Taliria

Lady Taliria's
I was born in the hour of Lumnis on the twelfth day of Imaerasta during the year 5005 into a proud and noble Sylvan family, with roots as old as the Celestial Modwir itself. My mother Alaryn and my father Reotar, though still very young by the Sylvan standards, both held positions of prominence within the community - she as a brilliant wizardry scholar, he as a renown warlord. Their marriage was an arranged one, as the sylvan marriages traditionally are, but a truly happy one. I do not remember my parents ever looking at each other with anything but love, and deep mutual respect and understanding. As their only child I was blessed to have all the love and nurturing these two extraordinary people could offer.

Rowangrove, our secluded community, so named for the plentitude of the rowantrees strewn with fiery orange-red berries, the memory of the astringent bittersweet taste of which still lingers in my mouth, was nestled amidst a magnificent ancient forest. The happiest hours of my youth were spent roaming the forest’s murky and mysterious fragrant depths, alive with the brook murmur, and dotted with sleepy little lakes with water so clear you could see the silvery fish lurking amidst the plants on the rocky bottom and warm sun-lit clearings filled with wild flowers and berries with Treom at my side. Only three years older then myself, quick and strong, determined and sure of hand even as a young lad, Treom was my self-ordained knight and constant companion of my youth. "I’ll always be there for you, Princess" he said. And ever true to his word he was, always ready to catch me if I fell, to console me if I was upset, bring a smile to my lips with a song or a joke, Treom was my best friend, the older brother I never had, my protector and confidant.

Always dreamy and somewhat reticent, even for a sylvan, I delighted in the serene hours spent in the secluded corners of my beloved forest, when filled with awe and fascination I learned to read, understand and interpret the mysteries of the ancient and eternal Tome of Nature. The ancient knowledge of the herb lore comes naturally to a sylvan, but I prided myself on being able to recognize each plant at a glance and cite even the least known properties of every healing herb found in the forest.

As I grew older, it became apparent that though quick and agile, I did not inherit my father’s physical prowess that would allow me to apply myself to martial art. I was fairly proficient with a sword, but lacked the physical ability to wield a heavier weapon comfortably. I do not know if deep inside my father was disappointed by me not following his path, he never indicated that. But he did discern a warrior of a great promise in Treom and took him as an apprentice.

The seasons changed each other in an ancient, time sanctified ritual of the circle of life, and with the change of the season we changed as well. In the years that passed my childhood companion grew into a fearless, skillful and very handsome young warrior. I can still see my father and Treom training at a clearing, attacking and parrying, going round and round, blades singing and gleaming in the sun, as if performing an intricate and dangerous dance. Watching my father and Treom practice I knew I could never measure up to them. Seeing my upset face, my father would laugh and say: "Do not fret, lass. Let the men do battle." Pulling me up to my feet Treom would add quietly: "You will never need to fight, Princess. Not for as long as I live."

Autumn, with it’s clear days, flaming tree foliage and abundance of mushrooms and berries was always my favorite season. But it is one autumn day in particular, that is forever etched in my memory, the day when while passing by the Autumn Modwir my eyes fell on a marriage announcement tablet, with Treom’s and my names written on it side by side. Dismayed, I flew to find Treom, expecting him to laugh it off, to explain it as a silly mistake, as someone’s idea of a joke. I found him at a clearing,
alone, practicing. "Treom," I cried running toward him, "Treom, have you seen?……." I never got a chance to finish the sentence. Letting his sword drop, he stepped toward me, scooping me up from the ground and held me tight to his chest, saying: "Yes, I did. I was never happier in my entire life. You are all I ever wanted, Princess." I looked at him, stunned, as the words I was about to say died in my mouth.

In a syvlan community, a wedding announcement made by the Hierophants makes a union a decided matter, and questioning the council’s decree is unheard of. Our wedding was to take place within a month and as the days passed, I became more and more restless and distressed. I loved Treom as I would a brother, I would have given my life for his without a second thought, but I could not marry him. I could never explain that to him without making him feel horribly betrayed, but deep inside I knew it would be a worse betrayal if I went through with the wedding. I found myself torn from within with emotions so completely out of place in a sylvan society that there was no one I could turn to for advice, least of all the people whose advice I valued most - my parents and Treom. The day before our wedding I came down with a fever. At night a storm broke, as sudden as it was violent. The howling wind raged in the treetops, drowned only by the deafening thunder as the flashing lightning slashed through the night skies. Jolted from my delirium by the storm, I was suddenly pierced by an unequivocal realization that be as it may, I could not go through with the wedding. I had to find a way out. Out. Trembling with weakness, I opened the door and stepped blindly into the raging storm outside. The next thing I remember was that I found myself kneeling at the roots of the Celestial Modwir. I have no recollection how I got there. Clinging to its huge rough trunk, tears mixing with rain on my face, I wept desperately "What am I to do?". Perhaps it was my feverish state, but I clearly heard a soft voice, saying: "Follow your heart, child. There is no truer path." That voice spelled out what I already knew in my heart, but feared to accept. I had to leave, and I did, that same night.

