Keila of the Cir'thowe: Guardian of the Wild

[Azure Dragon]

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Keila of the Cirthrowe: Guardian of the Wild​

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Origins and Family​

Keila was born into the Cir'thowe tribe, a wild elven community known for its fierce independence and deep connection to the forests of the Western Wealdath. Her early years were filled with the teachings of her elders, who imparted the ancient ways of the wild elves: how to move silently through the trees, how to read the signs of nature, and how to use the bow to protect their homeland. Keila's father was a hunter-gatherer, and her mother was an herbalist. Her family was about average for the tribe, as respected as any other for their skills and knowledge.

The Tragedy​

While Keila was still a child, the malevolent force that haunted the Cir'thowe struck with brutal efficiency. Her father and mother were among the first victims. The forest that once felt like a safe haven became a place of dread. The gruesome remnants of her loved ones left Keila traumatized but also fueled her resolve to understand and combat the evil that had torn her family apart.

Integration with the Eneyri​

After the Eneyri tribe discovered the decimated remnants of the Cir'thowe, they took the surviving wild elves into their fold. Keila, alongside other young members of her tribe, was sheltered and nurtured by the Eneyri. This period was one of adaptation and learning. The Eneyri, with their more relaxed and affable nature, provided a stark contrast to the hardened and wary wild elves. Over time, Keila began to integrate with them, learning their ways and forming bonds that would become the foundation of her new life.

Becoming an Archer​

Keila's choice to become an archer was driven by a deep-seated desire to protect her people and her forest home from any future threats. She dedicated herself to mastering the bow, seeing it as both a tool of survival and a means to honor her parents' legacy. Her mentors, both from the Cir'thowe and Eneyri, recognized her natural talent and unwavering determination, guiding her to hone her skills to near-perfection.

The Loss and Vow​

The mysterious disappearances continued to plague the Eneyri, echoing the fate of the Cir'thowe. When one of her closest friends, an Eneyri elf who had shown her great kindness, became one of the lost, Keila was filled with renewed sorrow and rage. This loss solidified her resolve: she vowed to dedicate her life to the protection of her kin and the sanctity of their forest home. She swore an oath to the Seldarine, pledging her bow to the defense of her people and the eradication of the malevolent forces lurking in the woods.

The Present​

Now, as her training is complete, Keila takes her first steps among the guardians of Y'Tellarien. Her reputation for vigilance and skill has earned her the respect of both the Eneyri and the wild elves. Despite her standoffish nature towards outsiders, she has forged strong bonds within her community. Keila works closely with the druids, valuing their knowledge and shared commitment to the wilderness.

Her journey has made her a symbol of resilience and dedication among her people. As the worry grows that the land is once again unsettled, Keila prepares herself for the challenges ahead, ready to defend her home and ensure the safety of the elves of Y'tellarien.

Keila’s Personal Charter of Dedication:

• Guardianship of the Forest: Keila will protect the forest with her life, ensuring its sanctity and safety from any malevolent forces.
• Preservation of Heritage: She will uphold the traditions and teachings of both the Cir'thowe and Eneyri, honoring her ancestors and their ways.
• Unity of the Elves: Keila will work towards maintaining the unity and strength of the elven community, supporting her kin and standing against any threats.
• Respect for the Seldarine: Her actions will always seek to honor the Seldarine, especially Corellon, Rillifane, and Sehanine, seeking their guidance and blessings in her endeavors.
• Alliance with the Druids: She will continue to foster the alliance with the druidic circle, valuing their shared commitment to the balance and health of the natural world.

 

[Azure Dragon]

A Day in the Wilderness​

The dawn broke over the treetops, casting dappled light through the dense canopy of the Unspoiled Woods. Keila rose with the sun, feeling the familiar call of the forest beckoning her. She packed her quiver with arrows, slung her bow over her shoulder, and set off into the wilderness surrounding Y'Tellarien. Today, her heart sought a simple adventure, a chance to stretch her legs and breathe the crisp morning air.

As she moved through the forest, Keila marveled at the harmony of nature. The rustling leaves whispered secrets to her, and the chirping birds sang melodies that eased her mind. She followed a narrow trail that led her deeper into the woods, a path she had often walked but never fully explored.

