Velindra-Jaleesha was never an ordinary child.

Inscribing those scrolls was always a boring, menial task, and never held her interest for long periods of time.  They were too simple, too straightforward, always a blade of this, a pillar of that, a circle cut away from the earth, a tree uprooted by forces beyond a warrior’s scope.  That was the way of the caster and the mage, it was always the elements, and it was always so plain, so simple and ordinary.  There was never any excitement nor flair to the art of spellcasting, it was all cut from the same mould, rolled from the same die.  It was always…there.  Which was why there was such uproar when she added some runic inscriptions of her own to her father’s scrolls, things she had learned from the natural beauty of the forests beyond the sectioned paddocks and plots owned by their neighbours.  That was why she was first avoided by others her age, that was why she was singled out and ignored by her peers, treated as if she was a troublemaker and a thief.  

It was not as if she didn’t like being alone.  It was never boring wandering out beyond the village boundaries, into the shadows of the thick trees and long grasses of the forests.  Here she was safe.  Here she could venture out into the world that she felt so accustomed to, the world that never doubted her, nor hurt her or teased her, the gentle green calm of the Ervsce Forestlands.  Here she could lie in wait in the trees, pegging conkers at unsuspecting bullies of her village, always hidden by the vast greenery, or she could scale one of the taller majestic oaks or one of the smaller but stronger lyms and look out across the land like the queen of a mountaintop.  She was never alone with the birds and the creatures of the land.  She was never without friend.  But all things like this were to come to an end sooner rather than later, as the sun would always set its deep orange and purple and blue hues across the greenery, and its shadows lengthened taller than she herself.  

She was always last to supper, and always a cause of concern to her beloved sire and mother, Markus and Verinda.  She was growing restless, weary of the constant trials and exams of a Spellcaster, Markus’s great profession.  Here she was adding runes to create great beasts of flame, the phoenix, the liger, and the endless creatures of the deep blue, the dolphin and the hydra.  She was worrying her parents greatly.  

Verinda would notice the presence of the Lune Owl a lot more as it sat in the boughs of the great Lym Tree that sheltered their little home.  Often it would call in the night, a sign of protectiveness or so the legend told.  Yet, this great male would fly down to the ajar window, and sit atop the ledge.  Verinda would be unnerved by its presence, watching her beloved little girl speak to the creature as if it understood her every word.  She would watch, and see, her little girl reach out and caress the great bird’s headfeathers once, twice, thrice, and then it would turn and fly back to the tree, large eyes focused on the little girl until she was sound asleep.  Then and only then would the Lune Owl depart, back to its home deep in the forests.  

Verinda was not a firm believer in legends, but surrounding the Lune Owl there were a great many, some outlandish, others that felt like truth in her heart but she could never be truly certain.  But never, never had she seen a Lune Owl of such size and grace take such an interest in their only child.  She would convey her fears to her husband, Markus; and Markus would take little Velindra on an adventure to the great lakes, a talk a father would normally bestow only to an unruly son, and return bearing fish, grain and meat to last them months, but still no closer to surmising the reason behind their daughter’s great affinity for the wilderness.

Markus too was becoming tired of the village council’s renewed affinity for Velindra.  It seemed all they were concerned over was his daughter’s strange affinity for ‘bending the rules of magick’ and her belief in calming the spirits of animals just by being near them.  There had been accusations in the council of late, that he and Verinda were harboring a huntress-to-be in their midst, an ill omen whose arrival in a family lineage often foretold the worst of circumstances.  He had done his very best to fend off the rumours, keep them away from Velindra long enough to quell the anger behind his stalwart wall of peace.  But it was getting harder.  He and Verinda had taken to fighting each other when their daughter was away with the woodland beasts in the Forest.  Every word was taken to heart, and they would often sleep apart as the firm black dagger of the council drove between them.  Markus would watch his daughter grow and learn, but behind him he could feel the taint of the council.  They were needling him, pushing him towards the destiny he felt in his heart could not be the destiny that awaited Velindra, yet, somewhere, maybe there was truth to their words?

