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Behind the twisting, ever-shifting treeline that formed the wealds of Brokilon, lay the heart of the woodland fey. A veritable paradise of earth, bark, leaf and water. Undisturbed and hidden from the eyes of the mortal races for centuries, the dryads that called this evergreen sanctuary home were nonetheless driven to agitation by the weekly invasions of the human kingdom of Kerack, whose king declared them his sworn rivals. Every attempt to cut through the wealds only resulted in death, on both sides. But men were in expendable supply and readily available to repeat the bloody work. The dryads, on the other hand, were not.
The air, once filled with the gentle laughter of dryad mothers and frolicking greenskinned children, now played host to harsh words, hateful exchanges and talk of war.
The end of Brokilon hung above them like a darkening sky, threatening to wash away the last vestige of the old world. Kerack was burning away their woods to clear the land for settlement, for they realized early on that the forest guardians would not abide the felling of their sacred groves. Already weakened by centuries of violent clashes, relations between Brokilon and all other factions soured with each skirmish fought. Peace, as it became so apparent, would come only through the annihilation of one side.
Morénn lifted her hands, bandaged with leaves and coiled vines, to touch the black spear leaning against the old oak she used as a bench. The weapon was a remarkable thing, sharp and unassailable by the elements like most metal objects were vulnerable to. It belonged to her savior, the stranger with molten earth for blood and iron for skin. He rested in the wooden cage hanging above the boughs of her mother's shelter. Eithné, the queen of the dryads, wanted him dead the moment she saw the man. Her hatred and distrust for humans had long been justified, having seen the worst aspects of their nature. Banners and borders mattered little to her. She didn't care if he was Cintran, Kerackian or some other kingdom. Morénn stayed her hand on account of the Myrmidon's actions, for he showed an atypical compassion when the dryad was at her most vulnerable moment. He saved her life by turning against his own kind.
Though her argument was weak at best, it wasn't Morénn's words that swayed the dryad queen towards a less violent action. A quick glance at the magical waters of the font, where visions of the future allowed the dryads to peer into the threads of fate, spurred Eithné towards a different approach. Suspicious, yet intrigued, Eithné ordered that Averon's wounds be taken cared of. He was disarmed, stripped, bound and locked up in a cage before his strength returned. Whatever she saw in that vision, none dared ask the queen. They trusted her judgement as they always did. Morénn climbed the tree and sat on a branch. Her green eyes met his shadowed silhouette, and the baleful glow of his gaze. Averon sat naked in the cage, his wrists shackled by twisting magical vines, which hardened with every attempt to snap them apart. He was glaring at her, stewing with ire over his predicament and the dryad's role in it. Morénn stared back, a look of quiet curiosity on her face. It was the first time she met a human that didn't try to kill her on the first day, although the dryad knew that was quick to change. She couldn't blame him, it was treacherous of her to allow him to suffer this indignity.
"How's the wound?" She asked in Common, breaking the silence.
Averon's eyes glanced down at the bandages on her hands, "Better than yours, that's certain."
Morénn lowered her gaze and studied the dried redness in the holes on her palms. The nails missed the vital tendons in her hands, but they hurt. They still hurt, even though she'd been fixed up by their best healers. But then again, it could've been much much worse. "Yes. I owe you for that. Thank you."
"I'd rather you thanked me by releasing me."
"You know I can't do that."
Averon stood up and steadied himself as the cage teetered from his sudden shift in weight. The vines holding it all up strained and pulled taut, holding the wooden cage in place. Morénn noticed his two missing fingers when he grasped the bars of the cage. The man tested the strength of the bars and squeezed, recoiling in surprise when the wood doubled in girth as a response.
"They're living bars, they won't let you pass unless we say so." Morénn warned him, "Test them again, and they'll grow thorns."
"Would that I had my brother's breath, I'd bring this whole fucking forest down." She heard him snarl under his breath. Averon hammered his fist against the bars, "It's not the first time I've been locked up. I will be free, you hear me?"
The young dryad sighed and slid off to drop to the ground, "Because of you, I can still draw a bow and shoot. Don't make me use you as my next target."
She felt sad that they were off to a rocky start. Though she had her share of killing humans, Morénn was deemed naive by her sisters as she possessed a form of idealistic tendency. She believed that there was room for improvement on both sides, a chance for peace- if only someone would make the first move of lowering their arms.
"Morénn, what are you doing?"
