Legends of Belariath

Halfmoon

The Whispering Winds of the Second Moon

Introduction

There was a legend once, or perhaps just some old wives tale - who can recall of how on certain nights when the year was at it's midpoint and the season was at its midpoint, and the phase of the moon was as well, yet set at just the right height over the horizon the air itself giving it the strangest blue hue....How a sound could be made, a note perhaps....Though it must be perfect in tone, few if any able to produce it, a thousand insturments tried all having failed.......That the winds of the second moon could be called upon, and their cool gusts contained answers to all questions though more clear then the chaos of Dragons Blood. That if one were to call upon and control these winds though only able for the most brief of moments, each question they may have would be answered, yet most of all the same whispering winds to answer the questions to all, resolving old disputes. Or so the old fable went though often tried by many it now thought of as some foolish childrens story as added in the childrens book that had fallen and was left on the road. The last passage of it curious though as almost a plea..."why had not one of the winds yet tried, the odd one, the different one, do they fear what the gusts of moonsent whispers have to say, they must know who they are as on that night at that moment every year their skin must crawl urging them to try....and where is the lost insturment to call down the gusts?"

So Halfmoon is to set out and find out if the tale is true. The short time the winds may blow not granting them much distance, so if he can learn how to make this breeze of truths he must do so to let them whisper to the others he wishes to know as well by being near to them. So determine this midpoint of year, season, time of day, insturment, individual and perfect note. When he has done this then act, force the person to be near Verdspar and call upon the winds resolving once and for all all issues of Halfmoons creation, his parents and unique look. OR settle for once and for all times the tale to be some myth...though whens and whos and whats and wheres can seem so far away and for many are, for some the answers are closer then they realize. SO determine if the Whispering Winds of the Second Moon are real, and if so, resolve the questions that have plagued him and his youth setting straight for good or bad both his own questions, and those of his homelands people.

The Calling

The time drew near, the time when all questions would be resolved or else remain unanswered. Halfmoon, that mysterious elven mage, a mystery to others as much as to himself, knew deep within himself the callings of the Winds. He had heard them call to him year after year, beckoning. Yet, all these deep longings and stirrings had been clouded, as in a mist. His history a troubled one, born of a noble mother into the ruling family of Verdspar, jewel of all the elven cities, and yet born the bastard offspring of one tainted with renegade blood. His childhood was difficult, enduring the whispered hints of those that denied his legitimacy, sometimes confronting the open taunts of peers, he grew up rough, scrapping and living on the fringe of elven society. Even to him this all remained an enigma - his origins, his pale bluish complexion, the distant tutelage of a father who was not his sire, until the seperation came.

A marriage arranged, a marriage rejected by the headstrong young elven half-prince, brought about that seperation. His parents thinking to quell the renegade spirit within him, they had established that he should be mated to the eldest female of a leading family, one Emeraldia, whose family had for generations been chief among the vintners of Verdspar, producing wines renowned throughout the elven cities as the finest. His own family, grovers of the first order, grown wealthy on the produce of vast orchards, had risen to become the ruling family of Verdspar. This marriage was thought to secure for posterity the authority and means to maintain that rule, a legacy to be passed down from father to son for generations untold. Yet, Halfmoon would not abide this tyranny. She was one for whom he felt no love, nor did he sense any affection toward himself from this elven princess. Too, she was short of stature and stocky of form; thick legged with an overly ample behind. His spirit rebelled at the thought of this mating; he could not abide this death sentence to a life of miserable consternation and deceit. And so he set forth to make his own way in the world, leaving behind a beloved mother, a father from whom he had always felt alienated, the puzzle of his birth unsolved.