After an hour of peaceful trekking, Keila came across a small clearing, where a stream trickled over moss-covered rocks. She knelt beside the water to drink, relishing the cool, refreshing taste. Suddenly, a noise caught her attention. She froze, her keen elven senses picking up the rustling of bushes nearby. She reached for her bow, her fingers deftly nocking an arrow as she scanned the area.

Emerging from the underbrush were three goblins, their beady eyes fixed on Keila with a mixture of curiosity and malice. These minor foes were no match for an elven archer, but Keila knew better than to underestimate them. She drew her bowstring back, her aim steady and true.

"Leave now, or face my arrows," she called out, her voice firm and unwavering.

The goblins hesitated, but their greed and mischief overpowered their caution. They charged at her, crude weapons raised. Keila released her arrow, striking the lead goblin in the shoulder and causing it to stumble back with a yelp. She quickly fired two more arrows, each one finding its mark and wounding the other goblins.

The goblins, now realizing they had bitten off more than they could chew, turned tail and fled into the forest, leaving a trail of blood and curses in their wake. Keila watched them go, satisfied that she had driven them off without unnecessary bloodshed. She lowered her bow and took a deep breath, feeling the adrenaline ebb away.

With the immediate danger passed, Keila resumed her journey. She wandered further into the woods, eventually finding a quiet glade where wildflowers bloomed in a riot of colors. She sat on a fallen log, taking a moment to appreciate the beauty and tranquility around her.

As the sun climbed higher in the sky, Keila decided it was time to return to Y'Tellarien. She made her way back, the forest paths familiar and welcoming. When she reached the edge of her home, she felt a sense of accomplishment. The adventure, though minor, had refreshed her spirit and reminded her of the importance of vigilance and harmony with nature.

Back in Y'Tellarien, Keila shared her tale with her kin, emphasizing the need to remain alert and protect their forest home from any who might threaten it. The encounter with the goblins was a small reminder of the perils that lay beyond, but it also reinforced her belief in the strength and resilience of her people.

 

[Azure Dragon]

Journal Entry: A Reminder Carved in Arrows

The day began as any other. I set out into the western glades with a pair of our scouts, our purpose to track game and assess the signs of autumn’s shift in the forest. For hours, we saw no one, only the quiet presence of the trees around us and the light rustling of animals as they prepared for the coming winter. Yet, as we moved deeper into the woods, a faint scent lingered in the air—smoke, wood and pitch. It came not from a campfire or a distant village, but from within our own forest.

We came upon a small group of humans with axes and carts, hacking at young trees they had already cut and loading them for transport. There were five in all, dressed in the colors of Murann, a nearby human settlement that has long regarded the Wealdath as theirs for the taking. It is rare to see them this deep within our lands, for our patrols have been vigilant. Yet, here they were, desecrating the saplings as if they were weeds and nothing more.

With my scouts at my side, I called out to them, intent to turn them back with words alone. I tried to explain that they had strayed too far, that they had reached the Wealdath’s sacred heart, and no further steps would be permitted. I spoke to them of our people, of the sanctity of these lands, and I asked that they leave in peace, to not provoke what neither side wished to come to pass.

Yet they laughed, mocking our language, our grace, and the very notion that these woods were anything but “resources” for the taking. They made it clear they did not care for the spirit of the forest, only the timber they could take to stoke their fires and build their walls. One of them, bolder than the rest, went so far as to raise his axe to a young birch before us as if to prove his power over what he could destroy. In that moment, I felt Rillifane’s voice within me, fierce and unyielding, urging me to act.

With a silent signal to my kin, we took up our bows. Arrows flew swift and true, biting into the earth at their feet, grazing arms and shoulders to make clear we were serious. Panic quickly took them; their laughter turned to curses and then to cries of alarm as they dropped their axes and stumbled back through the trees, some running so fast they left their precious carts and tools behind.

In the chaos, one turned and swung at us, his blade flashing in the low autumn light. A scout drew back his bow and loosed an arrow—a shot meant to wound, yet the man fell harder than we intended, collapsing to the ground as his companions ran on without him. His breathing was heavy, yet he lived, staring up at us with fear and anger both. “This was needless,” I said to him as he clutched his bleeding arm, yet I know that fear may teach him a lesson that reason alone cannot.

