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Grandfathered in ( Completed - Maragarn )

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Players involved in this thread: Maragarn (Wildfire)

Thick fog spilled slowly over the fields of this brisk early spring morning. The air was thick with the scent of budding leaves and sprouting flowers. Already the tribe was up, bustling about.

The herds were beginning to move back north with the warming, and if there was one thing the Satyr had learned in the past fifty years, it was that they had to be ready to move with their source of food.

 The men were busy preparing arrows and spears for the night’s kill or loading carts to be ready for the traveling that would likely begin in the evening. The woman cooked the morning meal on a fire while keeping the children from hurting themselves, or one another.

 “Maragarn,” your father’s voice came from behind you. His voice had an unyielding strength to it. Your mother had said that if your father had asked a boulder to split, it would ask how many fragments were required. “Your grandfather is ill.”

This was something you already knew. He’d been sick for a few days now. Everyone had suspected that it was simply a cold from the changing of the seasons, which was not uncommon. The fact that your father was bringing it up now meant that was no longer the case.

Maragarn was carrying a bundle of newly made spears to a pack mule. He wasn’t much of a hunter much less a weapon crafter so his chores were relegated to more labor intensive endeavors and even then he wasn’t considered as useful as others.

He stopped in his work and turned to face his father. He dreaded the inevitable day that the news he feared he would be told would come. His grandfather had been a waterfall of wisdom to the family and offered insight to the “curse” that ran through the bloodline. To have that void in his life and to now be faced with an unpredictable future filled Maragarn with a sense of despair.

“Dad, it’s a spring cold just as every year…he will get better…when the weather changes?” Maragarn was trying more to convince himself of this than anyone despite his knowledge otherwise.

“We were wrong, this has nothing to do with the changing of the seasons. He was bit. Perhaps by a spider.”

Maragarn was not what would be regarded as a healer or much of an expert on arachnids, but this certainly didn’t sound like something that could be fixed easily.

“I’ve done what I can as far as slowing things down, but not only is there a venom, but infection as well. We need Ironroot…” Serephus trailed off, as he was certain Maragarn understood the implications of this.

Ironroot was from the Ironbark tree, and the Ironbark trees were revered by the Centaurs, the guardians of the world. One does not simply cut down an Ironbark tree. Even if it was an easy feat to cut one down, one would not get halfway through it before being run off by Centaur scouts.

The only way to get Ironroot was to ask, and one must be worthy. Ironroot could not be harvested from a full grown tree, it was simply too dense. For the medicinal properties to be utilized, a new sprout must be killed, and only about a dozen or so sprout each year.

The Centuar were not without sympathy of course, and would oblige if they could. However, time was of the essence. The Centaur rarely gave more than four sprouts in a year, and the new ones would be sprouting soon.

Another hurdle: the Satyr are not regarded well by the Centaur. Indeed, even before the Emerald Dawn, the Centaur looked down upon the practices of the Elven tribe that’d become the Satyr for their malicious worship practices. The Centaur feel the curse on the tribe was just, but maybe lenient. Maragarn could only hope they’re not aware of the shadow magic.

Maragarns heart sunk and with trembling hands he placed his burden on the ground. Most likely he would be forced to strike out into the wilds on his own. Given the ill favor that his family had secured in the clan it would be highly unlikely that anyone would venture out and get the medicine plant. His father would have to stay and tend his grandfather and his mother had to attend to the daily life and upkeep of the family. He was the only one that could go.

Though trained in the ways of the wilds, Maragarn’s talents were better suited to sages and shamans. He had been taught by his family elders in such ways and all of them knew he had become skilled with “the curse”. To go out on what was essentially a hunt, alone at that, made him both nervous and excited. This would be his chance to prove his usefulness in the clan but if he failed he could die. Worse yet, he’ll have failed his family and his grandsire would die.

With trepidation he asked, “How many days travel and in which direction will I find the saplings and Centaurs?” There was no going back now. He was committed to this. The winds of change were practically blowing him from his stance and he wondered if it was for good or ill.

Serephus' face became stern. "I told you to pay attention to your studies, that should have included geography."

He drew a deep breath and relaxed visibly. Maragarn's studies had been years ago, and the reality was that almost none of it had been put into any real use. As with any tool, disuse leads to atrophy.

"It's a week or nine days south from here. The Ironbark forest. If you hurry, you should be able to get back by month's end."

This statement brought about a realization; The tribe was moving, and it was not moving south. Seven to nine days south from where Maragarn stood that moment could mean a fortnight return with the tribe moving north.


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