She turned around and bowed her head respectfully upon seeing her mother, the dryad queen, approach. Eithné, ancient but beautiful Eithné, raised her disapproving eyes to the prisoner then back to her daughter. The queen stood out from the rest of the dryad womenfolk, who wore dark braids of twisting vines and leaves, with her long flowing locks of snow white hair and regal crown of antlers. She also wore a long translucent gown of silk woven by spiders and worms that clung suggestively around her slender form, whereas her sisters chose to wear almost nothing at all to blend with the surrounding foliage.
"I thought I made it clear you were not to interact with the man? How dare you disobey me?"
"Forgive me, mother." Morénn said, "I chose to express my gratitude, hoping to form some semblance of friendship with him. I was wrong to try, even more so with hoping."
Eithné arched a brow, "And? Did he prove to be your friend?"
"No." The dryad lied, "He is not."
"It is as I've taught you again and again..." The queen chided, "Humans are not to be trusted." Averon's humorless laughter boomed from the cage above them as their exchange reached his ears. Eithné ignored him and declared, "But they have their uses. And this one will prove most useful to us indeed."
Averon couldn't tell how much time had passed since his capture and imprisonment at the hands of the dryads. Days, weeks, months? Staring at the same green hell he'd inadvertently stumbled upon did things to his perception, or perhaps it was the food and drink they were giving him? Regardless, the Myrmidon was trapped in the midst of a nefarious plot meticulously crafted by a dryad queen who hated all of mankind. He no longer thought of the lost princess, he even started to give up hope of seeing home. He languished in despair. The only good thing to come out of it all was the conversations he shared with Morénn. The dryad was friendly enough, but she kept her distance.
The others were typically hostile towards him, kept only at bay by strict adherence to Eithné's command. The dryad queen had seen death and desolation in the vision of the waters, of Brokilon's fall at the hands of the Kerackian marauders and their dragonrider mercenaries. When that would happen exactly, she hadn't the slightest idea. However the pace, at which their invading skirmishes pressed closer and closer to the hidden grove that the dryads called home, told her that the time was near. A semblance of an idea was incentive enough to make preparations, and so the queen summoned all the forest guardians her ancient magic could muster. The treants, the sylvans, the nymphs of the waters and the wisps that flitted about the misty air. The pact that bound this old world society brought them closer as danger loomed overhead. Thought she detested the idea, Eithné endeavored to turn Averon into the unlikely ally she saw in the vision. All she needed to do was put her people's needs beyond her distrust of humans, which was easier said than done. Diplomacy was never something dryads were particularly good at, humans never gave them the opportunity to explore its intricacies. But as she thought long and hard about her methods, Morénn had already gotten somewhere with the prisoner.
Curiosity drove her to defy her mother's instruction, and she reveled in her little rebellion. Beyond the forest, she knew little of the world and relished in the opportunity to sate the flood of questions collecting in her head. The many peoples and communities that lived outside Brokilon, the races that coexisted or made war with one another, even the mysteries of the Fall of Saggrel. Brokilon knew not of the wandering world or the cataclysm that nearly destroyed hers. This particular topic was not something Averon liked to discuss, for any tale concerning his father evoked a strange and strong emotion from him. He liked it even less when Morénn started to pry about where he got his abilities.
"I've never seen a man with skin like yours."
Averon stared sullenly into empty space, "There are no men like me."
Morénn tucked in her legs and swayed from side to side like a sapling in the breeze, "You certainly don't bleed like one."
"You're awfully friendly, for a dryad." The Myrmidon observed, changing the subject. "Although, I appreciate the conversation."
"I reckon you'd appreciate your freedom more. Mother won't keep you in that cage for long, you'll see."
"I doubt that."
"You're a strapping man, with a lot of strength in you. She'll make you sire many strong children with the matrons, and when you've fulfilled your duty she'll let you go."
Averon frowned, knowing exactly what Morénn meant. The dryads had a nasty habit of kidnapping men to keep their population up. There have been many victims who told tales of near endless nights of debauched trysts in the woodlands of Brokilon, where they lay in the firm embrace of coiling vines, subject to the whims of dryad maidens. It was a lecher's wet dream come true, but Averon didn't embrace the idea as readily as most. He still had his dignity, and no supple pair of legs could take that away from him.
"So I saved you from being violated, only to be subjected to the same fate."
Taken aback, Morénn recoiled at the accusation. "It's not... that's not the same thing!"
The man uttered a throaty chuckle, "Naïve girl, how your fellow dryads have twisted your mind. You claim to be better than us humans, but I've only known you for a little while and I've seen what you're capable of. Malice, cruelty, low-cunning and treachery. I'm starting to think I should've let you die."
