Steven Farrell!

Shadows of Crix!

! In the great land of Fråm there existed great wooded forests untouched by man

or magic know to the people as Olafskogen. Thick, healthy trees spring from the ground

and rush towards the sky with great and green power. Birds chirped and frolicked

among the leaves, dancing with the other animals under the lush forest’s canopy. The

trees were of the brightest green and the sun was of the warmest yellows and oranges.

It was even said that at sunset, the purples and blues cast along the horizon were more

glorious and warm than even the glassblower’s kiln or the smell of freshly baking bread

at the baker’s house.!

! On the edge of Olafskogen, there was a small and humble town that carried

about the days as a boat might float down a listless river. The town was called Orias

after the great band of heroes who had vanquish the powerful king Crix many harvests

past. In honor of the heroes past, a great bell tower was constructed at the edge of town

to be rung in remembrance of the heroes’ triumph. But this story was long ago and had

fallen into legend amongst the people. There did remain, however, a grand celebration

remembering their triumph over Crix and, be it legend or truth, all in Orias awaited this

evening. The town’s scholar and storyteller, Libjörn would recount in vivid detail during

the deepest part of evening the heroes’ many precarious adventures. Oh! how the town

would shiver in awe at such a story! But now in pleasant Orias, smoke gently rose from

the baker’s house to meet the clouds above, water spun the water-wheel, and the

people were bustling about preparing for the night of celebration.!

! The evening was to be full of jolly drinking, games, fireworks, and family

gathering. In each house frantic mothers prepared scrumptious jams, children plotted

how they might taste the sweet apple pie in the oven, and fathers planted the pegs into

the ground and raised the festive tents. Though many were in a whir of motion, Orias

never lost its calm spirit nor was without hearty laughter and occasional song. Before

the sun drooped her head over the edge of the freshly cut fields, the tents were raised,

the food was ready, and music filled the air with merriment. The pies were placed, the

meats were cooked and salted, and the drinks were endless. All was free and all was for

all. The celebration allowed no soul to be left with a solemn face. !

! One particular young man who had recently been declared of age to till the fields

and call them his own was dancing round to the merry music and making himself quite

fatigued with song and dance. Pulling a wooden stool from the table and sitting on the

creaking seat, he watched and gleamed of happiness for this day was undoubtably his

favorite.!

! “My dear Jonatan! Why are you sitting upon that lonely stool when good

company sits only but a foot away?” said a burly voice from behind him. It was Marcus,

the blacksmith Jonatan was apprenticed to. Marcus was a larger man with a fine beard

but seemed to fancy himself a delicate, yet drunk, butterfly dancing amongst the crowd

tonight. Dropping himself down upon a chair much too small for him, Marcus put a

friendly hand on Jonatan’s shoulder and said “I certainly hope that you may join us for

the telling from Libjörn? I heart it will be especially fancy this year; the fireworks are a

direct import from Tronhjelm, you know? Those dwarves make fine fireworks if I may

say, young man!” Jonatan knew this all very well and smiled back at Marcus with a half

grin. “But of course you know all this, young master Jonatan for who has read so many

pages as you?” exclaimed Marcus. “Why, if you applied the hammer and anvil each time

your page was turned, you could forge for an army!” Marcus jested as he took another

deep gulp of his ale through a most hearty laughter.!

! “And if the forge were stoked from each drink of your tankard there would be

such a blazing tempest as to fuel one hundred smithies.”!

! “Oh? Quite true young Jonatan! But then, aye, how’s a man to stay healthy in his

humble age?” Marcus leaned in his creaking seat and sang:!

The truth be told, it’s weight in gold,!

I care not for the banker.!

Sweat of sun, and burning hands, no,!

I’d never plow the fields.!

But I’d be there with my hands ready,!

if one hand had a tankard! ”!

! The festivities continued into the night and Marcus and Jonatan had a merry time

talking about things other than the right temperature to maintain the forge at, what color

iron becomes most brittle at, and how to repair common tools. Tonight was about

heroes and enchanting stories which was most exciting to Jonatan. Often, in times away

from the forge, Jonatan would listen to Libjörn tell stories again and again absorbing

every detail and imagining himself in the many precarious situations. At one point,

Libjörn had taught Jonatan to read; a skill that not many knew; a skill that Jonatan held

dear. Jonatan discovered rich histories of legends and truth learning of the dwarves to

the northwest, the volcanic island of Crix from hundreds years past that had

mysteriously receded into thick shadows and smoke, and of the impossible magics that

few men understood.!

