In the heart of the ancient Morlan Woods, where the trees whispered secrets older than time, there stood a legend as gnarled and weathered as the woods themselves – the Hollow. This extraordinary tree, sprawling wider than twelve men laid head to toe, was said to bear fruit only once a century. Not just any fruit, but the Evighedsæbler, apples of immortality, cradled in the bosom of intricately twisted branches.
The midnight of its harvest drew near, just as the moon waxed large enough to brush curious light upon hidden things, and the woods were abuzz with whispered intentions. It was rumoured the Evighedsæbler could cheat death itself, a lure strong enough to draw the hungry eyes of many: kings and paupers, heroes and villains, all bound by the same mortal coil.
Among these seekers were the Sisters of the Ebon Mark, cloaked women whose whispers mingled with the trees’, carrying an air of danger like a fog. They were opposed by the Greenwood Knights, armor gleaming under the touch of starlight, swords forged from tears of fallen stars, seeking to ensure the harvest would serve mankind.
And in-between, darting through shadows and illuminating pathways with a lantern that seemed to burn with captured stardust, was Mythrin. An orphan whose lineage was as mysterious as his intentions, his eyes held the gleam of one touched by fate.
As the celestial clock ticked closer to the harvest moon, the factions converged, the air thick with the scent of anticipation and autumn leaves. They found themselves united at the clearing which housed the Hollow. Truces were whispered, alliances inked hurriedly in the dark margins of the night, for the whisper of immortality does strange things to even the most hardened of hearts.
But the Hollow was not unprotected. Guardians, creatures spun from shadow and sap, gnarled like the bark of their patron tree, watched over the Evighedsæbler. These keepers were as old as the tree itself, and they did not care for the affairs of mortals, only the preservation of the Hollow.
As the factions prepared for the inevitable clash, Mythrin slipped through them like a wisp of smoke. He was no warrior; his strength lay in the subtlety of step and the quickness of mind. The guardians sensed his presence, yet in his eyes, they found no greed, no lust for power – only a profound, boundless sorrow. Curious beings, they let him pass as though he belonged to the whispers of the wood.
Mythrin made his way to the base of the Hollow, where the trunk split open to reveal a cavernous heart. Inside, the air was cool and moist, and he felt rather than saw the glow of the Evighedsæbler. They pulsated with a gentle light, pure and alluring.
Outside, the battle commenced. Steel met shadow, cries of agony merging with the rustling of leaves. The Sisters of the Ebon Mark summoned dark creatures from their cloaks, creatures of soil and decay, while the Knights chanted spells of light. But the tree was indifferent to their struggles.
Sitting by the heart of the Hollow, Mythrin picked up one of the Evighedsæbler. It was surprisingly light, its skin smooth and cold. He held it to his chest, feeling its life beat against his own. With a sigh, he whispered to the tree, a bargain not for immortality, but for peace.
“You suffer, just as we do,” he said softly to the Hollow. “Let me take away your burden. In return, give us all a chance to forget this chase for eternity.”
The tree seemed to listen, the ambient glow within its heart flickering as if considering this fragile human’s offer.
Finally, as the dawn peeked timidly over Morlan Woods, the guardians withdrew, shadows receding into the light. The factions, too tired to continue their feud, watched in bewilderment as Mythrin emerged from the Hollow, alone, empty-handed yet oddly at peace.
He had not taken the Evighedsæbler for himself nor for any faction. Instead, he had buried it within the Hollow’s own heart, its power now sealed by mutual sacrifice. Immortality would no longer haunt their dreams or fuel their wars.
And so, the legend of the Hollow grew, not just as a tale of immortality, but as a reminder of the ephemeral nature of life and the pursuit of peace over eternal struggle. The factions disbanded, their unity found not in conquest, but in the shared understanding of loss and the preciousness of the fleeting moment.
As for Mythrin, he became a story whispered among the leaves, a tale for those who wander into the woods, seeking not eternity, but the beauty of the journey.