Yet fate would bring him into the company of a sylvan prophetess and change his destiny forever. After months of aimless wandering he happened one day upon an ambush set by goblins. The brave sylvan cornered on all sides by the vermin and already gravely wounded when Halfmoon happened upon the scene. His moral sense so outraged by those underlings, he waded into the fray and slew in turn many a miserable goblin until they were forced to retreat. The old sylvan woman he took to her secluded cottage and there nursed her back to a tenuous health. Dysadria, as the prophetess was known, came to be his first true mentor, and as much a mother to him as his own natural mother. For nearly two years Halfmoon stayed with her, learning of her magic and her ways of prophecy. Finally, mercifully, her long years of suffering came to an end. Like him, she had been rejected by her clan, her prophecies too true had brought about her expulsion from the sylvan lands, forced to live the life of a recluse in the deeper woods. Some wounds were beyond his meagre power to heal and they sapped her life spirit surely over the time until the day came when she had to depart this world for the higher realms. But, before she shuffled off the mortal coil, unbeknownst to him, some of her gift she imparted to the young elven mage who had come to her aid. So it was that Halfmoon sent her body to its everlasting rest and set her spirit free in all the rites of sylvan burial. Some prophecies she had made pertaining to him personally, and so she was laid to rest and he relegated again to the life of wandering.

And then he happened upon the kingdom that is called Belariath; the town of Nanthalion he recognized as the place that had been prophesied, a place where all manner of creature coexisted, wherein he should meet his perfect mate. Too, there was a well established school of learning for the young mage and resources to make his mark in this place. So it was that he remained, awaiting the foretold mate and learning all he could at the Tower of Unigo. Finally, after fruitless months of searching, she appeared, the one foretold, his ideal mate, an elven woman of quality and grace. Their union was fated, written in the very stars; she begging of him his one collar, he dedicated to make theirs the true union that was foretold. His powers grew, their union prospered, not without struggles as all such unions do entail, and yet a home was established and fulfillment came to the pair. Through research, the secrets of his origin were ultimately revealed, his true sire numbered among the renegades, slain by his adoptive father for the crime committed upon his natural mother. And yet, many things remained unresolved within the gentle elf; a longing unanswered, a quest unfulfilled.

Long had he heard the stirrings of the Winds, and long pursued their call. Through the powers of Unigo and her goddess, Katherian, he learned to govern the tides of the Air, in as much as one lonely elf may master. Unlocking, finally through his research, the essence of the beckoning Winds, the terrible gift of prophecy inherited from Dysadria, he knew that he must pursue the Whispering Winds of the Second Moon. A fable told, and thought by many to be a mere child's tale, yet to him the possible answer to so many unanswered questions, he resolved to open. The time drew near. Halfoon would embark upon the fateful journey, his destiny awaited.

The Journey

To Unigo was he indebted, the vast library providing the clues to that which he sought. The ancient standing stones of his people marked out the year, the seasons of planting, of growth, of harvest and of waiting. The moon had always been there, his brother through all his wanderings, marking out the passage of the months. The half moon, for which he was named, appeared twice each month in her endless waxings and wanings. And though he felt most affininty with the crescent bow of the waxing moon, it was the half moon of the waning that the legends spoke of. From his fastidious research he learned of the Whispering Winds. It was said, in ancient lore, that the Winds may whisper their secrets upon the second moon, the waning half moon of mid-summer, on a lost and forgotten hill near to his city of birth. And so it was that Halfmoon undertook the study, determining for himself the time foretold and the place from which the Winds would speak to those with ears to hear their subtle cries.

Preparations were made, supplies gathered, and arrangements undertaken. Laerel, his faithful mate, desired in her heart to make this journey, but the dangers foreseen made the noble elf hesitant to include her in his travels. Ultimately an accord was reached; she would journey with him to his home city of Verdspar and there remain in the company of his legitimate half-sister, while he quested upon the Whispering Winds alone. A pack horse was obtained, an erstwhile servant, and named Porter by the pair. All the necessaries for a three or four week trip procured from the General Store, and so, at dawn of the new moon they set out from Nanthalion, Porter laden heavy with their gear, for the ten day journey to Verdspar. The trip itself was uneventful for the most part, long days of progress against the many miles intervening, except for a brief skirmish with some swamp trolls. These had thought to ambush the couple as they tranversed the broad swamps at the head of the River Thalis. The sky something overcast that day, the foul spawn knew not with whom they contented. Halfmoon repulsed the initial attack by virtue of his magical robe and agility gained through long practice in the Arena of Nanthalion. Gathering the clouds to his service, three trolls were quickly struck down with heavenly fire, the bolts hitting true and sure, sending the remaining trolls into ignoble retreat. Laerel's efforts centered on guarding their horse and gear, she showed herself again of the noble elven strain, unflinching before the gruesome assault.

