Long ago, when the hemlock pines were only the size of shrubs, and the great bears of old had not yet thought to venture down into the lowlands, there lived a clan of woodsmen on the very western edge of the Greenwood. For generations, they thrived, living off the bounties of the forest and the beasts who called it home. In the summer, the river ran clear, and full of fish to salt, and the trees were filled with birds; the bushes with foxes. And in the winter, when the snow fell thick and heavy, they took shelter in homes hewn of logs from the Greenwood. The woodsmen respected the forest, and the forest respected them. The woodsmen knew that as long as they kept that pact with the woodland, they would have enough to eat, enough to wear, and shelter through the long nights, when the beasts of the forest went on hunts of their own. They kept to the borders of the wood, never daring too far into the lush green sea of foliage and hidden ravines. For there were things in the forest that were not to be disturbed. They murmured tales of them by the hearth fires late at night, when the wind wailed louder than their whispers, to teach their children to live as they did, and to keep their pact alive.
But all was not well in their clan, for one day there came of age a young man who sought, above all else, to rise above his brothers. On his first hunt, he shot three foxes. On his second, he killed a bear and her cub. His clan championed him as their greatest hunter, and he brought into his household the fairest woman in all the village, who agreed to become his wife. The elders of his clan celebrated his accomplishments at first, but as time drew on they realized that this man hunted not for the sake of food, nor fur, nor sustenance, but rather for the thrill of the chase, and for the glory of spilling blood. At long last, they decided to hold a meeting, on the night of the last full moon of Summer. But as they gathered in the long, log cabin at the heart of their settlement, the hunter had other plans in mind.
He had listened all too closely to the stories that the elders spun, when the moon was high. He desired nothing else than to know, to touch, to conquer that which slumbered in the very heart of the forest. The hunter had killed bears and boar, foxes and hares, and fish large enough to swallow a man whole. But hunting something so old, so great, so powerful—it was the ultimate prize. His family warned him not to meddle with things he did not understand, but the man could not be deterred. So, when dusk turned to twilight, and the long-house filled with those who sought to limit him, the hunter strung his bow, and slung his quiver filled with arrows over his shoulder, and ventured into the depths, where none dared stray ever before.
The path into the Greenwood was winding, and more treacherous than any had proved before. The hunter slipped and fell into ravines and narrow streams. He found it more and more difficult to see, but even in the darkness he could feel the gaze of the trees towering him above him, and sense the forest watching his every move. It seemed to wait with bated breath, to see what he would do. None of humankind had dared trespass here before. Even the creatures of the night stood still as he passed, only to follow on padded paws, and dusky wings, once he was ahead of them. Hours dragged on like days. Seconds turned to weeks. But his steps slowed. His heart sank. And, at long last, the hunter knew he had discovered it. He had reached the heart of the Greenwood.
The mouth of a large cave loomed in front of him. Every breath seemed to echo back from his mouth, and still he ventured on, bravely swallowing his fear. His misdeeds had already been wrought. The only choice, now, was to follow through. His feet fell heavy against the slick cavern floor, and cool water dripped down on him from the ceiling, warded off only by the furs about his shoulders. But slowly, the cavern began to dry, and it was only then that his heart truly started racing. The hunter took one more step, dreading it the moment his foot left the ground, and that was when he heard it: a low, rumbling growl. It was enough to make the earth quake, yet the hunter stood still, and slowly notched an arrow in his bow. He took a deep breath, gathering focus, and let his senses guide him in the dim light. As his eyes strained, he could almost make out a pair of gleaming eyes in the inky darkness. The hunter exhaled, and released his arrow.
The arrow flew strong and straight, but before it could find its mark, the hunter was struck by a taloned paw greater than any bear he had ever faced. He drew his knife as fast as he could, and as the paw came back for a second swipe he plunged the blade through its tender centre. The beast gave a ground-shaking roar, and he quickly drew it back out, scrambling to his feet and backing out of the chamber. Only, he didn’t know the way out. There in the darkness, it was only him and the beast. Fear took the hunter, but his pride spurred him on. He shouted, and threw himself at the beast with all the strength left in him, and there the grappled, growling and gnawing, slashing and stabbing, until each was almost as beaten and as battered as the other. But the hunter ended with the upper hand. He stood over the beast, blood mingling with sweat, and readied his blade, but he did not go in for the kill. For the creature spoke to him in the darkness.
“Wait,” it said, its voice as deep as the roots of the Greenwood. “I bid you, do not kill me.”
“And why should I not kill you?” the hunter asked, breathless from their struggle.
“Have you no care for the good of your people?” the creature asked. “Will you pay no heed to their pact with the forest?”
“I have beaten you. To end you is my right.”
“Whomever sheds my blood shall shed the blood of the Greenwood. Whomever breaks the pact shall never again fish from my rivers. Shall not hunt beneath my mantle. Whomever sheds my blood for lack of mercy shall receive no mercy from me. The forest shall be closed to them, and their children after them, and their bloodline shall be cursed.”
The hunter struck the first blow. “I do this for my honor,” he declared, delivering the second. “For my skill has bested that of the Greenwood itself,” he struck thrice. “And its glory is mine for the taking.”
The sun rose as he left the cavern, bruised and weary, and covered in blood shed with neither respect nor remorse. The path was cold as he made his way back. The elders in the long-house could see his deeds across his face before he even spoke of what he’d done. They knew the curse he carried on his shoulders, and declared that he must leave their clan, and live in exile, so that his curse would not fall on them as well. The hunter, shaken and cast off by those he sought to impress, told his wife to remain, and remarry, so that she and her children could live freely without his burden. But his wife refused. She followed him into exile, accompanied by two of his brothers, and their families.
They traveled northwest, far into the mountains, until they could go no further, and there they settled on a peak they christened Hemlock Mountain, for the pines grew thick along its high slopes. They built for themselves a lodge of pine wood before winter fell in full, and set down roots in the stone, forever severed from the benevolent forest of their birth. They were the first of many generations to live and flourish on the mountainside, and when a town sprung up in the valley below, they took to trading leathers, fur, and meat with the settlers, in the place they called “Winter-home”. And so they live, taking only what they need from the creatures of the hemlock groves, with roots and pacts of their very own. The mountain stands, as harsh and unforgiving as the very breath of winter itself, and yet the people of the Starker clan hold no fear in their hearts. They do not fear the heart of the forest, for the heart of the forest is their home.
[image from here]
