And so it begins, here is Chapter 1. If you have ideas or constructive criticisms, please let me know in the comments. I do know at times I am not succinct enough, but that is me and I’ve always written this way. Here are Fenrar’s early years.

Growing Beneath Leaves and Stone

Now, before we go on, and I promise the pages ahead hold more than their share of peril, adventure, and mystery, I should tell you something the scribes advised against. They said this was not how one ought to begin a book. They claimed it lacked the thrill of a heroic charge, the curiosity of a cryptic map, or the spark of a blade drawn in defiance. They insisted readers would not be captivated by a quiet tale of an elven lad growing beneath leaves and stone.

I told them, quite simply, that I wanted readers to know there was once a child in love with the world, who adored his parents. Listened to the wind, talked to the trees, and danced with the small ones. The story of an Elf who has lived for over a millenia, an age that the short-lived races cannot truly comprehend. That I have been a part of what many believe to be myth or fables that the bards made up to fatten their purses and waistlines. 

If this first chapter drifts a bit slowly, if it lacks the crashing hook of adventure, then that fault is fully mine.

 The Heart of The Greenwood

The echoing silence of The Greenwood in my earliest memories possessed a quality entirely its own, not the stark quietude of survival that would later become my constant companion, but a soft, pervasive hum of peace, a gentle thrumming that resonated through the mossy stones of my first home. I was Fenrar, a name whispered with gentle affection by the voices that formed my world, a light and airy sound, worlds away from the weight that would eventually settle upon the syllables of Fenrar Greenleaf.

My parents, Lyra Greensong and Elros Meadowbrook, were simply Mother and Father to me. Their presence was the very air I breathed in those early, sheltered years. These were happy years for us all.

Mother was a High Elf who came to call The Greenwood home. Her voice, usually reserved and practical as she navigated the intricacies of survival in the deeper forests, held a hidden wellspring of magic. She called it wild magic; Father would just chuckle and add “unpredictable magic,” and Mother would simply smile.

In the quiet evenings within the grotto, she would weave enchanting melodies—ancient elven songs of the stars and the whispering woods. Her voice was a silver thread in silence. Her laughter, when it came, was a rare and precious thing, echoing off the cavern walls, a bright, joyful sound that filled our small space with warmth. Though she became a determined Huntress of Herne, she was a lioness when protecting her family.

Father, a taciturn Wood Elf bearing the mark of a Ranger of the King, carried the weight of responsibility not only for our well-being but also for The Greenwood itself. Yet, he would soften in the flickering firelight. He would share tales of the creatures of the forest, his hands shaping fantastical beasts in the dancing shadows, their forms brought to life by his deep, comforting chuckle. Though in the quiet hours of the night, usually on the full of the moon, his night terrors would break that laughter. Those sudden cries or muffled screams that tore through the calm of the grotto.

The Grotto

The grotto, in those early years, was a universe unto itself, a cradle of magic and wonder. Sunlight, filtered through the dense canopy above, painted the mossy walls in shifting emerald hues, illuminating patches of bio luminescent fungi that pulsed with a soft, ethereal glow in the twilight hours. The air hummed with a subtle energy, a sense of ancient peace that permeated the very stone beneath my hands. The spring, its water so pure it tasted of the heart of the earth, was my remembered first drink, often offered by tiny, shimmering hands.

Tucked into the curvature of the stone, shaped as though grown rather than built, was our small, three-room cabin. It was a hand-wrought structure of smoothed timber and moss-covered stone that seemed to breathe with the grotto itself. Its lines were soft, its corners worn by time and care, almost indistinguishable from the natural features around it. There was a room for my parents, a room for me, and a modest central space that served as our living and cooking area. A simple table stood at its heart, hewn from a single slab of oak, around which we took our meals.

There were chairs, each lovingly crafted by my father’s hands, and I remember how he had to keep remaking mine as I grew older, each one a little sturdier, a little taller. Eventually, the final version of my chair became a small desk, my first place of learning, where I learned my letters and numbers, where Mother taught me the meaning of elven runes, and where my love of lore took root. It was not a grand home, but it was warm in winter, cool and comfortable in the summer, and above all, it was ours. It was our home. 

There I felt safe, warm, and loved.

My Sanctuary

And the oak tree, by the little pond, in my sanctuary. Father, with surprising tenderness, had crafted a series of sturdy vines and cleverly placed footholds that allowed me to clamber up into its deep, sheltering branches. From my perch high above the grotto floor, the world looked different, a tapestry of light and shadow, the sounds of the underground lake a soothing lullaby. It was my secret lookout, a place where I could dream and imagine, feeling utterly safe and loved.

Our home also held another secret, another pathway. A narrow, winding tunnel that led upwards, emerging at the crest of a small, tree-covered hill. There stood another magnificent oak, its broad branches offering an unobstructed view of the surrounding forest. This was our watchtower, a place where the three of us would sit together as the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant hues.

Father taught me to identify distant landmarks, to recognize signs of approaching weather, his arm often resting protectively around me. Mother would point out the flight patterns of birds, the subtle movements of animals in the undergrowth, her keen eyes missing nothing.

