to the last. Both of the enemy tribes reeled from that star-crossed raid for many years, and over two decades would pass before any ogre dared to venture near Boughbog again, or before any drow elf would look on Erluon's branches and spires."

Hehasiel's map sported a crest and a coat of arms drawn among the trees north and east of Boughbog, and he traced the symbol lightly with a rigid finger. "The witch who killed their leaders and hindered the invaders long enough for Erluon's warriors to arrive would be later known by name as Gwenlyn Ainsley, cast out from her House for crimes unknown. As that battle drew to a close, she returned to her forest and to obscurity. Neither human nor elf could find her or her abode to gift her with their gratitude, for surely she had obscured her passage with magic. Years passed in peace for Boughbog, and though Gwenlyn never returned to Boughbog, a young boy claiming to be her son did. The boy seemed to be Gwenlyn's sole connection to Boughbog, and he became quite renowned among the villagers as he grew into a man, continuing his errands in his mother's name."

With a darkening gaze, Hehasiel returned to his chair, cradling his goblet but not drinking of its nectar.

"But then, something changed. Boughbog was suddenly plunged into a profound madness one foggy morn, and her townsfolk tore their settlement to flinders in their throes of lunacy. A band of wandering heroes soon unearthed the source of the madness: Gwenlyn Ainsley, who for some reason had gone mad and turned her poisons and her spells against the village she had once protected. The heroes vanquished the witch Gwenlyn, but how they did such remains unknown to this day, for not one of the heroes would ever give voice to what had happened in that forest. Perhaps they had committed an even graver crime in ending her menace, or perhaps they feared to shame the House of Ainsley and invite Lord Borogon's bloodthirst and anger upon them. None said anything of that confrontation, and none ever would.

"But even with the threat of Gwenlyn Ainsley removed, the madness which scourged Boughbog did not end. It faded as the years came and passed, but it never fully abated. And so wracked, Boughbog descended into criminality, and her alliance with Erluon was shattered utterly. Even now, Erluon's children rightly fear to venture to that village, so thick have her gardens overgrown with thieves and cutthroats and other human weeds. The hushed rumors of wanderers even suggest that it was Gwenlyn's son who returned to Boughbog through the swampland waterways years later, and the pirates travelled with him. Boughbog has served their kind as a haven ever since, and though Lord Darrovan of the House of Ainsley has striven to purge her of her criminals, he has yet to triumph against them."

A long moment passed, and Hehasiel lifted the goblet to partake, sipping lightly before resuming his words. "But for all these fifty years, our elders have never fathomed why Gwenlyn Ainsley would turn on Boughbog and drive her to ruin. Erluon is not entirely certain that her actions were her own, and we suspect that more answers may lie hidden in Boughbog's earth and shadow. The riddle has lain heavy on our backs for this half-century, but so paranoid and wary of outsiders have Boughbog's commonfolk grown that no elf could draw near enough to inquire or perceive deeper. And if any could pass among the humanfolk at Erluon's behest--and without drawing their notice and their alarm--it could only be one whose elven blood was mixed enough with human lineage to masquerade as an entirely human woodsman or forester from nearby...."

With that, Hehasiel's tongue lay still, allowing the unspoken request to hang silent and suspended in the air between them. The wolf's head emblazoned on the House's ink-wrought coat of arms seemed to leer at Keagon from that map, its lifeless yet penetrating eyes fixing him with the stare of a primal challenge.


Keagon >

Up until this moment, Keagon had been free to make his own chioces that did not involve others or his actions would have such a profound impact on thier lives. Infact, this very instant, he could feel the weight of the world, as he knew it, rest solidly on his shoulders.

Growing up a half elf was not easy. Even though his Elf familt accepted him as he was and not an outcast, an outsider or even a bastard child. He still faced many challenges. He did not have thier full ability to see at night, thier nimbleness and speed. He did learn other tricks and skills that made up for is short comings. His Father was very proud to see his Son never give up. This attitude had won respect from the majority of Erluon and he could be counted on.

The desire to reunite with his Sister was too strong to be ignored. Family was everything to him. And as his Father's words echoed in his mind, a smile formed as he revisited those early memories. Then a tear formed from what seemed to be from nowhere, but his thoughts shifted to all the friends and other loved ones lost due to the many fights with the Drow, ogres and other foul beasts that the actions of this fabled witch had caused his home and beloved forest.

