Dreaming of Shadow
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Dreaming

Who am I? A good question, one I seem to hardly know the answer to these days.
Of course, my mentor, Yetyr tells me the answer is simple, abandoned in
Faethorn during Kethuru’s assault on the basin, found and raised by his
magnificent self with the whole breath of his warm and loving heart. I am told
this at least twice a day and chastised for not being grateful, slapped by his
warm and loving fist.

By all means I am indebted to him, brought up with his fellow Hartstone, hidden
safely away from the fiends and temptations of the outside world. Willingly I
had plunged myself into my studies, delighting in the subtle dance of nature
and wearing with pride, the royal antlers of Brother Hart. And here I am,
standing in the Glinshari circle, reciting the creed in front of the Keeper of
the Sacred Grove, staking my pledge to the forest. My heart swells with pride
as I realise how unassailable we are and always will be as forest and keepers.

Yet a thought strikes me. As all dedicants I had heard tales of a tainted
forest, bereft of beauty and light. Glomdoring. The warped abomination that was
once the Gloriana. Furtive whispers tell of a druidic expedition there, who,
seeking to purge it, were consumed by it, giving into the dark seduction. If
we, the apparently indomitable protectors in both heart and body could be
infected with shadowy thoughts, how could we ever consider ourselves
unassailable?

The thought plagues me incessantly, why would we deny our weakness, letting it
gnaw away at our spirits? Why do we lie constantly to ourselves as druids,
brimming with a false confidence? As ever I try to avoid the issue hiding my
mind in a dreaming, desperate for the solace it brings. Flowing away from the
bustle of the tree-top commune into the quiet groves, I let my mind run free…

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Blurred shapes..sounds..merging into a cacophony. Silence. vision clears ..I
see myself slumped against a tree..lifeless.. drift on…..flow wordlessly
through oak wood... following the flow of the dream. No solace,
restlessness..trees shake and bend..wind unseen, unfelt, unheard. Fear..the
forest fears. A horn blows..raucous laughter..movement.dark shapes bursting out
from the litter. One passes through me, cold fanatical eyes.. cold shadowy
steel. Shadowy figures, myriads of eyes…pass by in oaken wood. One
remains..body pulsating..hood drawn back..eyes wide..pain? ecstasy?. They
stream from his mouth..foul creatures..wings, teeth and hunger. Forest
writhes..the locusts gorge. Leaf stripped, bark stripped, life stripped. Sated.
New dark wicked thorns...bright red berries sprout, take seed in the darkened
soil, changed, but I feel no anguish for fallen trees, joy for new life.

I am heeded, the corrupter? turns patterns on is face swirling with hidden
power. a raucous cry..a surge of terror given wings..yet no fear. The intruder
cocks his head..suprise? a hushed voice fills my mind.. ‘kha Q'wa'li?..
dydhis oari K'ian Doim?’. Doubt..why does he not attack? What is the
guttural tongue?..rich in power yet hidden from understanding. I stretch out my
mind..a sudden pull at my spirit.

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Pain rips through my body as my spirit is forced back into its physical shell.
Sitting up, breathing hard and with the bitter taste of trepidation that wept
from my feverish brow, upon my lips, I hear my mentor and feel his rough grip
upon my shoulder. ‘…they’re past the centaurs down the foothills.
Prepare yourself or it’s both our lives you endanger. Stop acting like a
newborn and follow! Do not fear death, stay by my side, trust in Hart and the
forest will guard you as the mother hind tends her fawn’. His voice is steady
and determined but peering up through blurred vision I meet his steely eyes
which betray a deeper anxiety that chills my heart.

I clamber to my feet and look around, the whole forest covered in smoke and the
bitter smell of burning, strange black towers of shadow rising ominously from
the canopy. We run together, my mentor and I, battle songs of the fae washing
over us. With cudgels aloft we curse the assailants, hails of splinters driving
like deadly rain, howls of pain following our path. I stop to silence the
moaning creatures, but my mentor stops me, ‘Let the warriors without mercy be
given none, they shall slowly bleed on the forest floor until Atropos cuts his
failing thread.’