! As the time whistled by in steins of ale, loaves of bread, and jokes of old, the

town eventually came to a quite murmur as Libjörn made his way out of his house and

walked to the stage carrying his festive staff decorated with many intricate carvings that

many believed Libjörn didn’t even understand them all himself. The older man walked

with confidence and vigor as if his body was a false facade over his true age inside.

Walking up the steps of the stage, the anticipation from the crowd was palpable. Libjörn

wasted no time and immediately captivated Orias with his drilling and fervent voice.!

! “My friends, my family, the old and young alike. Tonight I bring a tale for the ear’s

great delight. The three, our heroes, stand tall tonight. Up high they lit the lamps so

bright.”!

! And with a sputtering crackle, fireworks of oranges and yellows careened through

the sky arousing great wonderment from the crowd. Libjörn raised his hands with the

explosion making it appear as if he had cast them up himself. Suddenly lowering

himself, he almost whispered.!

! “They faced great troubles fought through the deep and dark forests, over the

burning planes of fire. The Tower of Shattered Glass stood at the edge of Fråm where

the vile, maleficent false king Crix had stowed away long since sunk into the earth of

long forgotten pasts.” Snapping crackles of greens and purples scattered through the air

above the crowd. Firmly tapping his staff against the stage, “Treachery! Intrigue! Vile

black and terrible traitors! The Shades from the misty grove amongst the dead pines.

Oh, Orias! If you think this mere legend has no roots in our world of seeming truth

explain to me! Explain the winds that blow cruel and cold. Explain to me the chill, the

terror that pricks your neck in the thick of night, aye, explain to me the shapes and

figures amongst the very shadows that these lights to cast!” Loud, sudden, bursting

crackles flared the sky with red and chaotic light as Libjörn pointed his staff across the

crowd.”!

! This, however, was entirely new. Libjörn has always described the same story

each year. Jonatan was sure of it. Though the fireworks were new, this dark tone laced

in the original story was equally unsettling as it was driving the nervous attention of the

crowd. “Oh yes, Orias, the night our humble city burned long ago it was much like our

nights here. Those old magics were just as mysterious as they are now. The town was

quiet, pleasant, full of rich life and humble occupation just as it was naught but a few

hours ago! These heroes were not heroes, no, they were you, or him, maybe even, well

no certainly not you!” he said passing over the Rifenbrundles brothers who were known

for their loud, quipped banter during their trade of carpentry. Raising their tankards in

hearty acknowledgment, Libjörn continued.!

! “The world was as much at east, yes indeed, as our very own world stands to this

day. Do not count these stories as false or the ramblings of fantasy! Mark, for these

mere stories may yet be the scribe and pen of indeed your own tomorrow.”!

! With fireworks and intrigue Libjörn continued telling of the heroic adventures. But

Jonatan’s mind was elsewhere. He was looking off in the distance, behind the stage at

the tall, lonesome bell tower. Jonatan knew well that at the conclusion of the story the

bell had to be rung yet how sad that whomever kept the lamps lit in the tower must miss

the festivities of the night. !

! Libjörn forged onward and told the tale Orias’ history and how Crix had taken the

city and burned it to the ground during his reign. The heroes fled their own homes and

followed Crix’s men. Eventually coming to the Tree of Bloodied Tears in Olafskogen, the

heroes found passage into her enormous trunk into the secret garden that lie in the

roots of the tree. The townspeople leaned closer and some shut their eyes imagining

the impossible arboretum in the roots of the tree, smelling the air that is fresh year

round and almost feeling the grass of the garden. All knew that such things were of

legend but all wished and yearned for such a place of peace to be truth.!