Death was never our intent; a mere show of force would have sufficed. But I know that for some, words alone are but empty sounds. For those like him, it is the sting of the arrow, the sight of blood drawn in defense of these woods, that may stay their hands in the future. His pain is perhaps the only language he may understand.

As they fled, I felt the sadness settle in, a reminder that our struggle is far from over. These humans are short-lived and reckless, oblivious to the wounds they leave in their wake. They do not feel the heartbeat of these woods as we do; to them, our ancient trees are nothing but lumber waiting to be felled, our sacred groves mere obstacles to profit. Their laughter, the mockery in their voices—it still rings in my ears, a reminder of the divide that separates us, a chasm they neither see nor care to bridge.

I returned to Y’Tellarien with a heavy heart. I knew that I had done what was right, that my actions were guided by my oath to protect our lands and honor the Seldarine. But how many more will we need to turn back? How many more will trample our sacred grounds, heedless and blind to the life that surrounds them?

Perhaps in their ignorance, they will remember the fear we stirred in them today. Perhaps, when next they think to lay an axe to our trees, they will hesitate. Death was not our purpose today, but for some, the threat of it is the only way to plant wisdom in stubborn hearts. In truth, I have little hope that we will ever see true respect from them, only begrudging wariness.

Yet I will remain vigilant. I will guard these lands as our ancestors did, and as my kin do now. I am but one of the People, but I am steadfast. The forest stands as it always has, and for as long as I draw breath, I will see it remain whole. If that means becoming the shadow in their path, the whisper in the trees that sends shivers down their spines, then so be it.

Keila of the Cirthrowe

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[Azure Dragon]

Lessons in the Deepwood

The forest was hushed beneath the morning mist, its breath cool against my skin. I moved through the undergrowth in near silence, bow in hand, eyes scanning the trails for fresh tracks. A fine stag had passed this way not long ago—its prints still firm in the damp earth. A good kill, should I take it, would feed many.

I had gone further than usual, drawn by the hunt, but I did not worry. This land was my home, and I knew its whispers, its scents, its every shift of shadow. But I was not the only predator on the prowl.

The scent reached me first—foul and wrong, something that did not belong to the life of the forest. The air had changed; the birds had gone still. That silence was always a warning. I pulled an arrow from my quiver and held it ready, easing my breath as my ears sought the sound of my unseen stalker.

Then I saw it.

A dark shape, shifting between the trees, too low to be a man, too fluid to be a mere beast. The mangled corpse of a fox lay at its feet, twisted and torn. The thing’s breath rasped in the quiet—wet, hungry. It had not yet seen me.

I pressed myself against the bole of an ancient oak, heart steady, mind clear. This was not my fight. Not today. I would not waste my arrows on something I did not fully understand. The forest teaches patience as much as it teaches war.

I stepped back, careful with my footing. A dry twig snapped beneath my boot. A small sound, but enough. The creature’s head snapped toward me—hollow eyes glinting in the gloom. My stomach turned as I beheld its face—wrong, stretched, twisted into something that might have once been a wolf or a man, but now neither.

It lunged. I was faster.

I rolled back, loosing an arrow as I moved, aiming not to kill, but to deter. The shaft struck its shoulder, sinking deep, but it did not fall. It howled—a sound that should not be—and I did not wait to see if it would recover. I was already moving, already melting into the deeper shadows where the trees stood thick and strong.

I ran without panic, swift and sure-footed, never looking back. The forest closed behind me, its branches cradling me, shielding me from whatever hunted in that cursed place. It did not follow.

Only when I reached safer ground did I stop, breath steadying, the weight of the moment settling upon me. I had thought myself alone in these woods, thought that I knew every creature that roamed its depths. But there are things even I do not yet understand, dangers lurking in our world's unseen corners.

The forest is not always kind, even to its own. I will remember this lesson well.

Keila of the Cirthrowe​

 

[Azure Dragon]

A Moment of Reflection by the River

The river’s song was steady, a constant murmur of life winding its way past the Shrine of Corellon Larethian. The air was crisp, scented with damp earth and the lingering aroma of fallen leaves. It should have been a peaceful patrol. Instead, I carry a wound that burns deep, both in flesh and in pride.