Morénn winced, hurt by the memory of that battle. She glanced at her hands, where the old wounds have started to scab over. The pleasantness of their exchange had quickly evaporated, and the dryad felt that she needed to be somewhere else.
"You think I'm going to thank you for this, of how you're going to milk me dry like some breeding bull?" Averon called to her as Morénn slid off the branch, "I'll open my own damn wrists before I let you sully my honor!"
The dryad princess clutched her arm as though struck by some unseen blow. She liked Averon, she wanted him to be her friend. He was different from the company she kept, of the dryads who hunted men or the randy sylvans that pranced around the glades. But alas, they were worlds apart and there was too much bloodshed between their kind. Try as she might, the rift between them remained strong.
Day turned to night, and the grove was soon alight with magical floating lights and mirthful song. The sylvans and the dryads were up to their usual playful romps through the grass. Swiftly, the young maidens danced along the laughing streams and swaying blades of green. The goat-men, filled with beastial lust, ran after them. Those who were caught became the object of their ribald passions. Two, sometimes three, sylvans would drag a giggling dryad into the seclusion of nearby trees and take her however they wanted. It was indeed a spectacle to behold, for human eyes. Averon had to suffer the sights and sounds of wanton debauchery, one to rival even the drunken orgies of the Cintran brothels. Hairy goat-men lined up to grace the open legs of wanting dryads, spread out in groups all over the sacred grove. It wasn't all that different to what he was used to, and Averon lifted his gaze to the stars that adorned the night sky so he wouldn't have that image burned into his mind.
That was when he started seeing familiar shadows swooping down from the heavens, the same kind he saw on the battlefields of Nazair. Averon squinted at the silhouettes in disbelief, there was little chance of mistaking it. "Dragons." Averon breathed.
The winged beasts, typhaeon dragons bred in the wharves of Kerack, carried men from the encampments at the edge of Brokilon. Having switched tactics, they employed the use of the beasts to gain the aerial advantage. What they couldn't see from the ground, they saw plenty from the skies. What was hidden had been found, and with wicked glee the Kerackians descended upon the sacred grove just as the dryads were busying themselves with their salacious festival.
Averon pressed against the bars and cried out in alarm. It wasn't out of concern for the dryads, but for himself. He was trapped inside the cage, vulnerable to dragonfire. His warning was heard by Morénn, who avoided taking part of the festivities and wandered off close to the hanging cages. Suddenly, great pillars of blue fire struck the treeline and rendered entire clusters of treants into ash. Ablaze with arcing red clouds, the mirthful air of Brokilon was replaced with screams of agony as dozens of dryads perished in the flames. Six gigantic dragons made landfall at the foot of the sundered trees, dropping off the Verden-Kerackian contingent keen on wiping out the dryads once and for all.
Without the safety of their ambush sites, the dryads were easy pickings for the marauders. They weren't on the hunt or playing around this time. They were there to exterminate the greenskins, and already they had their work cut out for them. Steel descended upon bark, cutting flesh and sowing the earth with dryad blood.
"Let me out!" Averon demanded when he saw Morénn running beneath the cage.
The dryad hesitated, but did as he asked when several bolts cut down the sylvans fleeing past her. She brought the cage down and released Averon. The Myrmidon shoved her aside without another word and girded himself in the armor they'd robbed him of. With practiced precision, he armored up and was armed for battle. To Morénn's dismay, he started walking off into the woods. The man was content to leave the dryads to their fate for their treachery, he hardened his heart against the cries of anguish that rang against his ears.
"Averon, please!" Morénn ran after him, "Help us!"
The Myrmidon raised his spear against her and the woman stopped when the tip pressed against her chest. His eyes glowed with intense hatred, and his words were an inhuman grate of ancient stones. "Why should I?"
Tears fell from the corners of her eyes, Morénn gazed back helplessly as death rained upon her people. Eithné was desperately putting up a front, summoning the powers of the forest to ward off the fires of the Kerackian dragons. Without aid, the dryads were going to be wiped out. She couldn't say a word, not a one to convince him to side with them. He had no reason to, and she had none to give.
And yet, as it so happened, Averon's narrowed gaze took in the sight of a young dryad matron running out into the darkness with her child in her arms. She was wounded from several Kerackian arrows, but she ran with the swiftness of a young doe. A vision of his own mother with Lyra flashed across his eyes, and the cloud of red lifted from his mind. Averon hated the dryads, but he hated the Kerackians more.
"This once, but no more." He vowed, grimly setting himself to the task. Averon raised his spear and took aim.
