This story is part of a series. It is recommended that you read it in order. You can find the first part in our archive here:
Somehow, when I woke this morning, I was by my camp in the vale, where my horse was still tied up, next to the beautiful, clear stream of the Ailoda. I still felt sickly from all the slime I had eaten and lapped up some of the water from the river. It barely worked to ease my suffering.
I decided I had overstayed my welcome. While the vale was beautiful, I still had a great many places out West to explore, and... something about my dreams, and the voices on the wind, and that disgusting slime pit I had found beneath the tree unnerved me. I felt as though I had awoken something that I should not have and I did not want to disturb the peace of this paradise any more. I did not want to soil it.
So I packed my things and set out in the early morn, determined to make it out of the vale ere sunset. My horse was unsettled the entire ride, more so than it had been on our first day of travel, and I began to grow ever more concerned. The ride was not smooth, my horse swaying off course and stopping randomly at times, and there was a strong wind that seemed to blow from all directions. I hadn’t planned to stop until evening but strangely I felt immensely tired after I had only made it about halfway through the day’s intended journey, so I stopped near the edge of the Sighing Woods. I thought of cooking some food to grant me more energy but as soon as I sat down I quickly found myself laying down, and before long I was preparing my bedroll, and I was asleep, too tired to think of or do anything else. And there, on the edge of the forest, I had my third and final dream in the vale:
A conflagration. A burning, roaring flame all around me. I am the light hanging in the forest, and surrounding me in this clearing are more tiny wings than before, on yet another deep and mystical night, with all I can hear being the ear punishing wailing of the wind. The wind so strong that the dazzling lights and twisting shadows fluttering about seem to struggle to control their wings as they fly. The cute little creatures maintain a circle around me as several of them approach me in a shaky, gliding motion. These few begin to whistle, a different tune than the previous night, but equally enrapturing. The others join in soon and I too begin to whistle with them, providing deeper harmonies than their little bodies could possibly handle to produce. The dance is more complicated this time, with multiple layers forming, with vertical and horizontal movement, with shifting concentric circles forming around me which suddenly twist and rapidly form many other shapes before returning to their circular forms in a rhythmic and hypnotic fashion. As they move the little lights flash in different shades, and I cannot help but sway to the music, sway to the dance, sway to the lights, and whistle along to the sweet melody. As we dance, several of them begin to produce a golden liquid as they circle me. It begins to cover my arms and a drop of it falls on my head, and they seem to giggle excitedly. More and more of the golden liquid splashes across me and over them, and it smells sickly sweet. Several of them begin to drink it from the air, their lights intensifying as they do so. The wind is now stronger than ever, blowing so loudly I can barely hear the hypnotic choir, and some of the little wings are swept up by it and kidnapped deeper into the trees. Those that remain continue to drop more golden liquid on me and I feel compelled to taste it, but before I can, an owl I had not taken notice of lands on my head, and begins to peck at me. I try to swat it away but the creature does not scare, and slowly my mild annoyance with it turns into an uncontrollable frustration, as I forget all about the hypnotic dance and the golden liquid. I try grabbing it and pulling it from my head, but its grip is too strong and its claws only dig further into my hair. I begin running around, screaming and jumping like a madman, the pecking of the owl and the howling of the wind an aching, unending drone, and I just want it to end, and I just want it to end, and so I slap myself in the face, and I wake up.
My blurry eyes opened and I was stood in the same clearing as the one I had visited in my dream, and in front of me was a strange figure wrapped in grass green robes. The white owl from the dream was still on top of my head but it had ceased its pecking. I could feel that I was no longer within the dream but how could it be possible that I had awoken in the clearing? And why was that damn owl still here?
“Who are you?” I had managed to spit out at the unknown figure before me, my throat bone dry from the screaming dream wind which had now thankfully ceased.
“I am the Wind that Howls the Night. I am the Breeze that Chills the Day. I am the Messenger. I am the Conduit,” the figure’s voice was airy and quiet but confident, filled with conviction. They spake with no mouth and heard me with no ears. As my eyes fully came back into focus I saw that protruding from their head there were antlers that appeared to be made of wood, and their face was a series of carved grooves that more closely resembled a mask than a real face. Their hair was viridescent vines that wrapped around their legs and arms and curled around the antlers, and at the ends of the thick strands were little pieces of wood hung on the end that had different texts carved into them in a language I could not read. I stared at them (or it?) in half-admiration and half-dread.
“You speak our old tongue,” I said almost absent-mindedly, my mind still a blur of bewilderment at the situation. “I apologise if I speak it incorrectly. I’ve only ever read it.”
“I was not aware there was a new Elven tongue. Ere your arrival, I had not been called upon for quite some time.”
“Who called upon you now?”
The figure looked confused at my question. They raised their hand ever so slightly and the white owl flew from my head and perched upon one of their antlers. The owl’s eyes glowed a light blue for a moment. They lowered their hand once more.
“You did,” they said.
“If I did I was not aware of it. Did I call upon you through my dreams?”
“No, when you entered my tree.”
I nodded silently, wishing I could forget the slime pit in the tree and my shameful actions.
“Was it you who saved me from the snails?”
“Yes, and then you ran before I could talk to you. I’ve been trying to find you since. I noticed you perchance here in this clearing, dreaming and in danger, so I decided to wake you.”
“How was I in danger? I was merely dancing and singing in the dream. How did I even make it to this clearing?”
“Dancing and singing with faeries who led you here and tried to poison you with their nectar. Perhaps you are not as knowledgeable as I had first surmised.”
“Well, I was simply caught off guard. I appreciate your help thus far but I assure you I am extremely knowledgeable and capable. Yes, admittedly I may have stumbled into a few unfortunate situations in the last few days, but I am in fact a distinguished scholar of the arcane.”
The expression on the figure’s mask-like face was difficult to decipher but it seemed to look me up and down as though judging the validity of my statement and almost as though appraising the value of an artefact or antique. After a long silence, it finally spake once more.
“As you have called upon the Wind, I will guide you. What may I call you and where are you headed?”
“My name is Dedovor Mailat, and I am headed West, as far as West will take me. Though I certainly don’t need a guide. I can find my own way.”
“I was not asking, Dedovor. The Wind will now be at your back. I will guide you.”
The figure was not threatening. They spoke matter of factly, fully confident in the absolute truth of everything they were saying. I thought for a moment about what to do and ultimately decided that their companionship may prove useful, and though I would never admit it to them out loud, I desperately needed a guide.
“Very well, then. Show me the way out of this vale.”