I had spotted the wolf in the distance, prowling along the water’s edge. It was larger than I first judged, but arrogance took hold of my hand. I loosed an arrow, certain of its mark. It should have struck true. Yet, somehow, I missed it. The beast turned, and I fired again—another miss. I have loosed a thousand arrows in my time, and yet in this moment, when it mattered, I failed twice. I will not soon forget that shame.

The wolf charged. By then, my bow was useless, and I was forced to meet it with sword and shield. I am not without skill in the blade, but my steel was dull, worn from too many battles without proper care. It bit into the beast but did not cut as deep as I needed. Each strike slowed it, but not enough. The fight turned against me. I could have died there on the riverbank, beneath the pale boughs of our home. Instead, I fled.

Escape was not without cost. The wolf’s fangs found their mark before I could break away, and now I nurse the wound it left behind. My failure festers in more ways than one. This is a lesson I will not ignore—my aim must be better, and my blade must be sharper. I am no child with a toy bow. I will not be caught unprepared again.

 

[Azure Dragon]

Journal of Keila, Archer of Y’Tellarien: 8 Flamerul, 1370DR

Beneath the Wounded Earth

We ventured deep this tri-day, into the outer reaches of the Wealdath—past the whispering groves and into the forest that forgets its name. The patrol was strong in number, and together we moved well. But when night came and they chose to return through the border watch near Brost, I lingered. Something about the low winds off the lowlands drew me. I made camp alone at the forest’s edge.

By first light, I broke camp and considered my route. I would not pass through the gates of Men. I know what eyes linger there, and they linger long on elves. Instead, I chose the Wounded Earth—rolling forest terrain carved by sinkholes, loose shale, and deep mist-laced craters. The Meenlocks stir in that place, but they can be outpaced. I have outrun them before.

And so I entered.

The woods were darker there, and the roots seemed to twist to strange rhythms. It wasn’t long before I heard the clicks—the chittering. Meenlocks. They stalked in their odd, lurching silence, but my path was swift and sure, and I slipped around the main group with ease. But the way narrowed. Just before the bramble wall, two of them blocked the pass—twitching, silent, hungry. I had no time. I loosed a warning arrow to distract them and sprinted. Through rock and brush, across the broken forest floor, I ran until my breath burned. The ruins near the old outpost rose before me—stone arches half-swallowed by moss and time. I paused just behind them, hands on knees, catching breath. I turned to see if the Meenlocks still followed. I had lost them.

But I was not alone.

Ahead, in the heart of the ruins, were bugbears—nine in all. Warriors, blooded and brutal, and among them, two of their tribal champions clad in hide and bone. Three shaman chanted near the broken altar stone. It was no war party. This was a gathering of strength. Their numbers alone would be too much even for a full patrol. For one elf, it was certain death. I turned, darting around the ruins to circle wide.

And that’s when I saw it.

It dropped like a stone from the upper canopy—a colossal spider, limbs thick as saplings, fangs like carved ivory. I had seen signs of them before, but never one in full light. Not this close. There was no time to run. The Meenlocks would smell my fear if I turned back, and the bugbears blocked the far way. This thing… this towering, twitching nightmare… was my only chance.

I planted my feet.

I whispered to the wind.

I drew.

The first arrow struck its eye, the second its mouth. It shrieked—shrill and awful—and lunged. I rolled beneath its legs, firing again at its underbelly. It moved with terrifying speed, faster than any beast of its size should, tearing through brush and trunk alike as it chased me around the ruined stones. My quiver emptied. My left arm burned from a glancing strike of its claws. I climbed the broken column, leapt to a ledge, and loosed my last arrow straight into its gaping maw. The shaft vanished. The spider collapsed. And I with it.

Blood ran from my ribs. I was breathing ragged, bandages soaked before they could be wrapped. But I lived. Barely. I limped around the bugbears, silent as I could, using every stone and crumbled wall for cover. Through the Dense Bramble Thickets I crawled, one hand gripping a low branch, the other pressing the wound to my side. And finally, when the mist gave way to the blue-green sheen of the Serpent Pond, I knew I would see Y’Tellarien again.

