As transcribed by Scholar Rynell of the Emerald Archive, in the fourth age, recounting a formative legend of Galdrowen’s dawn.

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Chapter I: The Murmurs Beneath the Boughs

In the primeval hush of Galdrowen, where sunbeams tangled with ancient moss and the earth’s pulse throbbed beneath every root, the forest was alive with more than mere creatures. Spirits flickered in the mist. Old magic whispered through the canopy, and the very air shimmered with the memory of creation. Thalia Fernstep, youngest of the Stormhide tribe, pressed her furred palm to the cool bark of an elder oak. Her heart beat in time with the tree’s slow, patient rhythm—a trick her mother had taught her, though Thalia had always craved more than what the old ways offered. She was sharp-eyed, quick-footed, and, some said, too curious for her own good. Yet today, the very forest seemed to beckon. From the distant heart of Thornhall Grove, a tremor ran through the ground. Leaves quivered. Birds quieted, and the ever-watchful Brambletooth, massive and bristling, turned his tusked gaze toward the darkness between the trunks. “Another omen?” Thalia asked, glancing at the Tribal Warden. Brambletooth grunted, his voice low as thunder. “Nature is restless. Elder Mossbeard will know its meaning. Come, little runner—your ears are sharp.” They wound their way deeper, the silence thickening until even Thalia’s breath felt loud. At the roots of the Worldtree—a colossal, gnarled presence older than memory—Elder Mossbeard stood, his bark-like skin aglow with emerald veins. Moss hung from his antlers; his eyes were wells of patient wisdom. “Elder,” Brambletooth rumbled. “The ground speaks of change.” Mossbeard’s voice was wind through leaves. “The Breath of Elarion stirs. The Verdant Circle must listen.” From the shadows, Nuala of the Grove emerged, her gaze distant, her words like drifting petals. “I have dreamed of roots entwined with flame, and a dragon’s eye opening beneath the soil.” The four regarded each other, the silence deepening. In Galdrowen, dreams and omens were not dismissed. Here, prophecy was as real as rain. —

Chapter II: The Verdant Circle’s Counsel

In the living halls of nascent Thornhall Grove, the proto-druids gathered, a ring of Beastkin, plantfolk, and ancient spirits. The symbol of the Verdant Circle—a tangle of intertwined roots—was marked in the earth at their feet. Elder Mossbeard presided, his voice echoing with the weight of ages. “Long have we tended the wilds,” he intoned, “but the forest’s heart is uneasy. Nuala’s dreams are not hers alone. The Grove-Wyrms do not stir lightly.” A hush fell. All knew of the Grove-Wyrms—legends made flesh, elemental dragons slumbering beneath sacred glades. Their awakening heralded both blessing and peril. Thalia, emboldened by her curiosity, stepped forward. “If the dragon dreams, perhaps we must listen—not with fear, but with hope. What if its waking is not doom, but a sign?” Brambletooth snorted. “Hope is for those who have not seen a Grove-Wyrm’s wrath.” Mossbeard raised a limb, and the council stilled. “The prophecy of the Breath speaks of an age when dragon and kin will shape the wildwood anew. But prophecy is a river—it flows where it must.” Nuala’s eyes glimmered. “I have seen the place in my dream. The roots of Thornhall tremble there. We must go, or risk the wyrm waking in loneliness and rage.” The decision was made. Thalia, Brambletooth, and Nuala would journey beneath the Worldtree, seeking the source of the omens. Elder Mossbeard would lend his blessing—and, if need be, his own ancient power. As the council disbanded, Thalia caught Nuala’s eye. “Do the Grove-Wyrms truly dream, or do they remember what the world has forgotten?” Nuala smiled, enigmatic. “In Elarion, dream and memory are one.” —

Chapter III: Into the Root-Hollows

Their path led down, beneath the emerald twilight, where roots twisted like sleeping serpents and the air hung heavy with living magic. Thalia led, her nose twitching at the scent of old earth and sap. Brambletooth’s massive form parted the thick undergrowth, while Nuala drifted at the rear, humming a wordless song. The deeper they ventured, the stranger the forest became. Shadows moved without wind. Vines parted at Nuala’s touch, revealing cryptic glyphs seared into the bark—remnants of druidic rituals older than speech. Suddenly, the earth quaked. A fissure yawned before them, exhaling a breath of warm, herb-scented air. Thalia peered down and saw lights flickering—will-o’-wisps or spirits, she could not tell. “It is here,” Nuala whispered, voice trembling. “The Grove-Wyrm’s den.” Brambletooth bared his tusks, unease written in every bristle. “We wake a legend at our peril.” But Thalia stepped forward, heart pounding. “We were summoned. The wyrm awaits.” They descended, roots curling to form a spiral staircase into the gloom. At the bottom, a cavern opened—vast and vaulted, lined with crystalline moss. In its center, curled around a heartstone pulsing with green fire, lay a Grove-Wyrm. The dragon was immense, scales like living bark, antlered head crowned with flowering vines. Its breaths were slow, ancient, and each exhale sent spores drifting through the dark. Nuala approached, kneeling. “O spirit of the wood, we come not in fear, but in hope. Speak, if prophecy moves your heart.” The Grove-Wyrm’s eye opened—a pool of emerald light. Its voice was the voice of Galdrowen itself, deep and resonant: “Why do you wake me, children of my breath?” —

