Westering Holt

Immortals do not count the turning of the seasons. Time has little meaning for us. Even our siblings, those bound to this world of two moons and power out of sync with our own, the Wolfriders, who are mortal, live for such great lengths that one full turning of the seasons is as nothing to them.

But humans, in their brief lives, count each moment. From humans, we learn this thing. And so, as humans count it, it has been nearly 13,400 years since the sky ripped open in thunder and skyfire and the shining palace of the High Ones settled to ground...

...and was lost to us, its creators, its caretakers.

Many survived, but the initial flight from our palace home was chaotic, and we fled in small groups, in all directions. North, south, east, west, and all cardinal points between. Some found each other again. Many did not. We elves were seeds on whirling wind, and instead of drawing us together, it spread us ever further apart.

Timmain, she who was Memory for the High Ones, became leader of her group and shaped herself into a wolf to learn the song of this world, to learn to hunt, to kill...to survive. From her came the father of the Wolfriders: Timmorn, half wolf, half elf. And from him came the mortal Wolfriders.

Not all the elves with Timmain accepted Timmorn's leadership, and off they went, on their own, with their young children, to seek shelter in the mountain which is no more, and which covers their bones while their bodiless spirits dwell in the palace of the High Ones.

Other elves never knew Timmain's sacrifice and courage. They wandered through woodlands and eventually found homes of their own: in the middle of the burning desert, across the windswept, grassy plains, and in the depths of the vast deep waters of the ocean.

Elf lives are long, and children are few. But even over such an amount of time, survival demanded children and the numbers grew. At times, it became necessary for kin to part, to find new homes, safe from humans who hated and hunted still.

And so, 13,398 turnings of the season after thunder and skyfire heralded their arriving, in the season of new green, one Wolfrider tribe made such a choice. In reason, in logic, in bittersweet pride, Chief Sureshot tied his youngest child's hair up in a chief's know and bid her choose her followers. Supplied as well as they could be, the home holt bid sad farewell to their kin as young Stormfire, not yet four eights of age, led her hunters and magic users on a quest for a new home.

Along the way, they evaded humans and encountered signs of other elves. A fallen mountain that attracted and repelled. An eery grove that cradled the fading hints of plantshaper magic, and still bore oddly sized coccoons.

Across an endless span of undulating grass, beneath a merciless sun and an unending breeze, they traveled. At last the magic of one young elf pointed their way and they found water - and more elves. Strange elves, with dark skin and no wolves.

The quest was not over. A new holt still needed to be found. So as the season of hot sun trotted into the season of changing leaves, Chieftess Stormfire led her tribe, and the three strangers, into thick-quiet forests and on...

And now they have reached the edge of the world. An endless water rolls and crashes against the sand. Songs rise from beneath the waves, and from the endless plains behind them, another song joins in.

I am Nightsun, once of a desert tribe, long lost and wandering, before finding the Wolfriders. I speak with the spirits of those who have left the physical world and dwell in spirit only. They tell me their tales, and I share them with all who wish to hear. Come join me and the Wolfriders, as we discover our tale, together...