"The Heart of the Forest" – An Introductory Tale of Eldengrove: As passed down by Elder Mahwen, Keeper of the Archive

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  In a time since forgotten, before rope bridges stretched between the great trees and before laughter echoed through the canopy halls, there was only silence—deep, humming silence beneath the trees.

  The forest of Blumhirn had stood for eons, ever mighty, tall and ancient, its trees whispering secrets only the wind could understand. Creatures stirred in the moss and strange lights flickered in the night, but there was no village, no warmth of fire, and no song of the people or sky.

  Then came the First Climbers.

  They were wanderers, forest floor folks, brave souls seeking a home away from the damp and darkness and danger below.

  Led by a woman with hair like braided bark and eyes of emberlight—Elystra of the Hollow—they followed the pull of the glowing ancestor trees. She believed that the forest wanted them to rise, to grow upward like the trees themselves.

  And so they climbed.

  The climb took seasons. With vine-woven hammocks, the children strapped to their backs, they ascended through mist and moonlight, through the howl of beasts and the flutter of unseen wings. At last, they reached the high boughs—branches so wide they seemed like bridges made by the forest itself.

  There, they built.

  Not homes of stone, but dwellings of branch and leaf, shaped with care and love. They listened to the forest’s rhythm and built their lives in harmony with it. And when the glowing trees pulsed in the night, they told the children:

  “Those are our ancestors, still watching. Still beating.”

  They called their village Eldengrove—the Grove of the Elden Trees, where the old world met the new, and where every leaf knew a name and a song.

  In time, protectors were trained, rituals were born, and the Sylphwings returned to watch. And the forest smiled, for at last, its children had found their place among the leaves.

  And from that day onward, Eldengrove has never fallen.

  For it does not grow from the forest floor…

  It grows from the forest’s heart.

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  Whisperleaf Archive — Scrollleaf Entry #117: “The Skyward Dance”Preserved in the ancient binding bark of the Elderbranch Shelf, beneath the canopy's breath.

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  Title: The Skyward DanceScribed by: Venn Tallowroot, Lorekeeper of the Fourth LightEstimated Origin: Over 800 turns agoStatus: Mythical Legend — Not Verified

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

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  "It is said, in the Time of First Roots, when the forest still hummed the names of its new growth aloud, a young man named Aerwyn Hollowstride dared to climb higher than any soul had dared before."

  Aerwyn was not born of strength, nor of station—he was a gatherer’s son, fleet of foot and quiet of voice, whose eyes were forever tilted upward toward the distant green glow above. Each season, he climbed. Higher and higher. Past the watcher’s branches. Past even the whisper-nest of the cloud mantis. His hands grew calloused like bark, and his breath became as thin as the morning mists.

  On the 40th day of the Season of Light, when the trees pulsed warm and hummingbirds wheeled in golden spirals, Aerwyn vanished into the canopy’s throat—and did not return.

  Many days later, the sky turned silver, and wind not felt in centuries swept the leaves. Elders gathered, uneasy. That night, the glowing trees flared blue. It was said the forest had witnessed something sacred.

  When he returned, weeks later, he bore no proof—only eyes that glittered with suns.

  He spoke little, only once saying:"There are leaves as wide as homes, and fairies who weave firelight with their wings. They kissed my brow and called me 'the groundborn flame.' I danced with them until the sun turned thrice."

  Then he wandered into the woods, never to be seen again.

  Skeptics called it a fever-dream. But a single feather—light as a shimmer, warm as dawn—was found in his hut. It does not decay. It glows faintly on moonless nights.

  Today, children call out Aerwyn’s name when they climb, hoping to reach even a fraction of his height. And dreamers leave tiny carvings of sun-winged dancers on the branches closest to the light.

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  Footnote:Preserved feather fragment on display in the Eldengrove Sky Niche.Verification attempts halted after Glider Mishap Incident #12.Classification: Aspirational Myth / Spiritual Parable / Possible Historical Root

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  Scroll Leaf #1172-ATitle: The Song That Calmed the Storm

  Recovered from: The Hollow Spiral, 3rd Branch TierScribe Mark: T.W. (Lorekeeper Thandor Wyrmshade)

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  The Tale of Neena and the Lightning Storm Bear:

  Before the first Wind Song was sung, there was only thunder.

  It was during the Moonless Season, when the canopy was cloaked in storms and shadow. The winds blew wild with no melody, only rage.

  Lightning split the sky like screaming vines, and the rain came sideways, tearing leaves from even the eldest trees.

  In the village of Eldengrove, a young girl named Neena Leafbright lived. She was small, quick-footed, and always climbing where she shouldn’t—closer to the clouds than most dared. Her laughter was said to echo like birdsong, even in the darkest times.

  But on one dreadful night, that laughter was nearly stolen.

  A storm unlike any before descended. The villagers hid deep in their treehomes, but Neena, ever curious, climbed to the canopy’s edge to see the storm’s heart.

  There, among the whipping branches and electric sky, she saw it—The Storm Bear.

  It was massive—taller than any tree, made of cloud and crackling lightning, with fur of dark mist and eyes like twin moons. It roared, and thunder rolled through Blumhirn.

  The forest shook.

  It wasn’t just a beast—it was the storm itself, made flesh by ancient, forgotten rage.

  Rather than flee, Neena stepped forward. The bear roared again. At that frightening moment she did the unthinkable.

  She… sang.

  A single note, soft and bright, cut through the howling winds like a thread of light. She sang not out of defiance, but sorrow—for the pain in the bear’s eyes was unmistakable. She sang for the fear in the forest, for the broken branches, for the memory of calm.

  Her song was not loud, nor grand. It was a melody remembered from a dream, hummed to her by her grandmother. Soft, high, and spiraling like a leaf caught in a breeze.

  The Storm Bear stopped. Its lightning dimmed. The thunder paused.

  So she sang louder, a melody never before heard—a winding tune that rose with the wind and danced with the rain. The forest hushed.

  The bear listened.

  The storm ceased, not with a crash, but with a sigh. The Bear bowed once to Neena, then leapt skyward, dispersing in a flash of light, never to be seen again.

  The winds calmed. The lightning faded. Silence settled like a blessing.

  Neena returned to the village, drenched but alive, humming the tune she had sung. From then on, whenever a storm rolled in, the villagers would sing her melody into the wind—not in fear, but in reverence.

  Thus began the tradition of Wind Songs—songs sung to calm storms, to soothe sorrow, to honor courage, and to remind the forest of the day a girl turned a storm into a lullaby.

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  Some say the Storm Bear still wanders above the clouds, listening. And that on certain nights, if you sing with all your heart, a soft rumble in the sky might just be it humming back.