And so they journeyed on, coming at last to the verdant hills of the peninsula, jutting out into the sparkling Sea, the bright spires of his city shining in the distance. They made their way to the city and entering its gates were mostly unrecognized, but two random elven travelers and visitors to the fabled town. Coming to the palace of the city's ruler he lodged his mate in his sister's quarters, the loyal Sirianna most pleased to host his beloved Laerel as the time approached for Halfmoon's quest. His parents must of neccessity be visited; the couple presented themselves in the ruling court, his mother Starinna beside herself with angst over his sudden reappearance and clearly bewildered by his deliberate taking of a mate against her wishes. His adoptive father, as always, steady and sure, showing no sign of the annoyance that certainly must have broiled within his breast, officially welcomed them and gave his reluctant blessing to the young elf's ventures. The matter remained unsettled as to Halfmoon's course in life, whether he should follow the ways of his renegade sire and the nocturnal elven brigands, or take his rightful place among the princes of the ruling clans. Thus, Silivar held back from a true warmth in greeting his wife's son, but offered only a half hearted pledge of assistance.

The Quest

So it was that on a bright summer morning, just as the sun shed its first light on the realm of Verdspar, Halfmoon set out to find the place foretold. Leaving his mate asleep, kissing her gently upon the lips, he stepped outside his sister's dwelling and gathered the few supplies he would need into his backpack, then hoisting it on his shoulders and invoking the familiar spell of flight he rose into the air and headed off for the hills to the southwest where his fate would unfold.

Flying easily in the cool morning air he soon came upon the hilly terrain, the foothils of the eastern mountains and began his search for the one hill that held the hidden secrets. There were so many hills to survey, he spent the entire first day trying in vain to locate that hill of legend, whereon the ancient stones once stood. As the evening approached, he was tempted to give in to despair, for no prominent hill had revealed the presence of the standing stones touched on in the ancient lore. But he was not one to give up easily in the pursuit of his goals. Therefore, he found a hill on which to camp, one barren of trees at its crest, but covered, it seemed with wild grape vines, and here he made his solitary camp. Yet, even as he attempted to drift off to sleep that night, the winds whispered to him, and slipping into a meditative trance he harkened to their song. The place was near, very near, yet clouded, obscured by the years. He felt the nearness and drew renewed hope from these silent sentinels, then surrended himself to the irresistable urges of sleep and dreams.

His dreams were troubled - a conflict, overwhelming foes, standing between him and his goal - he passed the night fitfully upon the warm ground, pursued by demons in these chaotic fantasies of the mind. Finally, blessedly, the dawn arrived and he stirred from the half slumbers of an elf possessed of a goal to be attained. Then, as he prepared a morning meal of dried venison strips carried from his home, his eyes glanced about to the overgrowth of wild vines that had usurped the ancient hilltop. Suddenly, the vision of a dream began to piece together in his mind. Each of the clumps of wild growth was precisely positioned in the pattern embossed in his mind from the previous nights terrors. Rising with a new resolve he strode to the nearest mound, and tearing at the vines, drew them aside and forced his way within. Here was a stone, carved surely by elven hands, yet obscured by the thick vegetation. Quickly, he set to work, with the enchanted mithril dagger he proudly wore, hacking at the thick vines and tearing them aside to finally reveal a standing stone, etched with elven runes. He knew at once that this was indeed the place of which the legends spoke.

Throughout that long day, the longest day of the year by all reckoning, he worked to lay bare the many standing stones upon that hilltop. His hands torn and cut with the working of his blade and the rough hewn edges of the incessant vines, he fought against the overwhelming vegetation that had for centuries obscured the sacred place. As the sun set on that longest of days, he paused a few moments to seek nourishment and survey his work. The stones now stood as in days of old against the twilight sky. Halfmoon took a portion of the dried venison, his own by virtue of his hunting prowess and the crafts learned along the way of preserving the meat. A skin of elven wine, too, helped to quench the thirst of a long day's struggle. He found, as if by instinct, the place from which the stones may be read and awaited the emergence of the evening stars. Exhausted from the day's labors he rested and called upon those magics he had learned to replenish his spirit. The night drew on apace, the moon not yet risen, he rested to await the rising of the first moon, noting the positions of the prominent stars, adjusting his stance to the perfect position, and confirming for himself that this was indeed the first night of the new year, as reckoned by the ancients, when the sun turned in its stately gait and trudged irrevocably toward mid-winter. From this midpoint, the seasons were accounted, the time for planting and the time for harvest - the time for laying store that which would be needed and the time for feasting. At the hour of midnight the first moon arose, marking the first night of the new year, a perfect half moon waning ever slowly toward the final crescent. All was at peace. The place had been found, the ground cleared, the instrument he felt for sure was at hand, the elven lute passed down to him through the ages. It must hold the key, he tried to reassure himself, as he settled in to rest one last time before the rising of the second moon.

