The Silvan Chronicles

©2017 R.K. Lander. All rights reserved

 

Preamble

 

My name is Marhené. I am a scribe, a chronicler, or as some would call me, fondly I hope, a meddling fool. Whether I truly am a fool, well, I admit to having called myself thusly on many occasions during my life. As to ‘meddling’, I have no doubt at all – I am most certainly that – for how else is a historian to come by her knowledge?

Now why they gave me an Alpine name I frankly cannot say; perhaps it has something to do with my nose? Or perhaps it is because I was always drawn to dark clothing. Personally, I believe myself to be as Silvan as they come, for you see, I am from the Deep Forest, the ancestral home of the Silvans. Here, our accent is still thick, like our heads so say the Ari’atór brethren. Our customs remain unchanged with the passing of years and our smiles are still wide and wholesome, never an emotion to second-guess.

 

 

Lan Taria – Land of Light. ‘Tis truly a place of light despite the towering trees we live amongst, graced with a natural beauty, you know; a jewel upon the forest map, a shining beacon to all those intrepid adventurers whose fingers may pose upon our namesake, or who should wander unwittingly into our domain.

There are no Sand Lords here, no Deviants or Insipients, yet how long it will remain thusly I cannot rightly say – who can I ask you? for there is nothing written on our future, and the times are changing, they are sliding into darkness – Hwindo has said it is so, Aria keep him safe.

 

 

Now then. Who would have said, mind, that in this very village, the greatest warrior our land has ever seen would be born? ‘Tis an honour we all carry with us wherever we go, and when polite conversation requires we state our origins, we smile, wide and joyous for we, are of Lan Taria, we share the land of Fel’annár. It is our claim to fame for we are his people, we are the elves who watched him grow, who shared the secrets that shrouded his begetting in a haze of Silvan conspiracy. But of that I will not speak, for who can say who may read these, my humble thoughts …

And so, we come to the purpose of these chronicles, finally! as some of you are no doubt thinking; I do tend to digress, my friends, as you will all soon see. Perhaps it is why I shall never be a great scribe and that is fine with me. Yet neither am I a bad one, or so I say, indeed I believe this, new project to be most commendable in that so far, to the best of my knowledge, no one has put to paper the life and times of the warriors of The Company.

The Company, you may ask? Is it possible that you have not yet heard of them? I doubt it – if you are Silvan that is – but I must think bigger, perhaps, for what if this chronicle should be read by King Thargodén? Or the Alpine sovereign Vorn’asté?  or the Master Scribes of Pelagia? It may be my only chance for fame, not that that is my goal, my friends, for it is not.

And so, I will begin my chronicles with the hope that the warriors of The Company will be remembered, that nobody forget these, extraordinary soldiers and should my humble person be remembered as the proud scribe that wished to proclaim their valour to the four corners of Bel’arán, then I am content with that. Not that I seek fame, mind.

But doubt assails me, for where to begin, I wonder? There is so much to record, so much I would have remembered and forgive me, but the baggage is heavy and my mind befuddled with the enormity of the task I have set myself. Saddle goose, you may call me but when you have read, and understood, perhaps your expletives will wax kind and understanding.

Now… ah yes – the wine has sharpened by brain although no doubt not for long …

Fifty-two years ago, three children were born in Lan Taria, land of light. One, was a strapping great lad, another was utterly beautiful and the third – the third child was wise…

Marhené

 

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