I do not know what drove me to walk that path. Perhaps it was pride. Perhaps the forest itself testing its own. What I do know is this: There is no glory in survival—only resolve. We who walk the Weald must know its teeth, not just its beauty. And when the choice is between fear and the bowstring, you draw. Always.

 

[Azure Dragon]

4 Eeint, 1370

The Sangrue’s bend was never meant to be a place of blood, yet this day it became one. In the mid-afternoon light I found a scrawny troll ambling too near the path that leads both to the Circle and Y’Tellarien. Too close, far too close. Had any traveler stumbled upon it, they would have been chased straight into the Circle itself. No one else was near, so the burden fell upon me.

I tried to draw it away, but the beast clung to me as though bound by some foul cord. I had only my bow and my steps, and fortune gave me swifter feet than its lumbering stride. I loosed arrows when I could, retreating again before its long arms could reach me. Embril’s teaching served me well. my hands found a quicker rhythm, and twice I struck before it closed. Still, it was like trying to bleed a stone. Each time my shafts sank deep, its flesh knit and closed again.

The fight became a dance, though no elf would call it graceful. Run, turn, loose, dodge. Again and again until the world spun with exhaustion. Once I stumbled, nearly falling to its waiting claws. Another time I misstepped and its strike landed heavy. My body bears those marks even now. I bled, I faltered, yet I would not yield.

At last, blind luck — or perhaps Corellon’s hand — guided two arrows into its neck and skull. The creature shuddered, staggered, and fell. More than one hundred shafts it took before its cursed regeneration failed. When it finally lay still, I almost collapsed beside it, the strength in me spent, held together only by fading threads of adrenaline.

The path is safe again, though I wonder at the cost.

 

[Azure Dragon]

5 Uktar, 1370

The Flayed Stag of the Sangrue​

The patrol began as most do, in silence. The Sangrue was calm that evening, its rapids whispering like a low voice beneath the canopy. The sun had long since set beyond the treeline, and the air carried that damp, mineral scent of stone and moss that rises near the cliffs south of the River Bend. I walked alone, keeping to the edge of the old trail where the roots knot across the path like coiled serpents. There, the forest feels old… older even than memory. It listens.

I had gone out to ensure the paths were clear between the cliffs and the Sangrue Run, as more and more strange things have begun to wander near the trade routes. The forest itself seemed uneasy that night. The birds that usually chirp until twilight had gone quiet. The air was heavy, not with rain, but with the weight of anticipation, as if the woods were holding its breath. It was then I saw movement ahead, a shadow pulling itself across the faint silver of moonlight filtering through the branches. I thought at first it might be one of the trolls that have been sighted near the rapids. Instinct told me to step aside. I slipped behind the trunk of an old oak and steadied my breath, watching.

From the darkness, a shape emerged. Tall. Graceful. I nearly exhaled in relief when I saw antlers rise above the brush... broad, proud, like those of a mature stag. Yet the relief lasted but a heartbeat. For as it stepped further into the light, I realized it was not like any stag I had ever seen before. Its flesh was… gone. Stripped away as if flayed by invisible hands. The sinew gleamed in the pale light, and beneath its ribs, I could see the slow, deliberate movement of what should never be visible: the rhythm of its breath. Its gait was uneven, a jerking, unnatural stride that cracked twigs with deliberate fury. Each step landed with a sharp report of hoof on stone, not the gentle tread of a beast, but the pounding challenge of something that no longer remembered gentleness.

I do not frighten easily, but my pulse quickened. My first thought was that this was some new corruption of the Scar, another twisted echo of what it devours. But something about this creature felt… aware. Not mindless. Not the shambling rot of decay I have seen before, but purposeful, angry. It stopped then, head lifting high. The antlers cast long shadows that swept across the path like skeletal hands. I dared not move. It turned its head slightly, as though it heard something… perhaps me, perhaps the whispering of the river below. The forest seemed to recoil at its steps. The owls became silent. Even the river’s murmur seemed to falter.

When it moved again, it did not flee. It strode, almost defiantly, down the trail, and then, with a sudden burst of strength, leapt away toward the south, disappearing into the direction of the Ruins of the Old Paths. The sound of its hooves lingered long after it had vanished.