Here, in this unique haven they had carved from the heart of The Greenwood, the heavy weight of their unspoken past seemed to ease. Their laughter rang with genuine joy, their love for one another, and for me was an ever-present warmth. It was a time of pure, unadulterated happiness, a foundational love that, though later tested by the harsh realities of the wider forest, would forever remain a cherished ember deep within my heart. A luminous memory of the family I knew in those golden days.

The Grotto and the Thousand-Year Wager

My father used to tell this story when I was young, usually after too much honey wine and not enough moonlight to loosen the past from where he had tucked it. He would tell it with a grin on his face and a lilt in his voice, like he was daring the shadows to challenge the tale.

I did not understand the danger in it then. I thought it was just a bedtime story. I know better now. It was a warning, one I may have waited too long to heed.

Still, I remember it as he told it, and I try to tell it the same way: with mischief first, and dread trailing behind.

“It was a night much like this one,” he would begin, his eyes glinting over the fire, “and I was alone in the Wilds, younger than I had any right to be, and just foolish enough to enjoy it. I was not looking for anything but quiet, but you know what they say about elves and empty woods: sooner or later, something finds you.”

He claimed he stumbled upon the grotto by accident, though I have always doubted that. My father was the sort of man the forest noticed. The sort of man even the trees whispered about when they thought no one was listening.

The entrance had been hidden, a cleft in a moss-covered hill no wider than a whisper, impossible to see unless the moon caught it just right. He slid inside, following a thread of music and light, until he emerged into a grotto that shimmered with impossible color. Tiny, glowing creatures danced through the air like living lanterns: sprites, pixies, brownies, flitting between mushrooms and stones, hiding behind spider-silk curtains and old toadstools.

Something was wrong. They were not celebrating. They were hiding.

And then he arrived.

Lord Gossamer.

My father’s voice always changed when he said the name. Not fearful, exactly, but sharper. Tighter.

“He looked like moonlight wearing robes,” my father said. “Graceful as frost and twice as cold. His eyes were like mirrors, polished to blind you with your own fear. And he smiled like he already owned your next three lies.”

Gossamer had come to collect. The fey in the grotto were his, refugees from some high and ancient quarrel in the Feywild. He claimed their time in the mortal realm was up. Their sanctuary had expired. The gate was prepared. Their bindings would be restored.

They would be taken back, as his property.

That was when my father, attempted to outwit a creature older than most mountains.

“Magic I did not have,” he would say, leaning in close, “but law? Trickery? Oh, I had that in spades.”

He invoked a clause that did not exist. He spoke of ancient contracts and long-forgotten traditions of Mortal and Fey hospitality, and responsibilities taken and given for the sanctuary that was provided. He claimed that for every year spent under his protection, the little folk owed him a “tally of thanks,” a public declaration of gratitude and a symbolic gift, one for each year of sanctuary.

One for every candle since the small ones first flitted into our world.

Over a thousand years.

“And until they finished their thanks,” he would say with a smirk, “they could not legally be taken back.”

Lord Gossamer had laughed then. Not joyfully. Not even cruelly. But knowingly. My father said it sounded like silk tearing in slow motion.

“Very well,” Archfey had said. “One thousand years, give or take a few one way or the other. Then I will return. If even one thanks is left unsaid, I will take them all. And you, clever captain or one of your lineage, will say the last word of acquiescence to me.”

Then he vanished with a sound like a breath being held.

That was the story.

As a child, I laughed every time my father told it. I loved the part where he tricked a Lord of the Fey. I thought the Small Ones sang songs about him because he was brave. I did not understand that they also sang out of fear, fear of the day Gossamer would come back. Fear of what he would remember. Fear of what he would not forgive.

I know now that the Archfey will not forget. They do not forgive. And they never truly leave.

Lord Gossamer will return, not to hear gratitude, but to collect what he believes is his property, at least those small ones that have survived the years.

Perhaps my father attempted to teach me that cleverness, like magic, always comes at a cost.

Especially when you are the one to inherit the consequences of those clever words.

The Small Folk: My First Companions

My parents were not my only companions in that hidden sanctuary. Now, as the memories resurface with the clarity of sunlight piercing through storm-torn clouds, I recall them: the small folk. For the longest time, it was as if, when the magic of the grotto faded, the memories of them vanished with it. 

Pixies with wings like spun moonlight, dusted in iridescent scales, flitted through the golden beams that slanted through the grotto’s hidden entrance. Fairies with eyes like polished amber moved with the grace of ivy tendrils climbing ancient stone, their voices like the delicate chime of wind through hollow reeds.

To me, newly awakened to the world, they were as real and vital as my parents. The pixies, with their boundless energy and mischievous grins, were my first playmates, leading me on silent adventures through moss-covered roots and shadowed glades. Their tiny hands guided my clumsy steps, and their giggles taught me the musical language of Sylvan, the art of stillness, and how to slip unseen beneath leaf and shadow. Their whispers revealed the hidden paths that only those attuned to the forest’s rhythm could ever find.

