This is a long post, maybe more than one in the end, and is a continuation of Galdrions public posts 3164 to 3167.

"Ah, there it is, finally," said Perseon victoriously. After no less than half an hour of searching among his clutter of parchments, inks, herbs and only Sarapis knows what else, the boy finally dug out his fathers ring. I say boy not because of his looks - he was clearly a full-grown man, perhaps in his thirties, worn a hardened by his youth in the mines of Moghedu and later as an explorer of Sapience. It was more an odd innocence about him, an unwillingness to give himself over to the harshness of life and of the path he had chosen for his future. Perhaps he sought a youth he had never been allowed, or perhaps he was simply foolish. But that is for my readers to decide.
"Yes, this is the one, To my love, Magadan it says on the inside. I know not why Ive kept it, perhaps for my brothers sake more than anything. Magadan was dead before my birth, but our mom never forgot him. An odd thing, that. From the tales she told me in my boyhood, out of earshot of Darvius of course, I am not sure whether her harshest memories were of the time Magadan was alive, or of his death." A pensive look crossed Perseons face, as it often did while we spoke. At least he was more forthcoming with his tale than his brother had been.
Finally, I asked, So why did you leave Moghedu then? The only family and home you had ever known - it must have been hard for a young boy to make such a decision." With that simple question, Perseon took on the visage of a man who had just lost a war. His childhood memories were distant, but long from forgotten. He fingered a golden Ankh pendant, a symbol of his faith to Lorielan. It dangled just above his family crest, embroidered on his tunic with the same artistry as Galdrions. Symbols of his new life they were, clung on to while his fathers ring lay lost in a pile of less important possessions.
Drawing a new quill and a fresh vial of ink, I quickly took down his tale.

Ripe with child and barely alive from her trek through the desert, Jonea was a desperate woman. Darivus was eager for children and took advantage of the situation. Jonea was quick to jump into his arms, but she did not know that it was a child he wanted more than anything love was not in his heart, nor on his mind. Perseon was born, small, frail and hardly suited for the dark life of cavernous Moghedu. Most importantly, he did not carry the Delanatar blood. The boy was treated harshly by his father, scolded for his human blood and reminded constantly that he did not belong. Perseon pleaded with his mother to leave Moghedu, but by that time she was ready to bear Dessa and would not hear of it. Try as he might, he could not convince Jonea to take her life into her own hands - she had lost Magadan, she had lost Galdrion, and she had almost lost her own life. Jonea clung desperately to the little she had found with the Mhun.
Perseon saw no choice. He prayed that his unborn sister might be embraced by the Mhun since she was of their kind, and he prayed that his mother find happiness in the life she chose for herself. But it was not the life for him. The blood of a woodcutter pulsed through his veins and he knew it. Taking only some food, clothing, an axe and the ring of his father, the boy stole away in the brightness of day - the best time, given the disdain his pursuers would have for that time of day.

He followed the road towards Ashtan, intent on making a life for himself in the city where his parents had been born. Travelers on the way spoke of the great Western Ithmia, where the trees stood tall and hearty, ripe for harvesting and spreading farther than he was willing to believe. Taking down careful directions, the youth made his way into the great forest. For the first time, Perseon felt at home. The wilderness called to him, and he was certain that wood cutting was the life for him. Already he was planning - his first harvest of wood would be only what he could carry, but with some perseverance, he might one day make a good living at it. Hoisting his axe, he prepared to strike down his first tree.
"Oh please, you cruel fiend, do not destroy my home!" a soft voice cried out from the forest. A dryad slipped its way through the trees to young Perseon, pleading all the way. "Begone, leave me to my business," he replied. "You are beautiful, but do not try to entrance me with your shape and your voice. The forest belongs to those who would make use of it." With that, he began to swing the axe.
At that very moment, he saw what he was doing. The ring of Magadan was on his finger, worn and tarnished from his fathers tedious labour, and filled with the stories of sadness his mother had told him. He was becoming that man, another Magadan. A man who would destroy the very thing that gave him life, who would bring sadness to his wife and child whom he ought to love more than anything. He could not do it. Slumping in a heap, his resolve and dreams shattered, Perseon began to cry.
"Be glad, mortal human," the dryad consoled him. "You have spared my home, though I know not what brought your sudden change of heart. Perhaps the spirit of Gaia has entered you, or the voices of the protectors of nature have reached your ears."
"Protectors? Is that why this beautiful place lays unharmed, though there are surely many who would rape it for their own gain, as I was about to do?" Regaining his composure, Perseon listened intently to the dryads reply.
"Why yes, the forest is revered and protected by the Druids of course, and by the Sentinels as well. I know little of it, but you may find the answers you seek with them. Perhaps they might be found at Loom Isle - it is a place for the young to find their paths in life, I am sure there will be people there to help you." With that, the dryad fluttered gracefully behind the tree and was gone.

continued...

Penned by my hand on the 9th of Daedalan, in the year 242 AF.