Catch Up! Episode 13

Descent from the Heights

The echoes of the Forgotten Library of Tzalyx still lingered in their minds as the Roving Adventurers tightened the bindings on their satchels. Ancient tomes, brittle scrolls, and delicate artifacts were packed with utmost care, each one holding a fragment of history—pieces of knowledge that could shape or shatter the future. Yet the most pressing burden they carried was the tale of Chulludu, the shadowy, looming threat that haunted these mountains. With urgency in their steps, they turned from the crumbling ruins, the winds howling through the broken towers as if whispering warnings of what lay ahead.

The Treacherous Descent

Makhulim led the way, his dwarven instincts finding the safest paths along the craggy slopes. Marcho, ever light on his feet, followed closely, keeping his keen eyes on shifting rocks and hidden dangers. Faylen wrapped her cloak tightly around her, shivering—not from the cold, but from the weight of knowledge and the unease coiling in her chest. Nayzungit brought up the rear, his heavy footfalls steady, his muttered prayers to Angradd a constant reassurance.

As they wound their way down the steep trails, the forest below seemed to stretch toward them like a living entity, welcoming yet watchful. The storm that had brewed overhead since their climb had dissipated, but dark clouds still clung to the peaks behind them. The scent of damp earth and pine filled the air as they reached the tree line, and the wind rustled the canopy above in hushed tones.

Return to Y’hesfyre

The closer they drew to the outpost of Y’hesfyre, the more their haste turned to urgency. The patrol they had encountered before—the weary rangers who had spoken of strange disappearances and flickering shapes in the night—needed to hear what they had learned. Chulludu was not merely a rumor passed between nervous soldiers at campfires; it was a name with weight, a darkness with purpose.

They entered the fortified outpost to find it more alert than before. Guards stood with stiff postures, hands hovering near their weapons. The leader of the current patrol, a half-elven captain named Rhylas Varondel, met them at the gates, his sharp eyes scanning their faces.

“You return swiftly. That alone tells me your venture was… eventful. Come inside. Tell me what you have learned.”

The adventurers laid out their findings, showing the ancient texts and recounting the warnings scrawled in faded ink. Nayzungit spoke with solemnity about the growing darkness, while Makhulim’s voice was edged with frustration at the thought of an enemy shrouded in myth. Faylen, however, said little. She gripped a thin volume they had recovered—one she had yet to share with the others. The words inside called to something deep within her.

Rhylas took their warnings with grim understanding. “This is not the first we have heard of such things, but your findings give credence to our fears. We must send word to Y’hserin. The capital must be warned. You will ride immediately.”

Through the Whispering Woods

Horses were prepared with speed and precision. Strong, swift mounts bred for endurance, each equipped with rations and supplies for the journey. Makhulim grumbled about preferring his own two feet, but even he could not deny the need for haste.

The road to Y’hserin cut through the heart of the Y’hserin Wood, an ancient forest where the trees loomed high, their branches twining together in an unbroken canopy. Sunlight filtered through in scattered beams, casting the world in a golden-green haze. Birds called from the distance, and the soft crunch of hooves on damp earth was the only sound accompanying them.

Yet something was… wrong.

Faylen felt it first. A pressure at the edges of her mind, like whispers curling around her thoughts. Shadows stretched in unnatural ways, shifting when they should not. The shapes of trees bent ever so slightly, resembling figures from nightmares she had long buried. A distant laugh—no, a memory of a laugh—echoed from a place she could not see.

Her hands trembled on the reins. Marcho noticed. “You alright, lass?”

She swallowed hard, nodding too quickly. “Just… the woods. They stir old memories.”

But it was more than memories. Something unseen watched them.

Echoes in the Dark

The deeper they rode into the forest, the more the air thickened with unease. At times, the trees whispered—not the rustling of leaves, but the murmurs of voices just beyond understanding. Shadows flickered between the trunks, never fully forming, never fully gone.

Then came the moments of stillness. No wind. No birds. Just an oppressive silence.

Makhulim tightened his grip on his axe. “I don’t like this.”

“You rarely like anything,” Nayzungit countered, though his voice lacked its usual edge.

Faylen’s breathing quickened. She saw them now—images from her past twisting into the scenery. A tower she once called home, its spires now nothing but broken branches. A face in the shadows, smiling cruelly. Hands reaching, grasping—

She yanked the reins, her horse rearing slightly. The moment shattered. The forest returned to what it was: trees and earth, sky and road.

“We keep riding,” she said through clenched teeth.

The Road to Y’hserin

As night approached, they found a clearing to make camp. The shadows of the day still lingered, but they had seen no true threats. No creatures attacked, no figures emerged from the woods. Yet the presence remained, a heavy thing draped over them like a thick fog.

Faylen did not sleep that night.

When dawn broke, they rode on. The road ahead was long, but Y’hserin awaited, and with it, answers—or perhaps more questions.

One thing was certain: the darkness of the Forgotten Library had not stayed behind. It had followed them.

Arrival in Y’hserin

As the Roving Adventurers arrived at the edge of the city, their journey-worn bodies stilled in awe. Makhulim Metalbrewer, ever the pragmatist, muttered under his breath, “A city in the trees—well, that’s a fine bit of nonsense. How’s anyone supposed to move an anvil up there?” But even he could not fully mask his amazement as his gaze followed the elegant, spiraling platforms ascending into the canopy.