I waited for what felt like several minutes before moving again. My hand rested on my bow, though I knew well that an arrow would have done little against whatever it was I had just witnessed. I searched for tracks when I dared to approach, but what I found were not like the impressions of any stag. The hoofprints were deeper, heavier, pressed into the earth as though each step carried the weight of something far greater than flesh and bone.

I have seen animals touched by the evil magics of evil arcanists and dark necromancers: Corrupted bears with eyes that bleed shadow, wolves whose flesh hangs loose as if half-rotted. But this was different. There was no stench of decay; the corruption was its very form. Whether it was a creature turned by some curse of nature, or something by darker will, I cannot say. But the forest itself seemed changed after that. The air grew stiller, the trees more watchful. The night carried with it a quiet unease, as though the very roots were whispering warnings to one another.

When I finally turned back toward Y’tellarien, the moon had risen high. Its pale light followed me, glinting off the leaves and stones like a thousand unseen eyes. I felt no fear then... only the weight of knowing that something new has awakened within the Wealdath, and that whatever it is, it walks our paths now.

Something has changed in our forest… and it watches us back.

 

[Azure Dragon]

15 Flamerule 1371

Somewhere within the Wealdath

I find myself wondering more often now whether it is the forest that is changing, or whether it is simply the people who walk beneath its boughs.

Every patrol reveals something new. Another body. Another careless camp. Another stranger who believes these woods exist for their purpose alone. Another trail littered with hides stripped from wolves and left to rot. Another miner gouging stone from the earth only to cast it to the ground. Another pile of parchment tucked beneath a stack of stones by some irresponsible human who believes the forest needs reminders that he was there.

Every season I think I have witnessed the lowest point to which we may sink. Every season I am proven wrong.

Grimbark himself now walks where I have never before seen him tread. We fought him within Chantar'elle, where the dense trees denied him the freedom to hurl boulders and forced him to chase us through twisting paths. We wounded him more severely than I have ever witnessed before, only to watch him retreat into the Forest Spring. There, black tendrils gathered around him, and within moments every wound had vanished. We had uncovered another piece of the mystery, but only another piece. The Scar still keeps its secrets.

The spiders grow bolder. The meenlocks wander farther west. Bugbear warbands gather in greater numbers. Trolls wander closer to us more frequently. In all the rituals the Conclave has claimed have been successful, the dangers of the Wealdath do not diminish... they gather greater. Yet it is not Grimbark that troubles my thoughts. Nor the Scar. Nor the trolls.

It is those we have chosen to welcome beneath our boughs.

I remember when the path to Y'Tellarien was known only to a precious few. I remember when those who stumbled upon our realm by accident were guided back to the road without delay. I remember when a sworn druid named Mosshand sought to lead companions from Murann into the Wealdath to investigate the Scar. When word reached the Circle, it was not only the elves who answered. The Conclave itself raised the alarm. More than a dozen elves mobilized immediately. We intercepted Mosshand and his companions before they ever entered the forest and turned them back.

No one questioned why. No one argued that we should simply trust them. No one claimed we were ruled by fear. It was understood the Wealdath was our responsibility. Those boundaries existed for a reason.

Now...? The path commonly known. The Circle has become a place where any traveler may stay for any length of time, for any reason. Muranni Guilds come and go at their leisure. Merchants bring wares to trade openly. Adventurers from the stone city stop in to resupply or sell their spoils. The oath that once separated sworn guardians from visitors has become little more than hand-wave. If every stranger is welcomed as readily as the ones who pledged blood and spirit to join our stewardship of this forest, then what meaning remains in the oath itself? Why even join the Conclave?

Not long ago I encountered a man bearing the insignia of the Alchemist Guild of Murann deep within the Wealdath. He was not gathering what he needed. He was stripping entire stretches of forest bare, harvesting every herb he could find and leaving nothing behind.

I ordered him to depart. He refused.

He stood behind layers of visible arcane wards, protected from nearly any immediate harm. It was plain to see that a handful of arrows would not kill him. I loosed them regardless, not to slay him, but to compel his retreat. He cast me to the ground with his magic, cloaked himself in invisibility, abandoned his familiar to delay me, and fled. He escaped with scarcely a wound. I believed I had fulfilled the duty expected of an Archer of Y'Tellarien. A trespasser abusing the forest had refused to depart and had been driven from the forest.