! From the calmness of the tree, Libjörn told how there existed a secret passage to

the ancient dungeon under the river. Inside lay a brazen tube with ancient script telling

of the powers within Fjälar, the great sword wielded thousands of years past by the

legendary King Fråm himself. Fjälar was the only weapon powerful enough to defeat the

false king Crix’s vile black grip on the land. He told how the heroes boldly traversed the

plains of fire across the southernmost tip of Fråm where it is said to be hotter than even

the blacksmith’s forge, and where the weather is more tumultuous than a raging

tempest.!

! It was most amazing to Jonatan that the heroes were able to accomplish such

fantastic tasks, trials of strength and will as it all seemed nigh impossible to achieve as

a mere human. If such a fate were to befall Fråm again, Jonatan pondered who might

stand up to the new evil. He imagined Marcus ferociously forging great and powerful

steel for the men and hoped he too might get a chance to assist. He imagined the baker

feeding the mouths of these weary heroes and the water-wheel churning without pause

and how he might fix it if it should break. But it was known to most that Jonatan was no

master smith. He was clumsy at best with a hammer and of weak fortitude. He would

spend hours reading books on legends of old in the grassy fields or walk through the

outer forest watching the birds play and mingle. Though he earnestly loved his craft, he

was truly no good.!

! This, however, is not to say that Jonatan lacked direction or was an apathetic

man; nay, in fact, not at all. Jonatan had a strong intrinsic drive towards everything he

did. The townspeople, often including Jonatan himself, wondered where best to steer

his ambitions though. Tonight, though, was not a night for such thoughts of self-doubt

and none of these sobering thoughts were present in any head. Tonight Jonatan was

very much happy and content. For one night of the entire year, the town was just as

enamored with the story as Jonatan was.!

! Libjörn was broaching the end of the tale with a deep and resonating voice

accenting every word and pulse. His words swelled larger and thicker as the heroes

felled Crix with Fjälar in the Tower of Broken Glass, sending the vile place deep into the

earth. Libjörn cried with outstretched arms, “People of Orias! These are the heroes

three! Join me in raising their names with the Bell!” The crowd all chanted the first hero's

name proudly with staccato enthusiasm, “Thantor!” The ominous and rich tone of the

bell rang out into the cool air coating the town in its booming voice. “Sheldon!” they

chanted again with glasses raising higher. The bell was struck again, resounding

through the people’s drinks causing ripples through the frothing and yellow ale. And with

the third and final chant, the loudest of all, “Orias!” was cheered loud and long with

much ale spilled to the ground. With a rumble of all the town standing on their feet at

once to toast, the final bell rang over the crowd. Joining the final resonating tones of the

bell, the people closed their eyes and joined in an ancient hum:!

!!

“Over seas of mist and foam,!

Past the high white tops of ancient Tronhjelm,!

A great darkness grew and cast her dark shadows.!

The heroes risen from Fråm travelled far,!

Finding the fate of Olaf to bind and hold fast,!

The shadow yearning to claim her breast.”!

!! Upon the final strain of the song, the crowd grew louder until the enormous

sound of a seemingly single voice rose from the town and acted as a warm blanket

covering all that could hear it. It is said that even the trees lean closer each year that

this sound is heard for it is so sweet that even the proudest bee must bow her yellow

head to the singing produced at this fine celebration.!

! With a loud crack and bang that startled most and gave a jump to many, the

grandest of all the fireworks were launched up, up, up into the sky above, snapping

along with the laughter of the people. Before another moment could pass, the music

struck up again a merry tune and the somber mood was quickly dispelled as dancing,

drinking, and eating continued their jolly pace.!

! Jonatan however still stood in his place looking at the stars in the sky, hearing

the ringing of the bell in his own memory. Libjörn once had told him that the bell was

rung by the heroes themselves on their return home hundreds of years ago and that,

even through the many rains and snows of time, the bell heard on the celebration night

rang with the same clarity that the great heroes themselves heard when they first

returned home. Jonatan relished this idea and thought how glorious it was to hear such

a sound and to be so close to the legend that he had heard tonight.!

! “Jonatan! Come! Be merry! Stop your standings and make movement with your

feet! We have every reason to celebrate on this fine occasion my young apprentice!”

With a leap of zealous energy and a step that was most impressive Jonatan danced and

danced through the night until the sun peeked her rays over the freshly cut fields looking

in wonderment at the small town as if she had missed something fantastic in her sleep.