Eardern the Red
Friday, December 07, 2012
The Winter Lord (Druid)
During the Long Centuries, the minions of Aufstrag lorded
over all the peoples that lived in Aihrde, but most of all they hounded the two
greatest tribes of men, the Aenocians and Ethrum, the people who dwelt in the
Lands of Ursal. There, mountains gave homes to dwarves, forests, deep and old,
clung to the earth with many toes, and rivers ran to the three seas. Of the
rivers Olgdon was not the longest, but it ran swiftly and with much power in
brought the snows of the Grunlich through the Luneberg Plains, through the Aenocian Forest
and on to the Sea
of Shenal. Along its
course lay many castles, peopled by a valiant folk, the River Men. The River
Men never fully yielded to the dark throne and his wintry world. They rose in
many rebellions and fought through those long years of the Winter Dark.
For this they never knew peace. The Lords of Aufstrag
punished them often. Bands of orcs with giants and other foul creatures entered
the realms of the River Folk to hound them. They burned their homes, strung up
their warriors and carried their children back to the slave pits of the horned
god's manse. But the River Men never ceased to fight, in ways both small and great.
Where Eardern the Red came from, none could say. The most oft
repeated tale told that Almuric the Lion carved him from a block of wood, a
totem, as an act of defiance against the dark, and that the goddess Wenafar
later breathed life into the totem and so he came to be. Other tales are less mystical
and speak of a home burned by raiders and parents slain and siblings staked out
and left for the wolves.
As a youth he dwelt in the Aenochian Forest,
a vast, sprawling wood that lay in the deep vales between the Vorelberg and the
southern hills. The forest gave him shelter, and he slept in the bowls of trees
or in their tangled roots. It fed him on wild deer, roots, even the bark of the
young cottonwoods that grew along the banks of the river. He knew the forest
like no other, he could feel the ground beneath its roots, he could see the
skies above, and in a single drink, taste the suffering of man and beast from
the whole course of the long river. And in this tasted suffering, Eardern knew
hatred; all things that issued from the fabled gates of Aufstrag, Aharagon Den,
the Great Mat, became his enemy.
At first he Eardern hunted the lesser minions, the men, orcs
and hobgoblins with bow and arrow, noose and knife. Their guards he shot from
towers; their caravan masters fell in their tracks; hunters and rangers he left
hanging upon the trail, and many a man woke to find his companion with a red
mouth where his throat had been.
And as if it knew his purpose, the forest leant Eardern its
power and he grew in stature. He marshaled the elements around him and
commanded the earth and water. He mastered the forest as well, used it against
his foes so that in time he took up a spear and shield to hunt his foe. And
wolves came at his summons.
But this, he saw, was not enough. He must fight the terror
with terror.
He mastered fire, and lightning came at his call and the
trees awakened when he whispered spells into their bark. He took to wearing
heavy dark robes and painted his face a deep, dark red, and his fingers too. He
took up an axe, a long bearded axe as the northmen used in their sea battles.
With his wolves he preyed upon the minions of Aufstrag, rising from the ground
with his wolves in tow and falling upon his enemies in a madness of rage. They
fell before him, as he seemed some forest god of the world when the sun still
shone. And mayhap he was. For all fled or fell before him.
The hunt became his greatest goal and he traveled far and
wide, even beyond the confines of his forest, to hound the enemy wherever they
slept. To increase the terror he fell upon them unawares, in the castles and
keeps far beyond the forest walls. Men called him Eardern the Red for the paint
on his face stained his skin and some believed it wasn’t paint at all, but the
blood of Aufstrag.
In time a hunter came from the far east, a long haired man
who rode no horse, but traveled with black-hearted werewolves. He wore
leathers and chains and carried a sword of iron and dagger of venom. Though the
dark god slept, the Master of the Gates, Coburg
the Undying, promised him a kingdom if he hunted and slew Eardern. So the
hunter came to the woods.
The hunt lasted for many months and took many turns. The
werewolves fell or were lost, the iron sword broken and shattered and the
hunter found himself the hunted. When at last Eardern the Red pinned him
against a tree the black hearted man cursed him and cursed all his people from
that day to the end of time. And Eardern in a rage took him by the throat and
throttled him, and the hunter laughed as the life left him for he plunged his
magical dagger into the druid’s chest and poisoned him.
No potions or poultices could cure him, this he knew. So he
took himself to the forest deep and their gave himself over to the wilds and he
left the world of men; some say he perished of the poison, but others say he did
not perish but rather he sleeps in the deep bosom of the forest, waiting for
one to come and remove the poison and bring him back to life. And men call to
him, asking his aid against the evils of the dark or the uncertainties of the
wild. And 'tis said that he rouses himself from his for those who are good and
noble and in great or dire need.
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