Wiping away the tear and looking at his Father with a strong, focused and stern look, "If this is my destiny to get things going to restore Erluon and Boughbog, then I will not tempt fate. The balance of many things has to be restored. Nature is angry and She will react violently if something is not done to remedy the problems."

Dicorn's eyes dimmed, eclipsed with a nod of grim understanding. "I fear that your words are more true than many here would realize, my son. The forests of Bardosylvania have long been dark and treacherous, but for this past year the rancor of the wildlands has deepened further. Wolves and bears strike at the settlements without fear, briars choke the passes which our ancestors once travelled, sinkholes swallow homesteads near the swamps and rivers, and all the earth seems to recoil at the presence of men. And our seers have peered into the fleeting future to claim that this discord is but a prelude to something far worse. What this is, this onslaught against the natural order, no seer can say. But the humanfolk...the House of Ainsley seems to stand at the center of this pending upheaval and decay."

It was not lost on either that a new lord had claimed the House's throne almost a year past. And Keagon, in his wisdom, briefly considered if the two shared a common link...or were somehow, perhaps, cause and effect.

"The drow elves, as you know, have thrived in their cold burrows as the land has made her growing pain known, and their aggression is returning redoubled. It could well be that the drow and their witches have seen this coming crisis as we have. Agony and strife are their meat and drink, and long have they salivated at the thought of seeing Erluon and Boughbog crumble beneath their heels. With this anticipated upheaval, the drow elves may see hope of having their ambitions fulfilled at long last."

Rising from his oaken seat, Dicorn set his goblet aside and returned to his sunlit vigil at the window with a somber gaze. "And perhaps you are our lantern against the coming night, Keagon. Find your sister. Find the House of Ainsley. Find their role in the approaching tide of entropy, so that the tide may be averted. Deny the drow matrons their poisonous wishes. Do this, and your name may endure among Erluon's spires for all the ages."


Keagon should take this time to make any preparations for the journey to Boughbog, if he wishes to go that route. He should also choose and prepare one 1st Level Ranger Spell at this time, as he may need to cast it later. Keagon has acquired a mistletoe circlet to serve as the divine focus for his spells; the circlet can be either worn on the head or held in the hand to be effective.

After that comes a decision on how Keagon is to make the journey to Boughbog. The most obvious paths, each of which may have animals to be placated or even recruited through Animal Empathy:

• Through the South Ainsley Wood, by ground. At this time of year, the forest has enough undergrowth to conceal Keagon from sight, if he should need it. Expect any number of encounters with forest-dwelling creatures, friendly or not.

• Through the South Ainsley Wood, by treetop. The trees of the South Ainsley Wood are large enough and dense enough to allow travel by treetop, with far fewer encounters. Keagon's chief enemy along this passage would be gravity, and a single misstep or a single rotted, yielding branch could send Keagon tumbling several stories to the forest floor below.

• Through the Marsh of Ires along the South. The trees are too sparse to allow treetop travel through the swamp, but the swamp's many pools, curtains of vines, soupy mud, stagnant odors and tiny waterways will obscure Keagon's passage, making others' attempts to track him far more difficult. Expect any number of encounters with swamp-dwelling creatures, some of whom are venomous.


Keagon >

"Do this, and your name may endure among Erluon's spires for all the ages." His Father's last words echoing in his mind. He was never driven by fame, but he knew full well that even the smallest heroic act or self sacrafice has been recorded by the spires. The unknown results of this mission that may or may not lead to any sort of fame will not be the driving force.

"Then it is settled. I will head out in the morning and I need to be prepared."

"Maya." Calling his cat and she came instantly as she was well within reach. "Get some rest my friend. Tomorrow we hunt." Maya's eyes seemd to light up with excitement. A hunt did not mean just for prey, but to her any enemie of Keagon's was her prey."

Turning on his healsm Keagon headed for his quarters to pack and prepare any other items he thought might be needed.

pack all listed items minus the tent. Keagon has enough skill to make lean-to's or will be sleeping in the massive branches of the trees. I will use both the forest floor and the trees for traveling. Using known trails and the terain. Use the trees to gain the vantage point whe nhe knows the foliage thins. Maya is his scout as usual, where she keeps about 20 yards ahead. Circlet will be worn at the start to keep his hands free and will have animal empathy for the first day of travel.

