Before I begin this post, a word of warning: the tale is long in the telling.

Magadan Longshanks was a woodcutter by trade, and often a drunk by choice. His only son, Galdrion, accompanied him to work in the forests from the age of five. Galdrion loved to walk among the trees, and he seemed to develop an affinity with the many creatures which dwelled there though he hated the logging, even at so young an age. Every blow of his fathers axe seemed a blow to his young heart. As he grew older his relationship with his father worsened. Magadan insisted on his son following in his footsteps, and many were the nights young Galdrion was sent to bed without supper but with a lashing from the often intoxicated Magadan, to fall asleep alone with his tears. His mother, Jonea, tried to play the role of mediator between her husband and her beloved son, but the only peace Galdrion could find was alone beneath the canopies of the forests he loved.
Not long after Galdrion turned eleven, Magadan began preparations to move the family from their home in Ashtan to live in the Aalen, to log the towering redwoods which grew there. Galdrion tried to run away but was returned by the city watch to his parents. Magadan was by no means proud of his son, he felt he was a weakling and often taunted him, though never abused him physically, mainly because of Joneas efforts at keeping the peace.
The Longshanks, along with two other families who had no children, made their way south from Ashtan to find the pass across the Vashnars which would bring them into the beautiful Aalen forest. The closer the party grew to the pass, the more heated the arguments between Galdrion and Magadan. Jonea could only watch with tear filled eyes as the conflict threatened to tear her family apart. The group made camp just outside the deserted ruins of an ancient castle one evening only one days travel from the pass through the mountain chain. Galdrion could no longer bear being a part of bringing such devastation to the only thing he truly cared for, the peaceful beauty of the woodlands. While the men began to slowly nod off, after yet another healthy night of drinking, Galdrion slipped into the forest. Unknowingly, he headed straight for the pass.
As the ground began to rise, Galdrion struggled to the top of a small butte, the flattened top of which commanded a good view of the way he had come. Looking back, he could just make out the dim glowing of the camps fire. A tear began to roll down Galdrions face at the thought of never seeing his mother again but before he could dwell on the pain of separation, the glow suddenly flared up. The slight wind carried the faintest sound of a womans shrill screaming. Concern for his mother overwhelming him, Galdrion half ran, half tumbled down the hill, making his way back to the camp. He had not realized how far he had come, and by the time he collapsed at the campfires remnants the screams had long since stopped.

Three men and one of the women lay sprawled upon the ground
the father he hated would torment him no more, an ugly black dagger's hilt protruding from his bloodstained chest. Tears flowing down his face, his body wracking with his sobs, Galdrion gently rolled the woman's lifeless body over to reveal her face. It was not his mother. Galdrion frantically searched for Jonea, or her body, afraid to call out, afraid to keep silent. Worry for his mother quickly outweighed his fears and Galdrion stumbled weeping through the surrounding forest alternating with ragged shouts of, "Jonea!" and "Mother!" He never knew how many days or nights he looked for some sign of Jonea, hunger and weariness threatening to overcome him, yet still he found no sign.

Penned by my hand on the 3rd of Daedalan, in the year 235 AF.