The Hero of Sylvan's Cradle

Sylvan’s Cradle Listen closely, for this is far more than a fable. ‘Tis the tale of our home and the people of Sylvan’s Cradle. Once nomadic by nature, our people built themselves communities where their rituals could better be practised. We were devoted to the Fae of Summer Court and our devotion was rewarded. Our knowledge and wisdom deepened. Our communities grew and thrived in the peace and bounty of the Summer. Our people experienced generous crops, the gaiety and lightness of cool evening breezes and shoeless freedom, for the terrain bore no stone or dried thistle. We slept with ease, lulled by our trust in the gift of our safe haven. Elders taught the next generations how to revere the Fae to ensure they would continue to benefit from these gifts. Our way of life and pleasant Realm left little room to doubt the goodness of the Fae. But all good things end, and our devotion was not enough to stop the destruction.

A Warning It all began like the fluttering of butterfly wings, rather slowly and hardly noticeable to most. First, faint. An uneasiness if one strayed too far from the village. Then, stronger. Feelings of a creeping dread that did not lift. Before long, the trees around the village started to rot, and suddenly unease was felt in the bones of all. However, our faith in our magick and the Fae who imparted it remained unshaken. We ignored the feelings. Until disaster struck. Like thunder follows lightning, a horrifying Fae followed the rot and foreboding. Taller than the largest Eoten, the Fae radiated evil and wielded a loathsome blade that obliterated everything in its path. An army of hellish almost manlike beasts destroyed and massacred alongside him. Despite offerings of reverence, this harbinger of destruction did not relent its violence. Nothing, it seemed, could stop it, and our gentle cradle felt more like a ship lost at sea in a vicious storm.

Council Deliberates The Elders met in a panicked frenzy, debating passionately what the correct course of action would be. Some Elders wanted answers. If goodness begets goodness, why were we being punished so? We were devout and had always highly regarded the Fae, but our reverence hadn’t eased the wreckage, and neither did appealing to an obvious lack of compassion. Fae whims were not mysteries to the well-versed Elders, and yet solutions evaded them. Despair crept in. Gone was the sleepy ease of our cradle. It was our great Azazel who thought to appeal to the Fae’s esteem of contract. The other Elders agreed, but surely the danger outweighed the possible outcomes. Fear generated more feeble ideas until they collectively realised that Azazel likely held the only feasible one. Though protests followed him out of their circle, Azazel bravely set forth to offer something to the Fae.

Grief Although fantastic tales of great knights and intrepid travellers, daring explorers and grand inventions are highly captivating, our village and our people know heroics are oft not so brazen. Azazel carried no weapon and displayed no grand physical strength, but his wisdom surpassed that of most, and the only thing stronger than his mind was his heart. It is his kindness we now honour. Single-handedly, he bartered with the Fae, and, though knowledge is greatly valued amongst our Elders, the details of Azazel’s contract remain unspoken. The sorrow and pain reflected in glassy and often milky eyes serve as a reminder to us all. Azazel’s forfeiture saved the village; there is no question among the Elders. Their devotion shifted from reverence of the Fae to devotion to the man who bound himself to a contract and disappeared. No ochre signs have been drawn since, and the once thick scent of incense permeates the air no more. Thus, take note. Unquestioning devotion can blind, and not all that appears good is kind.