After a few exhausting weeks of wandering in the wilds I finally reached the town of Icemule Trace. The town shocked me. The crowds, the commotion and the noise crated on my nerves, used to the quiet serenity of the forest. I was alone and heartsick in the bleak town, where the penetrating cold seemed to numb my very soul and the icy, wind-beaten desolate landscapes deepened my anguished mood. My unhappiness was redoubled by the fact that nothing I attempted in Icemule Trace seemed
to go right. As I arrived to town, it became clear in order to make a living I had to choose a profession. The decision to become a ranger was an immediate and natural one, but look as I may I could not find a Master Ranger to take me up as an apprentice. Thus, I had to feel my way to being a ranger by trial and, in many instances, error.

One of the latter involved a kind young giantman warrior, whom I met while hunting in the Twisting Tunnels. Seeing me getting hit time after time, he decided I needed a better protection. He was right, of course, but a giantman’s idea of better protection did not suit my sylvan frame. The next time I headed out to hunt, wearing heavy armor and wolf hide cloak, arm and leg greaves he had equipped me with, I found myself very well protected indeed, but at a price, as my very first encounter with a
rabid squirrel proved. I was so badly encumbered, that every movement required an enormous effort and it took me what seemed an eternity to slay the beast. As I stood there leaning on my sword as not to collapse from fatigue, gasping for air and fighting back the tears of frustration, I heard a burst of merry laughter behind my back. Infuriated, I swerved to tell the offender off.

Leaning comfortably with her back against an old fel tree there sat a striking young woman with a mane of flaming red hair and deep blue eyes sparkling with mirth. She has obviously been sitting there awhile, watching the grotesque fight. Seeing my indignant expression, she jumped to her feet and proffered me her hand, saying: "Greetings, I am May. Please take no offense, it’s just that with all the furs you are wrapped in, it took me a bit to tell the hunter from the squirrel." She grinned at the
recollection, but quickly composed herself enough to continue: "Please let me offer you something hot to drink in town as an excuse for my rudeness. This weather is brutal." This was the first time I met May, May mischievous and sarcastic, May generous and impatient, who was to become one of my closest friends.

As we sat warming in the tavern sipping spicy hot cider, I mentioned to May my predicament of not being able to find a mentor and she suggested that I come with her to her home at Wehnimer Landing, and my decision to accept her offer proved to be a turning point of my life in more ways than one. Immediately upon our arrival to the Landing May introduced me to a friend of hers, Master Ranger Lord Effrimon, a man of a rare wisdom, honor and courage, who was to become my mentor and a dear and close friend. It is to him that I must credit my truly becoming a ranger, for he taught me how to use my strengths to advantage and compensate for my weaknesses and was always there for me with a word of encouragement and advice, for all of which, and above all, for his priceless gift of friendship I am forever grateful.

As the time passed, I started getting used to the life in the city, but I sorely missed the family I had left behind. One day as I was walking along the street I felt someone's hand on my shoulder and before I could turn and see who it was, I found myself being spun around kissed and hugged by - I still had no idea whom, for my face was firmly pressed against someone's wide breastplate clad chest. When my feet finally touched the ground again, and I managed to breathe and take a look I found myself facing a handsome elven warrior in whom it took me a minute to recognize my younger cousin Arderon. Ard’s grandmother, then a young woman, had left the Rowangrove to follow her love, a Vaalor warrior, who found himself at the sylvan settlement recovering from wounds received in battle with an orc horde to his home at the edge of the Turmazzyrian Empire. The families stayed firmly in touch, however, and Ard spent many summers with my family as a boy, before leaving for the military academy. Once recovered from the shock of seeing him so far from his home, I asked him what he was doing here in the Landing of all places. Ard bore sad tidings about his family, who had perished in the Imperial troops attack on his homeland, but at least we had each other now.

While still in Icemule Trace I encountered the undead for the first time, and the very fact of their existence came as a great shock For a sylvan, death is an integral and important part of the great circle of life, for without the death there is no hope of rebirth. The very idea of distorting the ways of nature is abominable and the fate of these creatures doomed to drag out a miserable existence in a limbo of neither life nor death by some evil will without a hope for peace filled me with pity and horror. Thus, when soon after my arrival to Wehnimer Landing my friends introduced me to the Order of Voln dedicated to the release of these tormented souls, I felt a natural and immediate affinity for it’s cause. I joined the brotherhood shortly after and my path has been one with that of the Order ever since.

Voln members of similar ages tend to hunt at the same places and know each other at least at a glance. However, it was not till shortly before I earned my title that I met Tegaron for the first time. I was sure I had never encountered him before, for this young mage was one of those persons that stand out in any crowd and once seen are not easily forgotten. Lithe and wiry, he moved with the grace and agility that would have made a rogue proud, and had a striking, somewhat hawkish face, with intense eyes and sharp nose, a face that would have made him seem stern and even arrogant, if not for the unexpectedly mischievous smile that instantly lit up and softened his countenance and for his courteous manner. It was not till about a year or so later though, while hunting in the castle Anwyn, that our paths crossed again and our acquaintance went beyond the exchange of common courtesies, such as mutual greetings and spells offerings. As we wandered through the chilly and eerie halls of the
ruined castle together, and the conversation started flowing, I could not but wonder silently at the amazing chemistry between Tegaron and myself that put us immediately and completely at ease with each other. That was over forty years ago, years that were full of adventures, and learning and laughter, years when Tegaron would become my closest friend and companion, years during which we discovered that together we could do things each of us alone could only dream of, years of which I hope many more are to follow.