The First Year

The Whistari (Green king) stood upon the High Platform amongst the renowned and wisest of the Sylvarin. They stood in a circle around a pedestal that held the Sacred Thorn Diadem. The group assembled starting with the Whistari was Essalen and to his right, the Shaman of Willowin Villarin and next to him stood the Lord of Sylvin Manaven. Then next to him stood the Lord of great Wintalar, Delamúr in all his size and strength who stood almost as tall as Sirinar, the leader of Whispawan, the city that spanned an entire forest and finally was his Shaman Medar.

"We stand here now to embark on the pilgramage to the Verasen Grove where we shall become the Sages of Syldar and thus, our knowledge shall be passed on to the future of our kind," the Whistari approached the pedestal and gently lifted the Diadem up into the air for the assembled group to see, "this is the helm of the Syldari, forever it shall be a symbol of the sacrifices we shall make to ensure the future," with then he placed it gently on his head. The Diadems thorns rested against his temple, though it didn't cut him, it was uncomfortable, "and now, having chosen those who shall lead in our absence, let us depart from our home and thus make the journey."

With that the Sylvarin left the hall and walked onto a platform. Each leapt onto a branch of the Willow and climbed down to the ground. There they found their horses grazing on ground.

The journey was long. Indeed it took a day to the rest of the day to leave the forest where they came upon the mountains in the east. Passing through these as swiftly as they could (four days) they reached the hills that ran between the large ravine side and the lake. Another three days journey brought them to the ascent to the ravine. They passed this in favour of the Vérasen Grove which lay a little further on. Twas nightfall when they entered the woods. Though small the woods were, the foliage was dense and tangled, holes beaten where the Sylvarin had often tread. Until finally they chanced upon the ancient pool of Amanos (Mirror of the Moon) and each stood around it, much as they had stood around the pedestal.

The Whistari stood closest to the pool and spoke in a deep, powerful voice.

"Il Amanos, mené tíem doro chen, ik salo tané, Belle véla doro doné vorenta ik théramé sévon, ik salo tané, Moro sana anos omelé mené sivarien teranée, ik salo tané! (which translates to Oh Mirror of the Moon, your beauty we behold, your secrets revealed, blessed are we who stand in your ethereal presence, your secrets revealed, Now as the moon shimmers on your pearlescent reflection, your secrets revealed)"

As the last words left the Whistari's lips, ripples ran in spirals across the surface of the pool and the reflection was distorted so that suddenly they were glimpsing upon something other than the dark sky and moon.

It was the Syldar travelling and teaching others, masters of knowledge and teaching. Many came to their doors to seek guidance. They saw also fighting and destruction and much more as strange people entered their lands in wont of power.

But grandest of all was the image of an intricate fretwork that was a city, as complex and beautiful as history itself that grew bigger as time wore on unto the end of their days.

"You know what this means my brothers," the Whistari proclaimed, "it means a great deal travelling and learning for ourselves. We have a long journey ahead of us, but for now let us rest."

The End

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