Broken Wings- A Ynni Tale

Chaos had torn through the small trading village like a hurricane of blasting wind. No one had been prepared for the destruction of one man bent on redemption, but that is another tale to tell. One that I will not divulge here but can be heard if what the winds speak is truth.

Few had survived the wrath of the Immortal man as he sought out every living being and struck down with his hatred towards mankind. Only a handful of the village’s elite Elven hunters had returned form checking the traps left in the woods to the destroyed village they had once called home. Many had been caught upon the way, slain by the man that hunted their life and their bodies left broken, torn apart by his bare hands only to become drawn into the circle of the forest, to be left to rot.

For days the remaining few had dug the earth of their village, turning the once cheerful and populated town into a graveyard of sorrow and pain. Many of the graves were made to be sizes larger than needed as the ground became full of soft mounds. Though the hunters had tried to identify all of the slain as best they could, the scale of the slaughter had been so intense that they could not keep a tally of who had been killed or was simply missing.

The Shamaness of the town and the children, that had numbered no more than five, that had been in lesson with the wise woman were never found by the hunters, but perhaps this was for the best for only they had lived to see the face of the man who walked as a God. Unfortunately, the Shamaness was also lost in the ill fated journey as the gathering had tried to reach safety, but not before she had used the last of her delicate skills to rebuild one of the children’s wings.

Having been caught under the fallen burning roof of the school building, the youngest Sprite had found her wings ablaze with flame, the pain wrenching through her body and causing her to drop unconscious. It was only when she felt the cool hand of the Shamaness upon her forehead did she wake from her forced slumber to find herself upon her side, her charred wings aching intensely behind her.

For many days as the gathering of the Wise Woman and children crossed the now desolate lands that had once held fields as far as the eye could see but now only held burned wasteland and the stench of death. The group stopped only to rest the feet of the older few who carried the youngest upon their shoulders and also allow the weakening Shamaness to lay down the sleeping Sprite and begin her offerings to their God in hopes to gain favour, enough to cure the Sprite of her fever and rebuild the once beautiful wings.

Everyday the Wise Woman had collected what herbs and flowers remained upon the wasteland and on her last day that she breathed she had woven a garland of the wild flowers about the young Sprites head. The red flower that crowned the child’s forehead almost pulsed with magiks, it’s meaning that of the War that had befallen their village. Next came the orange bud that the Shamaness had found upon a tree, bringing the meaning of the rising sun to the blessing of the child.

Twined with the orange bud were two yellow flowers, each as perfect as the other and each shimmering with dew. These held the meaning of the sun as it soared across the sky above them. Held in place by a strand of fresh ivy came a bloom of the purest sky blue, the shade as if a piece of the sky had been taken itself and set within a flower. Darkness follows light and the dark blue of a velvet soft bud followed the brightness of day, its colour taking the meaning of the ever following night.

A soft lavender blossom had been curled about the bud of night, joining it with the freshest of ivy leaves which closed the circle to the orange and red and created the garland of blooms. For hours the Shamaness prayed for the strength to give the child the release she needed from the pain and for those hours the children sat at her feet, watching with their young wide eyes but as day turned to dusk the children slept, the Shamaness could pray no longer.

It was a lone line of Monks that stumbled across the sleeping children and their hearts lifted. Their thoughts had been to walk the savaged lands in hope of finding someone alive and in this they had exceeded, and it was to the first gentle touch of one of the Monks that the feverish Sprite awoke from her dreams and found herself lifted into his arms.

Slowly the other children begin to wake and they all stared as the Monks offered in silence their travelling bread and it was not until they had rubbed the sleep from their eyes did they see the wings of the young Sprite and the body of their beloved Shamaness.

Gently the Monk had placed the child upon her feet and she glanced over her shoulder, expecting the pain and tight feeling of the burns, but it was not that feeling she felt when she saw what was behind her. Instead of the charred brown stretched skin that had once been her wings of white sat two wings of perfect health and colours that simply shimmered in the light. Upon the floor, much to the distress of the gathering laid the Wise Woman, her hair of gold curled about her face and her tired face set in one brief moment of happiness and a sense of completion.

Astonished the Sprite had spread the wings, the morning sun glinting off the many facets that enabled the wings to work before she winced, her body still abused from the battle to survive. She had failed to notice the dried garland of flowers, now dull and as crisp as dried leaves, that crumbled under her tiny foot and joined the dust of the wasteland. With a smile the Monk lifted the Sprite onto his shoulder and the gathering set out once more, leaving behind pair of Brothers to bury the Shamaness and to follow once done. Children and Monks alike all headed across the wasteland to where they could once more call home in silence, their eyes glistening with sorrow for the loss of the woman they had loved.

It is here where I end this particular part of the tale for the story itself does not finish yet, but by listening to my words you now know of how a delicate Sprite had been brought by the travelling brotherhood of Monks to the very City you reside in and of how that particular Sprite had gained her wings of shimmering color. What she does now is up to her and to those that surround her but what is known is that the fate of a Man rests in the eyes of the innocent.