The rest of the raiders were retreating by now, fleeing the forest that had
erupted to life around them, cutting down trees and saplings as they went in a
gesture of defiance. This is nothing that we as druids can not heal but still
seems to me to be a senseless waste.
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Awakening

My dreams are uneasy, every night now I see duskened wings and hear raucous
cawing of crows, a chorus which rises in dissonant beauty. Over this a voice
calls, almost gently in tone, ‘Dydhis oari K'ian Doim, heed your master’s
call. Mighty Crow calls his fledgling back to the nest!’

Why does the voice call to me? I cannot seem to still my mind of Crow’s touch
and contemplate on Hart and his splendour. False splendour? No, thoughts like
that are untrue and foolish, I know so having been told a thousand times,
drummed into my skull…brainwashed. Even considering that possibility sends
chills down my spine. I slip back into the dreaming.

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Blurred shapes..sounds..merging into a cacophony. Silence. vision clears..my
body left hastily..collapsed amongst the litter. I must search…the secrets of
the forest will be outside its confines. Flow on to the edge of the
Wilde..won’t stop. Flee from forestal shade,..south across the sea..waves
ripple..sparkle.. a shining city…mustn’t stop..a sandy bay..fetid swamp..a
forest..memory stirs....Gloriana? Glomdoring?.

Vast, dark, forbidding...welcoming....trees that do not move in the breeze. A
shape beside me..a voice..the dream voice calls...’come down, come in dydhis
,do not fear the shadows, they are your inheritance’..follow the voice,
snaking down through the rowan trees…trees which bend.. bow..to me? a huge
tree rises up, monarch of the forest..shadowy figures garbed in robes of
shadow... sickles of gold kneel around...faces blank..unseeing..a man yet not a
man stands at the trunk..eyes of midnight black..Stormcrow!..cadaverous
mouth..from which a caw echos..a skeletal hand, gesturing above.

I climb..as pilgrim to the shrine..rough bark..thorny tendrils..the blood my
penance…perched there he waits..still as death. Enthroned on the dead boughs.
His eye, single, red and omniscient..fixed on my presence, his fledgling, his
child....I understand..I see the truth! ‘Glory be to K'ian Doim!, the
beautiful tongue rolls from my lips. Seren lies..falsehoods..this is my
home...now..forever…always has been!..never was I a Seren..never an deluded
follower of arrogant Hart! Sky rumbles and opens..life-giving water,
death-giving light. I laugh as I tear the antlers from my head..ripping away
false memories and false beliefs...velvet scatters ,falls away.rebirth! I am
born anew..power rushing through my veins as Brennan lays a coat of feathers on
my form. Drums beat erratically from the forest...I provide the melody, a cry, a
scream, a caw....the trees answer in return.

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I return to my body, devotion filling my breast. I know my duty. I flow to the
grove of Hart and spread my knowledge to the trees. Blessing them; initiating
them with the Wyrd; the locusts my heralds and servants, removing all weakness
from the wood, bringing forth power and beauty. I then spread the truth to my
‘mentor’ Yetyr, thick vines constricting him as I tenderly peck his eyes
from his skull and gorge on his fleshy gut. My trials almost complete I flap my
wings and rise, beginning the cleansing.

With harmonious song I call to the forest to summon forth death, awakening a
tempestuous flurry of thorn and vine. Neither sentients nor denizens can escape
the irresistible power of the forest’s wyrden soul. Limbs rip asunder and
thorns tear at flesh in lethal orchestration as I, Crow’s messenger smite the
feeble Hartstone for their transgressions against his name. As Yetyrs waning
body clings desperately to the threading strings that link him to the mortal
world, only the spluttering of his soul trying to escape its temporal prison,
breaks the screaming silence, as the crows descend to delight in my
master-craft and feed.