The Whispering Winds of the Second Moon

The next morn, he rested, tried to sleep late to build his strength for the trials that might come, but an early morning shower roused him from his improvised shelter. The land was quiet, too quiet, in the mist of the new day, and so he set off to hunt among the trees on the hill's leeward side. Soon enough he found game, a flock of quail and he quickly took two of their number to augment his rations. Then, returning to the hilltop, he prepared them for cooking and within the hour had sated his growing hunger. The day was overcast with intermittent rains, striving to assist the wild vines to reassert themselves upon the standing stones. He busied himself with clearing the central space for what would surely come, tuned his instrument several different times and made himself at one with the winds.

Evening approached, the sun sank low among the western mountains, and he made ready to open the riddles of his life. But, as the sun set, he heard some others approaching; he was not alone on the fateful hill. He took some cover among the stones as a party of elves drew nigh. Seven in number, laden with packs, they followed their leader to the apex of the hill. These were renegades, he knew at once, blue skinned brethren and sons of the same grandsire. He boldly strode into the clearing he had fashioned and addressed the strangers.

"I am Halfmoon, heir of the ruling family of Verdspar, having come to unlock the mysteries of the Whispering Winds. Who are you?", he strongly proclaimed.

"Tintanel, renegade of the nocturnal ones," came the reply. "It is I who will speak to the winds. But surely, you are of our ilk, blue skinned, and a son of Novilunus, as we."

"Half a son, true; the bastard offspring of one of your number, though I would have it otherwise if I could change my fate," Halfmoon declared.

"Then sorry am I, that we must dispatch you hence," the proud Tintanel said. "You are an heir to the renegade blood, one that should stand with us against the tyranny of the high elves. Come, brother, and join us in repudiating the lies of the Council. Take your rightful place among those who reject their tyranny - or, if you prefer, die at their hands!"

"I have made my choice, many moons since, and I will not stand with you. The elders speak truth, though their ways are sometimes archaic. But know who you face, a noble elf trained in the ways of magic - and if you value your lives you will vacate this place with all possible haste."

The renegades only laughed. How could one lone elf stand against so many? And on a signal from their leader they flanked to the right and the left, the semicircle closing in upon the solitary opponent. Halfmoon simply shook his head, and raising his hands to the heavens, uttering some ancient elven chant, he drew together the vapors that had been moving off to the north. And as the renegades closed upon him he drew within himself, calling upon the powers he had trained so long at Unigo to master. Then lightning burst from his hands, to the left flank, leaping from each to each and striking all three of the nocturnal elves. Stunned, they hesitated, long enough for Halfmoon to lay out an electrical burst among those on the right flank. As the strucken foes regrouped and started in again against the noble Halfmoon, a flurry of wind arose in front of the leader, driving towards him and snuffing out most of the remaining light, throwing Tintanel off to the side and scattering his entourage. Halfmoon drew his trusty blade and waded in to the left flank slashing out with a fury they had never anticipated.