Chapter IV: The Grove-Wyrm’s Challenge

The Grove-Wyrm’s gaze settled on each of them in turn. Thalia felt its awareness slip through her mind like roots through soil, testing, measuring. “We come as the Verdant Circle,” Mossbeard intoned, stepping forward with surprising swiftness for one so ancient. He had followed, silent as the growing of moss. “The land is restless, your dreams disturb the wilds. What prophecy do you bring?” The dragon’s tail coiled, shedding petals and leaves. “When the Shattering birthed the world, I was shaped by the Breath. I slumber to heal the wounds of chaos, but now I sense a sickness creeping near.” Nuala’s eyes widened. “A sickness?” “Something stirs at the edge of Galdrowen. Shadows root where light once danced. If this darkness is not checked, the forest’s heart will wither and prophecy fail.” Thalia straightened, resolve burning. “What must we do?” The Grove-Wyrm’s jaws parted in a slow, solemn smile. “You must carry my seed—a heartstone of living wood—to the place where shadow creeps. Plant it there, and the wild magic will drive back corruption.” Brambletooth rumbled, “If we fail?” “Galdrowen will lose more than trees,” the dragon said. “The Breath’s memory will fade. But if you succeed, the prophecy of unity, of kin and dragon, begins anew.” The Grove-Wyrm shed a single crystal—a heartstone, pulsing faintly. Thalia took it, awed by its warmth. “Go,” the wyrm commanded, “and let nature’s will be done.” —

Chapter V: The Shadow at the Edge

Guided by the Grove-Wyrm’s vision, Thalia and her companions emerged from the root-hollows, heartstone in hand. Their destination: the forest’s northern edge, where rumors spoke of withering trees and unnatural silence. The Verdant Circle had long avoided this border, wary of the unknown. The journey was perilous. The air thickened; the very plants grew twisted, sap blackened. Brambletooth’s tusks gleamed as he drove off predatory wraiths—echoes of the chaos that still haunted Elarion’s bones. As dusk fell, they found the source: a ring of deadwood, leaves curled and black, the soil ash-gray. In its center, a fissure pulsed with shadow, leaking tendrils of darkness into the roots above. Nuala knelt, whispering to the spirits. “The land suffers. We must act quickly.” Brambletooth circled, wary. “This is no sickness of nature. Something ancient festers here.” Thalia clutched the heartstone, feeling its pulse sync with her own. Summoning her courage, she stepped into the ring. The shadow recoiled, hissing, but the heartstone flared—radiant green streaming through her fingers. “By the will of the Verdant Circle,” she cried, “and the Breath of Elarion, let the wildwood heal!” She drove the heartstone into the earth. Roots burst forth, green and golden, spiraling through the ash. The darkness screamed, recoiling as the roots drank deep. Light spread, and the deadwood blossomed anew—leaves unfurling, birds returning, life triumphant. Nuala and Brambletooth watched as the land healed, the prophecy fulfilled in living color. —

Chapter VI: The Circle Renewed

In the aftermath, the trio returned to Thornhall Grove, bearing news of their success. The council gathered once more, hope rekindled in their eyes. Elder Mossbeard listened, pride and humility mingling in his gaze. “You have done more than heal a wound. You have fulfilled the prophecy’s first breath. Dragon and kin, united in purpose, can shape Galdrowen’s destiny.” Nuala smiled, her riddles softened. “The Grove-Wyrm dreams, and now its dream is hope.” Brambletooth thumped his chest. “Let the tribes remember: courage and unity are the wildwood’s shield.” Thalia looked to the horizon, where the healed land shimmered. “What now?” Mossbeard’s answer was gentle. “Now, we watch. We listen. The Shattering’s wounds will not heal in a single day, but you have shown the path. The Verdant Circle endures.” —

Chapter VII: The Dragon’s Blessing

Beneath the Worldtree, the Grove-Wyrm stirred in its den, sensing the land’s renewal. It breathed deep, sending a pulse of living magic through the roots, into every leaf and beast. In her dreams, Nuala saw the dragon smile. “Well done, children of my breath. The forest remembers.” As dawn painted Thornhall Grove with golden fire, Thalia stood with her companions, listening to the song of the wildwood. In the hush between birdsong and breeze, she heard the Breath of Elarion—timeless, enduring, and filled with hope. So ends the tale of the first prophecy fulfilled, and the roots of unity planted deep in Galdrowen’s heart, awaiting the ages yet to come. —