Markus inwardly cursed himself for allowing the council to bear down so hard on him and Verinda.  If Velindra adored the animals, what harm could there be in it?  After all, beasts of burden were commonplace in the rural villages, and indeed even in the city they plodded along the cobbled streets.  The life of a farmer could well indeed suit Velindra.  But, somewhere in the niggling seed of doubt the council had planted in his mind, Markus could not shake a feeling of unease.  If he and Verinda had indeed brought a hunter into the village’s midst, had they damned all future generations born to the village itself?

The war between the capital city of Azuregath, and the desert plains of Jeremar, would bring that niggling doubt to the table sooner rather than later.

There was talk amongst the elders of the village council that war was coming to their shores, a war they had no part in, yet it was coming and yes, it would quite possibly end their entire world as they knew it.  And at the centre of the heated discussion, someone put forth that Velindra was the reason the Jeremar Warships were coming for them.  Markus sighed deeply, feeling the cold wetness trace down his cheeks.  Again they were blaming little Velindra for all this insanity.  Again the council’s eyes were on them!  He could not bear the weight of this injustice, could not close his own to sleep nor dream as the silent throngs of the oars of the powerful ships drew near, too near in his mind, stalking his every thought.

He settled into bed, his muzzle against the softly rising and falling form of Verinda, his wife of the last thirty years.  She felt him and inclined her head to his quiet sobbing.  Deep down, they knew.

They knew.

It was this final thought that stole them away into the darkness of the Great Beyond, as the first brutal attack tore through the village, decimating all it touched.  Chaos erupted as battlemages and spellcasters and warriors alike took to their weapons as the great wooden bastions alighted on the sea launched their chaotic violence upon the village.  Markus and Velindra were oblivious to the carnage, in each other’s arms as the Avatar of Life swept them away from the burning wreckage of their home, away from the chaos of clanging swords and spears, of angry shouts and burning torches, from their beloved little girl who was far, far away from the battle.  

Some hours before, the Lune Owl had beckoned her from her place in her room, beckoned her to climb out of her window and follow it as it flew from one tree to another, calling and singing its gentle song.  It had sensed the arrival of the darkness, sensed the arrival of a battle that would claim her sire and mother, but refused to allow it to claim her.  It had kept at its persistant taunting, kept at the child until she was safely within the leafy green of the trees, safe from the sounds of the hate spilling across her home.  It would lead her to the safety of the cave of Qilleavers that she had befriended weeks earlier, stay with her as the creatures safeguarded their den and her along with it.  The Owl would take to roosting in the tallbrushes as the chaos of the battle alighted on its ears again.  It would protect her until morning’s light, ever watchful, ever protective.

It would be the scent of smoke, of carrion flesh, that would rouse Velindra from her sleep, that would lead her back to the edge of the forest and to a sight that would sear its way into her nightmares forever: the complete destruction of the village of Tenegath, her birthplace.

The owl had remained at the forest’s edge, unable to follow for the brightness of the morning sun that spilled its beams of light upon the grisly, burnt grasses, the solid stone crumbled near to dust, bodies of villagers and children she recognised as those who had tormented and ignored her.  Cold fear gripped her soul as Velindra saw what remained of the farmhouse, what remained of her livelihood.  The room where her parents slept was gone, annihilated by the force of the fiery attack in the night, not a trace of them remained.  She would see the Jeremar Warships turning face to the wind, their job completed, triumphant that Azuregath’s allies had fallen in defeat.  She would remember that liger head that adorned the ship’s sails.  She would remember it through her tears.  

Velindra would reach the crest near the center of town, where the meeting stone stood, where the tired and the weary and all that remained of the once-proud village were gathered, weapons still alight with crimson red.  And the high elder, Runetree’s eyes would alight upon her untouched, uninjured form and the rage would claim his soul.  He turned his staff towards the frightened child, rousing those who remained to be rid of the ill omen who had brought Warchief Ronan’s warriors and dark paladins to their peaceful village.  They would scream their battle cry and send Velindra running for the comfort of the forest, the villagers crying for her blood to be spilled in penance for their lost loved ones.  