Now, Tintanel stepped back and called forth some magics of his own devising. He sent a bullet of stone at the fighting Halfmoon attempting to knock him off his feet. The stone weapon struck hard against his breast, causing him to stagger back and grimace in pain. Still, his enchanted robe had deflected much of the damage off to the side. Gathering his wits, Halfmoon responded with a stunning burst of power that caught the renegade leader flat footed. Tintagel was driven back and lay, unable to move among the struggling vines, and Halfmoon continued his foray into the left flank, slaying in a few short moments, three of those that sought to prevent his quest. Now the others closed upon his back; Halfmoon spun about as they fell upon him, but only managed to strike the empty air as he was now several yards away in an instant. "I say, flee now if you care for life," he laughed, as the stunned Tintanel arose once more. "Approach one step more and it shall be your last," Halfmoon announced. Still the foolish entourage tried to circle him and trap him. Halfmoon shrugged and with a few muttered syllables and a quick gesture of the hand, he unleashed a bolt of energy at the chest of one that came too close. The elf was knocked from his feet and flew back several feet from the encounter and lay quite still. Another cyclone scattered the remaining fighters and into the whirlwind he stepped, slashing into the heart with his enchanted mithril blade. And so it went until each of Tintanel's comrades lay motionless across the hilltop. The clouds gathered, the thunder rumbled and Halfmoon held his right hand high, prepared to strike to the earth the defeated Tintanel.

"I yield - I yield!", the astonished renegade sputtered. "Surely, you have proven your claim. Let us withdraw and save those of your kin that yet breath."

This the honorable Halfmoon, of necessity, was compelled to allow. Tintanel assessed his fallen comrades and Halfmoon even lent some of his healing powers to those greiviously wounded and helped to take them from the field. "It was foolish of you to raise your weapons against me", he said, "for I would have allowed you to attempt the deed you came here to chance." Tintanel, seeming to humbly acknowledge the error, agreed.

"Make camp, then, off to the windward side of the hill, cousin, and try your hand at unlocking the secrets of the wind if you will," he told them. He had made his point, and felt sure they would not be stupid enough to thwart him again. Too, these elves were all kinfolk of his, some cousins; Tintanel himself it turned out was a half brother, and Halfmoon was loath to slay these blood relatives, despite the philosophical divide which stood between them. And so the two camps were made on either side of the clearing. Halfmoon engaged his brother in debate over the evening repast, holding firm to his position, though deep within he knew that he was torn between two futures. Had the elven party engaged him in friendly parley, he might still have been won over to their views. But this was not to be, the die was cast, and his path led a different way as ever.

Night drew on and soon the sky grew dark, the clouds cleared off to the north. It would be raining in Nanthalion tonight. The hilltop grew silent as the elves awaited the rising of the Second Moon. At midnight, Halfmoon walked to the center of the clearing , to the spot he had determined to be the perfect place to stand; the place where shaman of old had once stood to gauge the seasons and heed the warnings of the winds. In his hands was the lute, the ancient lute given him by his maternal grandmother, a high elf venerated in her time for her wisdom and constancy. This upon her dying bed she had bequeathed to the young Halfmoon; it was a possession he cherished above all else save his beloved Laerel. His long trained fingers carefully tuned the instrument as the moon arose for a second time in this new year. And, as it lifted itself majestically from the sea to the east, Halfmoon gazed upon it, a half moon waning now, just past the perfect semicircle, waning inexoribly toward the crescent. And in this moon he recognized, symbolically himself, ever changing, waning now to something at which he could only guess. But he believed the ancient tales, and he knew that this moon would reveal somewhat his fate.

He waited, as the moon rose toward the appointed place, when the winds might be made to answer by one who could call to them. Yet, as he drifted into some meditative state, readying himself, his fingers idly plucking at the strings, his peace was shattered as someone crept silently up behind him and with a massive rock, smashed into a thousand pieces his heirloom lute! Stunned for just an instant, he turned then to face the cretin, backstabbing half brother. "You bastard...", he screamed. "Treachery is your nature, and that of all your kind." Tintagel tried to flee; that was his plan. He knew he could not master the winds as this one of half noble blood, trained in the arts by the sylvan prophetess and having honed his skills at the fabled tower of Unigo. He ran and tried to take cover behind one of the standing stones, but Halfmoon's face had grown deathly pale in his fury and raising a clenched fist to the heavens he wrought down from the crystal clear sky a bolt of lightning that skewered the renegade brother like a pig on a spit. "Death to you and all of your kind," he bellowed. And possessed of an anger he had never known, he dropped bolt after bolt of dreadful sky fire down upon the remaining foes that tried to scatter like frightened sheep.

