Terrok-har

Deep in the forests of the remote island Terrok-har, above the sheer, rugged cliffs which presided over the turbulent sea like an impenetrable fortress wall, there dwelt in that quiet solitude a mystery which was never fully explained by the mainland villagers. The island was separated from the mainland by a wide channel, nearly a mile across, yet was so large and high as to be clearly visible even on the foggiest sea morning, when the tops of the gray mountains in the eastern corner of the isle raised their heads through the mists of the early sunrise like victorious conquerors over the night.

Those who ventured near the island’s base oft reported strange sounds and tremors, and the occasional glimpses of a leaping beast – one who soared through the treetops far above with huge lunges. It must be tremendous, this beast, they said, in order to create such tremblings with the mere fall of its feet. And on infrequent nights, a curious sound threaded its way through the murky evening breeze. The more practical listeners said that it was an unknown bird with great vocal prowess, but local legend decreed it the sound of a fey’s ghost flute; others, a mother’s keening cry of loss.

Adventure-seeking lads and fool-hardy men sometimes sought out the island, in hopes of finding a means to gain the upper land, but none had yet found a single passable way through the unforgiving sea cliffs.

Dover never thought that it was a bird. It was too melancholy, too melodic, mighty and mournful. Even now as he sat in the shadow of the craggy, overhanging cliffs, he thought that he could listen to it forever, if only the creator of such beautiful music were able. He tossed another piece of driftwood onto the small fire he had built and stared out over the sea. Small waves lapped against the pebbles a few feet away. The sea was calm tonight, he thought. As calm as if it was a baby being rocked to sleep with the music of this night. The mournful song faded to an end, leaving the black air above heavy with silent promise.