Hours later I found Chantar'elle transformed into something I scarcely recognized. Badgers. Otters. Deer. Young fauns. Owls. Creatures that flee from travelers rather than threaten them. They lay butchered across the forest floor. Many had been skinned while still alive. Trees had been ringed so they would slowly die. This was not hunting. This was not survival. This was cruelty for cruelty's sake.

I found Otharion soon after. He had witnessed a company of six men from Murann committing these atrocities. Among them was a man matching the very same Alchemist Guild member I had driven from the forest earlier that day. Together we did what little we could. Otharion healed the wounded trees. I buried every forest creature we could find. We restored what dignity we were able before he returned to alert the Circle while I remained upon patrol.

The following morning every grave had been opened. Every body unearthed. Every tree Otharion had healed had been ringed anew. And many more trees had been ringed the same manner, intentional death. And then many more innocent creatures had been slaughtered. The destruction had not merely returned. It had multiplied. Everything we had restored had been desecrated once more, and beyond it lay fresh cruelty surpassing even the horrors of the day before. And then the slurs. "Hrast Elves!" "Hrast Keila!" I need not imagine the message they intended. Their actions spoke plainly enough: Resistance will be answered with desecration. Defend the forest? And the forest itself shall be made to suffer.

That is the character of those the Conclave has recruited as our allies.

Then came the summons. Return to answer before the Ancients... Or face permanent exile. Perhaps they are right to demand an accounting of my arrows. I have never sought to hide my actions. But I cannot silence the question that has settled heavily upon my heart.

Why is the first summons for me? Not for those who butchered the forest. Not for those who sought to kill the trees. Not for those who answered restraint with atrocity. For me. What lesson does that teach? That the elf who defends the forest must answer before those who despoil it? That preserving harmony with Murann now outweighs preserving the sanctity of the Wealdath? If so, then something precious has been lost.

I have never doubted Mourieth. She remains the greatest warrior our people possess, and the strongest voice of the Cir'thowe still living. There is none whose courage I question less. When she swore herself to the Conclave this past season, I believed, as she surely hoped, that her presence would strengthen the Partnership and mend the growing divide between Y'Tellarien and the Circle. Yet the opposite has come to pass. I do not see the Conclave bending toward Y'Tellarien. I see Y'Tellarien bending toward the Conclave. Once, the Circle stood beneath the Mother Tree because the elves welcomed a handful of trusted allies into our home. Now it too often feels as though the elves themselves must justify defending that home whenever outsiders object. I still respect many within the Circle. I respect their wisdom. I respect their devotion. I respect the years they have spent healing the land. But respect is not the same as authority. More and more often, the decisions concerning who may walk our woods, who may remain beneath our boughs, and what risks may be taken within the Wealdath no longer seem guided by the elves of Y'Tellarien. Instead, they are shaped by the Concalve. We have slowly surrendered what our ancestors never intended us to yield.

Some will say my arrows caused what followed. I reject that. My arrows did not invite that alchemist beneath our canopy. My arrows did not teach him he was welcome to wander wherever he pleased. My arrows did not convince him the Wealdath was a place where he could strip the forest bare without consequence. Those decisions were made long before I ever drew my bow. This man of the Alchemist Guild did not create my distrust. He justified it. His actions have demonstrated the folly of mistaking political partnerships for earned trust. We have abandoned a small fellowship of sworn and accountable guardians in favor of broad alliances built upon hope and diplomacy. We were told this would strengthen the Wealdath.

Instead, it has brought beneath our boughs those willing to answer resistance with spite and cruelty. The lesson before us is not that one man proved faithless. The lesson is that we have adopted a policy that asks us to trust strangers before they have earned that trust.

They may strip me of rank. They may strip me of title. They may strip me of my place beneath the Mother Tree. They cannot strip me of my duty. So long as I draw breath, I remain what I have always been. A guardian of the Wealdath.

The forest does not ask whether I am welcomed by councils or elders.

It asks only whether I will stand for it when others will not.

My answer remains unchanged.


Keila of the Wealdath.