The forest would react to their hacking and slashing, the staining of crimson red upon the leafy green, the breaking of gentle peacefulness.  It would be the Owl who would call to the denizens of the forest, rousing them to react in anger at their treatment of a child under their protection.  

Beasts of all sizes converged on the villagers, howling and snarling as Velindra ran through grass and mud, trying to evade those that wished her harm for an attack that Azuregath, the capital city, had wrought on them; trying to see through her tears a path clear of anyone willing to spill her blood for a crime she did not commit.  It would be to the great oak tree she would reach, climbing up its great branches, to its strong thick leafy heights, wishing for the forest to swallow her whole and protect her from those she had tried to honor and respect but had failed to in all manner of the words.  As if by answer to her wish, the tree seemed to grow thicker branches and leaves below her as she climbed higher, finally clinging to the trunk, enveloping it in a hug as her tears laid claim to her every thought, to the loss of her village, to her parents safe in Hylar’s arms; and there she would remain until the Qilleavers and the Ristins, the Greatlune Bears and the Farrago-wyns had chased away the high elder and his blind followers, drawn blood to those who tried to force them aside in fury.

She would only return to the safety of the mossy ground when the Lune Owl rose to meet her at the branch where she clung.  Only when the owl would incline its great head to hers, nuzzling its feathers against her hair, as if understanding the great pain and fear that wracked her sobbing form, would she lift her head and follow the great owl back towards the forest floor.  She was alone in her solitude, cast out by her village and blamed for an attack she had nothing to do with.  The forest had captivated her as a baby, nurtured her as a young child, and now it would raise her as one of its own.  The owl would lead her to the great depths of the forest, where the animals would gather in their hundreds at a hallowed circle of mushrooms.  Velindra had heard stories of this place, the Birthplace of Hylar, the Avatar of Life, in a circle of Klanes Mushrooms, he was given the power to command nature at its very roots, he was given the power to shape the sentient life of all the world.  And it was here, at the centre of this circle, that Velindra would sit, quietly weeping for the loss of everything she knew.

And it would come to her, a great reptilian beast, a Spinelliar Shadowscale, one of the most feared hunters of the deepest parts of the land, from where the forest met the mountainous rocks of the Wintershivers.  It would stalk her so quietly, observing her hunched, crying form, observing the animals that watched from the trees, waiting for her arrival.  She would step into the circle and raise her great head, the reverberating respect would follow the crowd of animals as each would bow their heads, closing their eyes at the great power of this creature, this guardian of Hylar’s great power.  And Velindra would raise her own, feeling not fear nor anxiousness at this beast that surely was borne from the darkness itself, but only that of the great pain that tore her innermost soul asunder.  The Shadowscale would nuzzle Velindra, its scaly cheek meeting the warm skin of her own, and from that first touch, she would hear the shadowscale’s words in her mind.

“I am Nightshade, dear one.  I am Matriarch of the Shadowscale.  And my allies have led you to me for your life was in peril.”

Velindra lifted her head in curiousity, trying to stop the flow of tears that coursed down her cheeks.  “Th—the Shadowscale?  The Midnight Beasts?”

“Yes, child.  I am a guardian of Hylar, the Avatar of Life.”

“Why did they bring me here?  Why did they help me?”

“Hylar has spoken.  You are to be a Huntress.”

Instantly all the fights of her parents, of the council, of the teasing and taunting of the kids her own age, of her peers and neighbours, came flooding back in a rush.  Nightshade watched the realisation, the fear, the anguish and the hate cross the girl’s face, deep into her eyes and her soul.  

