Archuun and the Pond of Eli’ad’een: A Legend of the Wood

Long ago, in an age nearly forgotten, the Artaku’rak war brought these lands to the brink of oblivion. The fel hordes of Nycticorax, the Wrath-King, swept over the land. Light fell to darkness, and hope turned to ash. The Wrath-King’s forces claimed victory after sanguine victory, undefeated and monstrous. But, even in darkest night, safe haven may yet be found.

In that age, there was a man named Archuun, a woodsman. He and his tribe lived far from the conflict, on the outskirts of a deep, ancient forest. Well-hidden by the trees, this tribe became the last vestige of freedom in all the land. 

But the Wrath-King’s hunger was insatiable. Soon, the Wrath-King himself found Archuun and his tribe. As ash and arrow rained from the sky, they fled the Wrath-King’s onslaught, running deeper and deeper into the stygian woods. In mere hours, only Archuun remained, the last of his tribe. 

However, he was not unharmed, for an arrow of Nightsteel had pierced his leg. Now, Nightsteel blades were the greatest weapons of the Wrath-King’s legions. For, you see, Nightsteel is an evil, accursed ore that fatally poisons all it touches—so dangerous, in fact, that none save the Wrath-King himself dared forge it, for there is no medicine that can sate this abhorrent steel. 

Driven by fear, Archuun ran into the heart of the forest, a place where no humans dared dwell. As he continued, the Nightsteel arrow began to work its curse upon him: polluting his leg with its fel shadow. Once the shadow reached his heart, Archuun would perish, another victim of the Wrath-King. 

Late, into the night Archuun fled. His breath became ragged. As the nightsteel neared his heart, as his death became imminent, Archuun collapsed near the edges of a pool that glowed in the moonlight. “If I am to die,” he groaned, “I shall at least perish without thirst.” He reached into the pool to drink. Suddenly, as if alive, the water rushed up his arm, covering his chest.

Some time later, Archuun awoke. He lay beside the pool, healed of his wounds, for the water had traded his wounds for life. 

– The Storyteller