Prudently, Keagon left the bulky tent at his sylvan home; his skill to fashion improvised shelter from the wildlands would prove sufficient, he believed, and the journey to Boughbog would not be overly long anyway. Bidding his farewells to his father and whatever friends and fellows he came across as he departed, Keagon strode forth into the untamed woodlands with Maya to prove his path ten paces before.



For hours into the long day, the journey passed without event for Keagon. Maya led him through winding profiles among the trees, up long-aged trunks and across mighty boughs. When a great clearing at the edge of the marshlands yawned ahead, the ranger and his panther alit and marched low through marrowgrass and around evergreen copses.

And then, in their windings and pacings, they heard the unexpected din of several hammers striking wood in coordinated rhythm. Drawing nearer the noises from further into the clearing, Keagon's sharp ears led him and his friend to the source: a band of rock gnomes, building a cottage of oak and beech and stone, a cottage which was quite large by gnomish standards. One gnome woman busied herself with planting young azaleas in a newly cultured flowerbed at the house's corner, while the bulk of the crew struck nails into raised studs, all to the barked cadences of the evident foreman just outside the construction.

The foreman thrust his finger and yelped a command at a second woman inside the budding house, gesturing to the pane of thick crystal glass which she was setting in its frame. Keagon could not comprehend their native tongue yet knew that their words could only be related to the building of the cottage. But such an unusual place for a cottage it was, and Keagon could either slake his curiosity and approach, or stifle it and continue on his way.



Keagon >

Crouching to blend with the tall grass, he decided to observe for a spell. Maya was still close by and with a hand signal telling her to hide and be ready, she took the que and vanished in the grass.

This might be a cottage, but it could also be a new trading post. If so, not a bad spot to be. And yet a bit too close the the forest.

object here is to ensure that this building isn't being designed for ill will against the Elves. should it be deamed safe, Keagon and Maya will move on with out being seen or heard.

What became notable as Keagon furtively wove his way around the site were small mounds of burlap sacks, stuffed near to bursting. Some of the sacks lay torn or opened in places, spilling a variety of berries, bulbs and seeds onto the earth. Two small brass plows leaned against the largest pile, their plowshares honed and meticulously polished and their yokes lashed and measured for something no larger than a pony. Four long-spaded shovels were cross-stacked with an iron plumbob and a thick spool of yarn, surely implements for digging wells and water channels.

But there were no stones for their forthcoming well. The wooden walls of the construction were not fully enclosing, for the masoned foundation of granite blocks in which the wooden beams were set was not complete either. Keagon began to see what problem these gnomes might face in completing their farmhouse.

The foreman continued chattering his instructions in his alien tongue. It would seem that the gnomes, certainly aware of their shortage of materials, were determined to make do with what they had. But surely gnomes, as thorough as they tend to be with handiwork, would not suffer an unfinished house.

Maya slink low through the grass, returning to Keagon's sight but briefly and looking to him for further command.


Keagon >

The current state of the building still kept his curiosity. Not willing to but in and ask questions to something that may not be any of his business, he motioned to Maya back to the tree line. Making his way back through the tall grass, ensuring his cover wasn't blown, Keagon made it back to much better cover and vantage point to keep watch.

Keep watch a little while longer. If the building appears to have no threat, then I will continue on my way and avoid being detected by the gnomes

Choosing the right moment to weave his tread further into the undergrowth, Keagon silently beckoned for his feline aide to follow.  A short stack of cut-stone bricks tumbled and fell from somewhere in the half-finished cottage's loft, prompting the foreman to jump in alarm.  The foreman's tone carried a piercing whine as he yelled at the unseen worker toiling in the loft, and Keagon again shifted through the brush as he did.

As the ranger crossed around to see beyond the corner of the house, a saddled dog came into view, as did two flax-garbed gnomes pouring rosy apples into one of the dog's saddlebags and coins of gold and silver into the other.  The stout black mastiff obediently lay on the mossy earth as a third gnome, one dressed in dapper riding chaps and a woolen skullcap, fitted the dog with a bit and bridle.  It would seem that the rider would soon be mounting the mastiff and departing, though of yet Keagon lacked the notion of where that destination lay.



Keagon >