Eithné, holding off three dragons at once with her treant guardians and summoned grasping roots, was backed into a corner. Everything was burning, choking her and stinging her eyes. She caught a glimpse of the shimmering missile sailing through the air, then shrank back as a fountain of dragon's blood burst from the monster looming over her. The beast uttered a long painful groan, then collapsed with the black spear protruding from its eye.
Averon strode into the battle with a steady assured pace. He was hungry, thirsty, tired and angry. The marauders were at first too busy fighting dryads to notice the golem, too focused to kill greenskins than the one in iron flesh. The Myrmidon drew his sword and attacked the man leading them. The Kerackian was quick to draw his own sword and parried in a nick of time.
"Bloody hell! What are you?" He cried.
Averon said nothing, striking him in the belly with his shield. The blade thrust deep into the Kerackian's thigh, shattering his femur in two. Crippled, the man howled and dropped to his knee. Averon kicked him and drove his weapon upon the fallen marauder's chest.
The dryads, given a brief moment's reprieve, rushed for their weapons and retaliated. The air was soon filled with vengeful cries in Elder speech and dryad arrows. The attack on the grove was successfully repelled when the dragons, assailed on all sides by treants and other woodland guardians, took to the skies and fled with their dragonriders. Those that were left on the ground were mercilessly cut down. The desolation that came after shattered what illusion of invincibility the dryads had for their garden home. The sanctuary had been destroyed, and many lives have been lost.
However, many more would've been lost had Averon not intervened. The vision that had haunted the queen had come true.
Averon retrieved his spear from the dragon's corpse and turned his gaze upon the assembled throng of fey creatures. The dryads looked to him, not with malice, but with begrudging respect and heartfelt gratitude. Though the battle left a stinging reminder of the fragility of the balance of power, what they've lost that night could be regained, for Brokilon endures as was its nature. That was, at least, what Queen Eithné believed.
"You sided with us at our hour of need." She declared, "I have never seen a human display such selflessness."
"You should get out more, then." Averon replied nonchalantly as he wiped the blood from his weapon. He didn't ellaborate, but his words were enough to convey his message. Not all humans were bad, just like not all dryads were good.
"Perhaps we will." The queen said, "Brokilon will endure, but for how long I cannot be certain. As the trees shift in favor of the coming seasons, so should we."
The Myrmidon looked at her, confused as to the meaning of her words.
"Morénn, my daughter, will show you the way out of the woods. You will return to your lands unharmed."
"About fucking time." Averon sighed. He'd forgotten how much he missed home.
He suffered the company of the dryads a little longer, for Morénn had stopped to say her farewells. The grove would be abandoned, and the dryads would retreat further into the forest, ceding more territory for Kerack and all the other nordling kingdoms to seize. When she was ready, the pair ventured out of Brokilon. Morénn led him through the green thickets, swamps and clustered treelines until they emerged into an empty meadow that was the start of the borderlands between Cintra and her neighbors. During their casual exchanges, Averon learned that Princess Cirilla had indeed encountered the dryads before he did. They wanted to make her into one of them, but quickly changed their minds when a witcher happened upon the scene. Averon didn't have to think long on who it was. There was only one witcher who frequented this part of the North, almost like he was fated to do so.
The princess had been returned to her kingdom, in the company of Geralt of Rivia.
"So..." Averon said to Morénn, "Here's where we part ways."
Morénn shook her head slowly, "I'm afraid not."
"What?" The Myrmidon stopped in mid-stride.
"Mother sent me to go with you and see the world beyond Brokilon." The dryad explained, "I must find us a new home."
"You, go with me?" Averon echoed incredulously, gesturing to the unwelcoming atmosphere around them. "This world is cruel to your kind, it will not abide the different, you will wish for the safety of your wealds if they don't kill you first."
Morénn smiled sweetly and shrugged, "Then I'll have you to protect me."
"What the hell are you talking about? I'm not going to be responsible for you!"
"Why not? We are friends."
Averon frowned and glared at the dryad princess, "I don't think you understand what that word means. You don't stick your friends in cages to languish for months after they saved your life."
"Then teach me." Morénn beamed at him.
The Myrmidon scrutinized her genuine shameless green smile, then shook his head. "Go home, Morénn."
"No."
Exasperated, hungry and exhausted, Averon gazed out into the horizon. There, the first rays of sunlight started to chase away the darkness. The sight filled him with a thin measure of hope for brighter days, "You wanna be my friend? Go fetch me something to eat. I'm starving."
Eager to prove herself, Morénn readied her bow and disappeared into the meadow.
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