“…but…I’m a…”

“An ill omen, to those who fail to see what Hylar meant by appointing guardians.  No, child, a hunter, or huntress, is a bearer of the gifts of the Avatar of Life.  The ability to sense pain and suffering in the creatures of this world, the ability to craft beasts from runic spellcrafting, the ability to speak to us, on our level, to commune and understand us as you would your own kind.”

Nightshade lifted Velindra’s head with her scaled paw.

“You are one of the Children of the Forests.  You are one of Hylar’s Chosen.”

Velindra lifted her head to meet the shadowscale’s eyes with her own.  She was frightened and alone, but something drove her forward to envelop the huge scaled beast with her arms, burying her face into its neck, her tears beginning anew.

“…what will become of me, Nightshade?”

“What Hylar himself wrote for you, as he wrote for all his children.  We will watch over you, we will learn you the ways of this forest, of this land, of our clansmen and our world.”

“…and then?”

“You will become a Huntress, dear one.  And I, I will be with you, every beat of your heart, every breath you will breathe, every step you will take.  For I am your companion, and you…”

Nightshade would curl her powerful forearm around the crying child, inclining her head in what one could only call a close embrace between a beloved pet and a loving owner.

“You are burdened with a pain that is not yours to bear, burdened by ill will that you need not carry.  I will help you ease that pain.  I will walk beside you as your guardian, and you will walk as mine.”  Nightshade would growl softly before continuing, “And the beast that haunts your dreams haunts mine as well.  We will see this path through, you and I, as well as all those who have become your guides in this short a time.”

“…will I ever be able to go back?” Velindra asked in a soft, trembling voice.

“Those behind will never leave you, dear one…but you will never return to what it was before.”

It would be a strange sight to anyone who would stumble upon the clearing, of the hushed, bowed heads of the many creatures and this strange reptillian beast whose head rested upon the shoulder of a weeping child.  Stranger still would it be to see the shadowscale lift its head towards the height of the forest canopy, as if sensing another creatures’ eyes upon them both; far above their forms, from on high upon the great white peaks of the Wintershiver Mountains.  It felt like the eyes of a Draconi-dia - the eyes of the Great Eldar himself.  Nightshade was certain it was Laocard.

“Is this her?” Nightshade wondered silently, eyes aglow from the soft light fo the circle.  “Is this the one you spoke of, Great Eldar?”

Many moons before, Nightshade had attended a great council of the Leaders of the various clans of creatures, upon the great icy marbled stone of the Draconi-Dia’s roost, deep in Wintershiver territory.  Laocard had spoken to them from his place upon the Throne of the Great Kings, in reference of a destiny that would tie many of the Matriarchs and Patriarchs of the clans together.  He spoke of change, a tumultuous wind that was blowing from the west, carrying with it the sounds of clashing steel, of spilt blood, of the footsteps of a fleeing youngling.  Laocard talked of a great battle that was evidently coming to those whose lives were peaceful and just.  And at its heart was dissent, pain and darkness; perhaps of the Draconi-dia, perhaps of the clansmen and women of the creatures that called the world home, but it was, nonetheless, brooding and breeding in the shadows.  

Nightshade had, like many of the other leaders, thought of fighting against the growing taint, regardless of the call of foolishness from Laocard.  This world was their home, and any dark power, great or small, was to be resisted.  But the great drake had called for silence, instead speaking that this war that had set the horizon aglow was to be the last.  He had not said it in a great manner of terminology, but the shadowscale had known almost instantly that Laocard was dying.  For millenia he had led his people; for ten thousand of them, he had watched the comings and goings of the Avatars, of the Great Seers, the Gods and Goddesses, and outlived many of their number, of their religions, their pagan worshippers and clans, the wars, the famines, the plagues.  And through it all, he had outlived his many brides, his many sirelings.  He had watched his people soar to the skies, watched the creatures come to the call of the Draconi-dia when they were in peril and they to their side when battles threatened to tear them asunder, and now, as his old form leaned into the light of the circle, Nightshade could plainly see the haunted look in his eyes.

