Pages from an old journal discovered in a cave in the wood.
March 13th
Following the directions given to me by the old sage in Strathmore, I have at last happened upon the edge of the forest known as Ravenwood. I hope that in the following months, I will be able to uncover more about its mysterious properties for my thesis on magic in the uninhabited wilderlands. The impacts of society upon the innate magic of wilderness is uniquely interesting to me- perhaps this journal will be able to document my day-to-day as I explore these woods. Someday, I can look back on it fondly as a monument to my research accomplishments.
March 21st
I often cast investigatory spells in search of magic as I explore this endless wood, and my early hypotheses were correct. There is magic here, in the air and in the ground, at times stronger and at times weaker. The source is a mystery.
April 9th
I have thus far determined no intelligent life in the wood. I often see clusters of wild mice, and have at times spied birds or other small fauna, but I have found no inhabitants here. It seems strange. The land is fertile and many flowers grow here. I cannot see why this land has not been cultivated as the nations surrounding it have.
April 11th
Seeking the source of magic in this place is like seeking a spring at the bottom of a lake. There is still no fruit to my labors.
April 23rd
I will shortly be returning to civilization for supplies- my stores are beginning to dwindle. The forest never ceases to amaze me- so much life, so untouched by civilization. It is savage and strange, and I know that I will not abandon my quest before determining the source of its power.
April 27th
The deeper I search, the larger this forest seems. On a map, it is simply a little, uncultivated territory of West Anglia. Hardly an ink blot in comparison to the grandeur of the homeland. The cartographers cannot be right- if it were the size that my map claims it to be, I should have already emerged on the other side in East Anglia. I should have reached its edge days ago. I planned to have already restocked my supplies and returned again to the heart of the wood by now. There is enough grain for another week, if I diminish my meals.
May 1st
The forest only grows denser. How dark the canopy can become. Owls cry in the night.
May 5th
Today I crossed the first signs of megafauna. The cloven hooves of some deer. I have followed their trail for some hours. Perhaps they will lead me to a glen, or some kind of food.
May 8th
Today I saw them for the first time. A herd of sizable elk- almost as large as the cows in West Anglia. Overwhelmed by hunger, I raised my wand against them, only to find that they faded into the brush like minerals in water. I hear them still in the distance now, as I write by firelight. There is no store of food left, and I hear their whistling always, half-stolen by the wind.
May 10th
I become weaker with each day. Roots in the dirt have kept me alive, but there is no sign of the forest ending. I long to hear another voice. Only owls and elk cry in the night.
May 12th
While traversing a steep bluff, seeking higher ground, I have injured my ankle. I cannot walk. Perhaps if I rest, I can follow the river. The leaves are so dense that I often cannot find the sun, cannot find my way.
May 15th
I was right. The other students at the Academy called me mad, called me a zealot, but I was right. This morning, my research has at last borne fruit. Stooping to cup water from the river, I felt a prickle in my fingertips, a shiver in the waters. As I reached into the current, I found the cool surface of a stone. Though it was heavy, I became compelled to dig it free of the silt, and at last heaved it onto the bank. No sooner had I done so than my ankle was repaired, as though no damage had been done in the first place. Investigating its properties, I found a well of magic, deeper and older than any I have felt before. A deposit stronger than anything I have ever encountered. This must be the source, this must be what I have sought for all these weeks. I have done it.
May 16th
I follow the river, bearing the stone upon my back. I will return the way I came from, home to West Anglia, with my prize and my pride intact. Perhaps once the stone is freed from Ravenwood, I will be able to study it more effectively. The forest has a way of muddying the mind, clouding my every investigation into its properties.
May 17th
The whistling grows louder in the night now. I wonder whether I will be able to sleep at all.
May 19th
I must be soon to cross the herd of elk again. Always, I heard their cries, growing louder the further I travel.
May 21st
As I first felt the compulsion to pick it up, I now feel that my senses have become heightened by the stone. I feel the dew drip from fronds of leaves, and I sense the jutting of roots through the earth underfoot. The elk scream, and I think that they wish it for themselves. They are jealous. They wish to take it from me.
May 22nd
An elk does not scream. These wails that I hear, borne on the sough of the trees and the wind in the reeds, come from no living thing. I have seen nothing, and I sleep only by firelight. I know that I am nearing the edge now, as the canopy thins and the trees grow smaller. Soon, I will be home, and I will be able to sleep again.
May 23rd
I can hear it in my teeth and my bones now, the wailing.
May 24th
I will not give it to him.