Built upon an intricate network of platforms, the city clings to the trees like a vast, interconnected tapestry. Slender bridges of woven silvervine and enchanted wood stretch between them, gently swaying with the motion of the branches. These are no mere walkways but works of beauty—carved with delicate runes that shimmer faintly with protective enchantments, preventing falls and ensuring that even the heaviest traveler finds them sturdy beneath their feet.

Marcho Longbottom whistled low, his keen halfling eyes dancing with excitement. “I tell ya, Faylen, this is the sort of thing folks back home wouldn’t believe if I wrote it down! Think of the views from up there!” Faylen Naemenor, usually so composed, stood frozen at the sight, her blue eyes wide. Memories of childhood surfaced in waves—the songs of her people, the glow of the enchanted lights, the whispered voices of the leaves. It had been a long time since she had walked among her kin.

Beneath the canopy’s embrace, the air was cool and filled with the hushed murmurs of the wind. The scent of flowering vines and rich, loamy earth drifted through the city, interwoven with the faint trace of incense that burned in delicate censers. Birdsong flitted through the air like a melody, accompanied by the soft, harmonious voices of the elves who inhabited this aerial sanctuary. Their songs were not merely for entertainment but an integral part of the city itself—wards of protection, spells of healing, and messages carried on the wind.

The Architecture of Light and Wood

Unlike the stone fortresses of men or the underground halls of dwarves, Y’hserin’s buildings seemed to grow from the trees themselves. There was no harshness of hammer and nail, no signs of forced construction. Each structure was a seamless extension of the tree upon which it rested, shaped by magic and careful tending over centuries.

Walls were woven from living vines, their leaves forming intricate patterns that shifted with the seasons. Doors and windows were lattices of enchanted branches, which parted and reshaped as needed, allowing entry without ever fully severing the wood. The roofs curved like the petals of flowers, their surfaces reflecting the moonlight in a soft, ethereal glow. Some homes rested within the hollows of great trunks, their interiors vast and cathedral-like, while others extended outward in delicate spires, clinging to the very tips of branches with defiant elegance.

Illumination within the city came not from fire but from magic. Cool, heatless torches lined the platforms and bridges, their flames shedding a deep amber glow that mimicked the warmth of candlelight. These lights flickered with an almost sentient awareness, adjusting their brightness as needed, their enchantments humming softly in the still air. They were not merely lamps but beacons of history—each one imbued with a fragment of elven memory, a song, a story, a whispered dream from ages past.

Nayzungit, the half-orc cleric, gazed at the enchanted lights with a quiet reverence. “Ain’t never seen a place lit without flame before,” he murmured. “Feels like the stars themselves are gathered here.”

The People of Y’hserin

The elves of Y’hserin were as timeless as their city, their presence an extension of the ancient boughs. Tall and graceful, they moved with an unhurried serenity, their long robes flowing like water as they traversed the bridges and spirals of their home. Their clothing was woven from silken fibers drawn from the great moths of the deep woods, shimmering with natural hues that shifted between twilight purples, emerald greens, and dawn golds. Jewels were rare among them, for they had little need for trinkets of wealth—yet many bore circlets of woven silver or living ivy, tokens of status and artistry.

The Roving Adventurers found themselves under the watchful eyes of these elves as they ascended the spiraling pathways. Some gazes were warm, others curious, and a few carried a distant sadness as they fell upon Faylen. She straightened under their scrutiny, brushing a stray lock of golden hair behind her pointed ear. “They remember,” she whispered, her voice carrying a wistfulness the others had rarely heard.

They were a people of song and lore, their voices ever carrying melodies that soothed the spirit and bound the fabric of the city together. Even in conversation, their words slipped effortlessly into a musical cadence, their language lilting and fluid, like a river flowing over smooth stones. Many were scholars of history, poets, and enchanters, their lifespans allowing them to dedicate centuries to a single craft or study. Others were rangers and protectors, unseen sentinels who walked the hidden paths of the deep forest, ensuring the safety of their kin and the sanctity of the land.

The Halls of the Elders

At the heart of Y’hserin lay the Council Bough, an immense tree whose base alone could house a dozen human villages. Its upper branches formed a natural crown, wide enough to support a great gathering hall where the elders convened. This hall, known as Tel’Vareth, was an open-air structure with vaulted archways formed from living wood, its ceiling a lattice of golden leaves that shimmered as though caught in eternal autumn.

It was here that the Roving Adventurers would present their findings, the warnings they carried from the forgotten library of Tzalyx. Makhulim scratched his beard and sighed. “Best we make our case clear. I don’t reckon these folk make hasty decisions.” The elven elders took their new somberly, their arched brows furrowing with worry and concern. The eldest Yhendorn Eilmoira, stood and bowed to the Roving Adventurers. “You have our thanks. We will take these warnings, these findings, and these items you have found and at once begin our study. Our deliberations of actions, course, and tact shall begin at once!” He sweeps from the room, and begins down a bridge to a large, well-lit building a few trees away.

Marcho chuckled. “Oh aye, but maybe they’ll offer us some of that fine elven wine while they deliberate.”

A City Beyond Time

Y’hserin was not merely a city—it was a living testament to the elves’ harmony with nature, a place where time flowed as gently as the rivers below. It was a realm of beauty and mystery, where every leaf whispered a story, and every light carried the echoes of song. To walk its paths was to step into a legend, to see the world not as it was, but as it was meant to be.

As the adventurers settled in for the night in the guest quarters offered to them, Faylen stood by an open balcony, looking out over the softly glowing city. The echoes of her past and the weight of the present mingled in her heart. Tonight, she let herself listen to the songs of her people, letting their melodies carry her back to the home she had never truly left.