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Winterfire
Planetoid
- Joined
- Nov 12, 2020
The Hidden City of Calan Mai in the Treewalkers' forest within the Tyr'nanok Mountains.
The History
Stories vary at who built the ancient city. Some even say that the city wasn't built, but grew up from the forest by the guidance of the Treewalkers and their brethren. In its earliest days, the city welcomed all who meant no harm. The Treewalkers were revered, immortal beings who tasked themselves with maintaining the city, and keeping the magic flowing. These beings were pacifists, but not naive. They knew that the city needed protectors, so they sent out the call to the Guardians of the forest. Where the Treewalkers were peacemakers, healers, and scholars; the Guardians were the opposite. Wielders of weapons, protectors, and warriors. Magic was a part of all who dwelt in the city, and the surrounding forest. Seeped in every stone, fountain, and even the air the citizens breathed.The History
Such a jewel couldn't feasibly remain untouched by greed, or malice. Go unnoticed by those who wish to drain it of its beauty and magic for their own selfish gains. For three centuries the Guardians and Treewalkers kept their would be conquerors out, and their city safe. Not utterly untouched, but safe. Until the year of the Bleeding River.
All those who entered Calan Mai must mean to do no harm, but the magic proved to have a small, deadly, loop hole: do no harm at the time of entering. The one entering could focus on the fact that they don't immediately mean to do harm, thus fooling the gates. Month by month over a span of a year vile beings made their way into the city. Polluting the streets, stealing, vandalism, and on the night of the first snow, murder. The Treewalkers presence dampened rage, and the urge for violence. In the centuries the city's gates stood open only six murders stained the pristine streets. That winter the streets with twenty times that amount of death setting the city into a state of panic.
Guardians stalked the streets searching for the perpetrators, and the Treewalkers followed the taste of malcontent from the fallen citizens. They found the murders each time, but not having a suitable prison they chose to banish them instead. The screening became stricter, but the city fell to the infection. Too many twisted souls within rained chaos on the forest jewel. Dozens more died, their blood coating walls, and buildings. People hid in their homes terrified of the scent of death permeating their city. Those outside of the city didn't dare come close. Those banished took up residence around the city growing in number faster than just those banned from the city.
Before spring kissed the Tyr'nanok Mountains, five thousand twisted souls encircled the city. Though the Treewalkers were immortal, the Guardians were not. A golden winged eagle fell first. Each talon held half a dozen deviants flying them out of the city's walls to fall onto the trees and rocks below. Spears shot like arrows from massive crossbows filled the sky the like in reverse. The eagle's scream as it fell cracked nearly every window within the city.
The war that raged after the great Guardian's death left a seeping wound in the valley where the city stood. Bodies strewn from the city gates to the valley's end. Trees were stripped sharped into great spikes. The forest's rich soil washed away leaving rock and clay. Yet, the city stood ten months into the onslaught. Only a handful of Guardians still lived, though two were maimed one eye lost, another lost both arm and leg on their right side. The fall of the ancient city seemed inevitable.
But all was not lost, for the Treewalkers had one last play.
At dawn on the last day of the year of blood, the Treewalkers stationed themselves around the city. Their city. They called forth the streams of magic that flowed beneath the city up and into their bodies. The magic grew inside them, and thus they grew. Vines thicker than a man's waist connected each Treewalker, weaving a wall of thorns varying in size from that of a thumbnail to six foot spikes. These vines whipped out and into the surrounding army. Screams encircled the ancient city, the blood of the fallen seeped in, trickling across the streets.
After two weeks the twelve Treewalkers were no more. In their place stood trees a mile wide, and over two hundred feet high. Their branches spread out over the surrounding battlefield, and from those branches dropped thousands of balls of light. As each one hit the ground a beast sprang forth to attack the remaining stragglers of the enemy. One last push, one last inhale of magic finished the war, and finished the city as the world knew it. From the outside the city of Calan Mai was devoured by vines, thorns, and earth. The forest taking payment some said. Others whispered that the Treewalkers had awoken a god or great demon from all the blood spilled. Perhaps the enemy had dug tunnels to sneak into the forest, but the sudden weight of the twelve caved them in. Many more stories were spun around the fallen city now a tomb encircled by twelve towering trees.
Over four centuries the forest grew back, but no more the magical place of legend. Just a forest they say. The great beasts gone. The Treewalkers sacrificed. All that remained was whispered stories of shadows, ghosts, and fairy fire. Even though the magic that once saturated every leaf and stone was reportedly gone the forest still stood. For the Treewalker forest bled still. Whenever it rained the earth turned crimson. Bury a blade into a tree and the assailant heard screams until their ears bled, and they fell down dead. Shoot a deer within the wood and the earth would churn, swallow the fallen animal, leaving only a river of blood. The stories kept people out and created a new name: The Cursed Forest of the Dead.
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