They were dead now, all of them, and he vowed to clear the land of all the others that hid among the hills by day and ventured forth to reek their treachery only by night. Slowly, he began to calm himself, his lips curled in a hateful snarl, he loosened. His breath he slowed; the hot blood he tried to cool. It seemed his quest was lost now, at least for another year. His grandmother's lute lay shattered on the ground. A solitary tear rolled down his left cheek; that eye was always the first to weep. He went to gather his equipment as the moon approached the appointed place, shaking his head with profound regret at the turn of events.

But suddenly it struck him, an idea, a glimmer of hope perhaps. What instrument had the villainous Tintanel brought to try the winds? It was worth a try. He rushed to the body and dug among the entrails to pull forth a pouch. He opened it and drew forth an ancient pipe, emblazoned with magical runes. He could sense the power of the instrument as he held it in his fingers, and yet he had little skill with such an instrument. He had played upon some similar pipes as a youth, but the lute was his instrument. Even so, he was here, the time was at hand and this was the only instrument available. And so he stepped to the clearing once again, and as the moon broke forth from behind the lunar stone, he put his lips to the ancient instrument and began to play. An old elven melody was all he remembered from his childhood and so he played that, some child's nursery rhyme that harkened back to the Kin Wars, and yet the tune played hauntingly upon this magical device. And the melody returned to him, he played it boldly, casting the past behind him and facing the future with fortitude and the grace that only high elves seem to achieve. Then, as the final note sounded of that ancient song, he heard the winds speak to him and him alone.

"Cast your fortunes with Belarith, for it will rise to be the true power in these lands."

"You will be honored, in time, among the elves, and win again the faith of your family."

"Beware the Dark Ones - they seek to usurp the rightful powers. Form alliances and stand against them."

"The clan of Silivar wanes among the High Elves of Verdspar - its heir will not come to the throne."

"Hold your beloved close for she will soon be seperated from you."

Thus, prophecies were spoken, five prophecies heard. Overwhelmed, Halfmoon sunk to his knees on the silent hilltop. Truly, his own intuition had guessed at and surmised the first three. The fourth was logical, as Silivar had no male legitimate heir. But the final prophecy left him sapped of strength and mired in confusion. Each, too, required some interpretation - how soon, in what manner, by what means - all these quandries flooded his mind, each answer opening again many other questions. And what power do mere mortals have to alter the outcomes of such firm pronouncements? He knew, from his tutelage under the sylvan prophetess, Dysadria, that one must act upon them, must not sit idly waiting, but must pursue the ends for which they strive. And yet the last prophecy haunted his thoughts - his beloved to be seperated from him - how and why, and when?

And so these thoughts pervaded his mind as he built a fire in the central clearing hacked out. Fallen branches along the abandoned hilltop and the remnants of vines already dried in the hot sun, he piled upon the hill's crest. The he dragged the bodies of his fallen foes to the crown of the hill and as the fire burned strongly, he cast their mortal remains upon the pyre. All this he did as in a trance, moved by some other power outside himself, sleep not possible in such a state. At long last the morning sun lit the eastern horizon, and packing up the remains of his shattered lute, and securing the ancient pipe, he broke camp and invoked again the spell of flight and headed back toward Vardspar.

Aftermath

The days that followed seemed a blur. The welcome awaiting him on his return to the elven city; news broken to those who cared of the successful quest, the defeat of seven of the nocturnal elves, the discovery of the ancient stones. Of the prophecies, he spoke not a word in detail. They were good - the future was bright with promise - all things hopeful, and yet Laerel sensed the turmoil in his troubled soul.

"Such things may not be spoken, Laerel. Friends may come to hurt. Future promise might be undone," he reassured her. "It is enough to know that the quest is fulfilled and we are going home." But vows had been uttered, the nocturnal ones were now enemies and he had sworn to vanquish them all. His beloved would be lost, he knew, in some time, too short a time he realized in an elve's long life. Would she be taken from him by enemies, leave him of her own accord, or worse - and he dared not entertain the thought - would it be a seperation brought about by her untimely death? So, feigning gladness and a light spirit he bid his family farewell, the rift somehow healed, though he did not understand how. And together the pair set off on their journey homeward, to Belariath, for that was now their home.

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