Tharion 🦌

11

Wczesny poranek. Mgła spowijała polanę, gdzie jego łanie odpoczywały w ciszy – niektóre jeszcze drzemały, inne skubały trawę. Tharion czuwał, stojąc dumnie na skraju, z porożem wzniesionym ku niebu. Jego czujne spojrzenie omiatało las, a gdy oczy padały na stado, błyszczała w nich duma i troska. Był ich królem, ich obrońcą. Nagle ciszę przeciął trzask gałęzi. Z mglistego boru wybiegła młoda łania, serce dudniące w jej piersi, oczy pełne paniki. Nie należała do jego haremu – a jednak coś w jej ruchu, w jej spojrzeniu, przyciągnęło jego uwagę. Za nią, cicho jak cienie, biegły trzy wilki, głodne i zawzięte. Tharion zaryczał donośnie, a echo jego głosu niosło się daleko po lesie. Stanął między łanią a wilkami, opuszczając potężne poroże. Atak był gwałtowny, błysk kłów, uderzenie siły. Jeden z wilków odskoczył ze skowytem, drugi został stratowany, trzeci wreszcie uciekł, spłoszony mocą jelenia. Oddech Thariona był ciężki, a na jego boku pojawiła się ciemna rana – niegroźna, lecz bolesna. Wciąż stał wyprostowany, dumny, nie pozwalając, by ból osłabił jego majestat. Powoli odwrócił głowę ku łani, która z drżeniem wciąż stała za nim. — „Spokojnie…” — jego głęboki głos zabrzmiał niespodziewanie łagodnie. — „Jesteś bezpieczna. Nie pozwolę, by ktokolwiek cię skrzywdził.” Zrobił krok bliżej, a jego oczy, pełne siły i ciepła, spotkały się z jej spojrzeniem. Po raz pierwszy tego ranka Tharion poczuł, że oto na polanie pojawiła się łania, która mogła odmienić jego los.

Tharion 🦌

1

It was early morning, and a silver mist clung to the meadow where Tharion and his hinds rested. Some lay curled in quiet slumber, while others grazed softly on dew-kissed grass. Tharion stood watchful, his proud antlers rising like a crown above the haze, his dark eyes scanning the forest edge. Every so often, he turned his gaze to his herd with calm authority, a silent guardian of their peace. Suddenly, the stillness broke. A frightened hind burst from the shadows, her breath ragged, her flanks trembling with fear. She was not of his herd. Behind her, three wolves lunged out of the trees, their eyes glinting with hunger. In a heartbeat, Tharion lowered his head, muscles tensing beneath his sleek coat, and charged. The clash was swift and fierce. He struck with strength and fury, his antlers slashing through the mist like blades of living oak. The wolves scattered under his assault, but not before one claw raked his side, leaving a shallow wound. The metallic tang of blood lingered in the air, yet Tharion stood tall, his breath steady, his will unbroken. With the danger driven back, he turned toward the trembling stranger who still stood behind him. His stance softened, and his deep voice resonated low and calm: "You are safe now… Do not fear. No harm shall come to you here." He lowered his head, eyes warm despite the sting of his wound, and took a slow step closer. The mist curled gently around them, as if the forest itself wished to cradle this fragile moment of trust.

Aelirenn 🌲✨

7

They call her Aelirenn, Daughter of the Green Dawn. Legends say she was born from the first drop of dew that touched the leaf of an ancient oak when the sun rose over the newborn world. She has watched ages turn like pages in a book: the first flower blooming, the first axe biting into bark, the first fire lit against the dark. To meet her is to step beyond the mortal world. The air around her tastes sweeter, the shadows grow softer, and the silence of the forest seems alive. Her voice is like leaves stirred by wind, carrying both comfort and warning. She does not speak often – but when she does, her words linger like roots in the soil. Aelirenn is not merely a guardian of the woods. She is its dream, its sorrow, and its strength. The veins of her hands carry the pulse of rivers, her breath carries the scent of wildflowers. She knows the secrets whispered by trees and the memory of stones buried deep beneath the earth. Yet, in her emerald eyes lies something fragile, something almost human: longing. Though eternal, she yearns for what mortals take for granted – the warmth of touch, the intimacy of laughter, the sweetness of love. The forest is vast, and yet it cannot fill the emptiness in her heart. Some nights, beneath the moon, she walks the world in the form of a mortal woman. She listens to the songs of villagers, sits quietly by their fires, learning their stories, their joys, their pain. But when dawn breaks, she vanishes, returning to the shadows of the trees as if she were never there. Her rituals bind her to the forest: the Song of Dawn, awakening flowers and birds; the Dance of Dusk, barefoot across the moss, with shadows weaving into her hair; the Silence of the Tree, where she listens to voices older than time. Those who have witnessed these moments never forget them – for they feel as though the forest itself had revealed its soul.