“My time should have ended when the stars rained down from the heavens.  My time should have ended when the humans brought war to the anthro’s shores, and from the anthros to the human shores.  And yet…I have remained,” Laocard spoke, his voice tired and haggard, filled with the aches and pains of the ages.  “When this change comes, I entrust to you, the leaders of the clans, the knowledge that the Avatar of Life bestowed upon his Chosen.  Above malice, above hate, above fear, many will rise in Hylar’s Name, and many will fall to the misunderstanding the world percieves of them.  I leave this duty in your hands, in your paws, claws, fangs and maws akin.”

His bedraggled crown of scales had shifted as he inclined his head to the five clans of the Shadowscales, staring at them all, yet somewhat focused solely on her for some strange reason.

“To you…Adberus, Nightshade, Colegarr, Gyhyl and Platus…I entrust the life of a Chosen,” he began slowly, breathing deeply as if taking his last gulp of the icy air, “To one of you will befall this life, as a guardian, as a companion.  This was written by Hylar’s own claws an age ago.  It is a destiny that calls for you.”

Nightshade had met the great Draconi-dia’s eyes with all of her strength and majesty, bowing her head in reverence as the great head reared back towards his throne.  And she was the only one, of the five leaders of the shadowscale, to step forward.  Laocard’s great eyes appeared to shimmer slightly as she did so.

“Nightshade of the Spinelliar Clan, Matriarch of the Midnight Beasts, it is you who steps forward?”

Adberus, Colegarr, Gyhyl and Platus appeared to be lost in thought to the great drake, each singular in their fears, yet united by the thought of remaining true to their clans.

“Why?” the aging sire had asked.

“Hylar has called, you have answered,” Nightshade replied, her shoulders squared.  “But you cannot leave the Wintershivers, and so you have called us.”

The Eldar nodded his head.

“Then why should I be called a Matriarch, a leader of the Spinelliar Clan, when I have no courage to rise and meet the clawed hand of Hygar himself?  He has called, and you have answered and brought this forward to us, to his own, creations of his own birthright.  …And we turn our backs thinking solely of ourselves?”

Her voice roared across the deathly silence of the council room, aimed at the bowed heads of her fellow Patriarchs.  She could see their reluctance, their fear clear as day, as clear as a scent on the cold wind.  

“I will rise to meet Hygar’s outstretched claw, I will rise to meet the destiny he wrote for us.  Tell me who is the Chosen, Great Eldar, and I will walk beside them until the stars rain down from the skies once more…”

The Draconi-dia’s head had leaned down to hers, whispering the name of the Chosen in her ear.  Nightshade cocked her head to the side, curious yet confused.

“Do the winds call this name, Great Eldar?”

“No, dear one.  But you will.  And you will know it in your very being when the child speaks its name to you…”

Nightshade lowered her head, her thoughts alighted with the name Laocard had whispered to her in the Inner Circle of the Draconi-dia Court, as the child’s sobs subsided, leaving them with a quiet peace and the eyes of great promise.  

“What is your name, child?”

“My name?”

“You know mine, yet I must know yours.  What is it?”

“Vel…Velindra,” she spoke, voice clear but sorrowful.  “Velindra-Jaleesha.”

“The child’s name, as Hylar wrote upon the Scroll of Time, and as he spoke it...is Vee-Jay.”

Nightshade’s head jerked backwards as Velindra spoke it, recognition dawning in her eyes, and she knew – she knew that whatever had been written by the Avatar of Life’s claws ages past, the name that had been spoken to the Great Eldar Laocard, was this same child.  The shadowscale smiled, her fangs glinting.  

“I think,” Nightshade smiled, “I will call you Vee-Jay.”

“Vee-Jay?”

“For short,” the beast grinned, rising to her forepaws again.  “Come, child.  Hylar calls us, and we must answer him.”

Velindra followed the great scaled beast into the depths of the forest, and to Nightshade’s delight, would learn her first lesson as one of the Avatar of Life’s Chosen:


She would never look back on the life she left behind.