View Full Version : Fall of the Guosim

Ember Nickel
July 13th, 2005, 01:58 PM
Every river had a name recorded in shrew lore, no matter how grand or small. This was a minor tributary called the Dragonfly Stream, and it was half a day’s journey by logboat downstream to where it met the River Moss. Log-a-Log Terglough had chosen that spot to meet his scout Narlo. She was keen-eyed, a fact which Terglough had highlighted when other shrews complained about her paddling skills. As her logboat came into view, the shrew chieftain realized she might have made this journey without tipping over. His hopes for a first-time achievement, however, were dashed when it overturned just boatlengths away from him.

Resignedly, he hopped into the water and uprighted the canoe. “So, I hope yore report’s in better shape than that boat.”

“Aye, mate, but it’s bad news. Ole Caddim the hedgehog’s got his liddle house burnt down, and none of the birds thereabouts have seen ‘im.”

“Burnt down, you says? Was there, say, a purple feather among the wreckage?”

“Y’know, there might’ve well been. It rings summat of a bell, but I can’t remember precisely.”

“Sounds like the work of Drandelp. C’mon, best we get the tribe together to discuss this. If he’s struck Caddim’s then we’re all…”

“Headin’ for a whirlpool on a sinkin’ logboat?”

“Aye, that’s about right.”
Through the undergrowth of Mossflower Woods a fox crept. He had been dismissed as an undergrown runt by his tribe, who had not let him handle the great swords at the age his peers had. Teased and shunned, Drandelp had slunk into the woods one winter, the last the tribe had seen of him. In the desolate forest had he found his true talent.

Fire arrows! Simple yet fatal. Drandelp took pride in his archery, enough to only launch the most beautiful arrows. In the winter he would venture to the southlands, to craft arrows from the feathers of birds that had failed to complete their migration. Come spring, he would return to devastate the woodlands.