The fairies, with their gentle touch and calm wisdom, were my first true teachers. They showed me the veins within a fallen leaf, the unfolding elegance of a fern at dawn, and murmured the secret names of wildflowers that bloomed where no path dared tread. Their soft voices murmured the names of things in both the Common and the Ancient Tongue, instilling in me a reverence for every living creature, from the smallest beetle to the mightiest tree.

They were part of our family, in their own strange and shimmering way. The pixies brought laughter and motion; the fairies brought stillness and peace. Both shaped the boy I was and man to be, guardians in silence, their magic woven into the very fabric of my being, long before I ever understood the true cost of enchantment or the dangers beyond our grotto’s embrace.

I remember their stories, whispered in the hush of twilight as fireflies danced like living stars. Tales of trees that spoke in the wind, of secret realms beneath the mountain roots, of the Wild Heart that beat in the very soul of the forest.

It was Mother who told me what my name meant.

Fenrar, “forest heart.”

The small folk gave that name meaning. They taught me to listen to the wind, to interpret the songs of birds, to feel the living pulse beneath the forest floor.

One fairy in particular, Arelune, whose wings shimmered with hints of violet dusk, once spoke of the other world she remembered, the one before she crossed into ours. She spoke of the Feywild, a land of breathtaking splendor and ever-changing magic. Trees there grew as tall as mountains, their leaves glowing with perpetual twilight; rivers ran with laughter and starlight.

Yet for all its wonder, she spoke sadly that the Feywild was no gentle paradise. It was a place where time twisted like ivy, and emotions became spells. The Archfey there named Lord Gossamer ruled with whims that shaped reality—some beautiful, others cruel. One moment a feast of flowers and joy; the next, a hunt of terror for amusement’s sake. “To dwell too long,” she whispered once, “is to forget which parts of yourself were ever truly yours.”

It is a wonder, now, that those memories lay dormant for so long, buried beneath years of hardship and steel and silence. But as the final chapters of my life unfold, the innocent magic of that hidden grotto returns to me with startling clarity. The love of the small folk—fairy, pixie, whispering leaf and glowing wing—shines once more in my heart, a fragile ember of wonder in a world that has long since forgotten how to believe. Perhaps as we age and get closer to the Veil once more, those memories return.

Beyond the Grotto Walls: My First Forays

Our world was not confined solely to the grotto’s embrace. From time to time, as I grew from a crawling babe to a curious toddler and then to a precocious teen, we would venture beyond its hidden entrance, leading me into the sprawling majesty of The Greenwood. While elves might not reach true adulthood until a hundred summers passed, even my youth was filled with these wider experiences.

These were small adventures, often carefully orchestrated, my senses easily overwhelmed by the sheer scale and vibrancy of the world outside our familiar stone walls. I remember the feel of soft moss beneath my bare feet, so different from the cool stone of the grotto floor. The scent of pine needles, sharp and clean, a stark contrast to the damp, earthy aroma of our home. Sunlight, no longer fractured and diffused, blazed through the canopy, painting the forest floor in shifting patterns of light and shadow.

Mother, ever the patient teacher, would point out the subtle signs of the forest: the tracks of a deer pressed into the soft earth, the delicate architecture of a spider’s web glistening with dew, the different calls of the birds that filled the air with their morning chorus. She taught me to identify the various trees by the shape of their leaves and the texture of their bark, her fingers tracing the rough patterns as she whispered their ancient names.

Father, with his keen hunter’s eyes, would show me how to move silently through the undergrowth, how to read the wind, how to distinguish between the harmless rustling of leaves and the telltale snap that might signal danger.

One particularly vivid memory is our first journey together to Glade, a small trading village nestled some fifteen miles to the west of our hidden home. The journey itself was an adventure for my young eyes, each twist in the path revealing new wonders. Glade was a kaleidoscope of sights and sounds, a bustling hub of elves, and occasionally, other races I had only heard whispered about in the grotto: sturdy dwarves with booming laughter, boisterous humans, and even a few shy, wide-eyed halflings. The air buzzed with unfamiliar voices, the scent of woodsmoke mingling with the aroma of strange and wonderful goods displayed on rough-hewn stalls.

I remember clinging to Father’s leg that day, my small hand engulfed by his, my eyes wide with apprehension and fascination. I was six, maybe seven, Mother, smiled reassuringly, her gentle hand resting on my head. In Glade, I saw elves who moved with a grace I had only witnessed in her and Father, their voices like the gentle murmur of a flowing stream. I saw the intricate carvings on dwarven crafts, the gleam of polished metal catching the sunlight. It was a sensory overload, a glimpse into a world far larger and more diverse than the quiet sanctuary of our grotto.

My parents introduced me to new faces, elves who seemed to know them and regarded me with a mixture of curiosity and a gentle acceptance. I recall the warmth of an elder’s hand on my cheek: that of Gareth Kan’tear, a silver-haired elf with a gaze that seemed to peer into the very fabric of one’s spirit. His touch was light, but his presence lingered in my memory like the fading notes of an old song. A dwarf father named Borin let out a booming laugh as Father bartered for supplies, and I watched with wide-eyed amazement as halfling children darted past with nimble joy.

These brief excursions to Glade, though sometimes overwhelming for a young wood elf raised in seclusion, were my first lessons in the wider world, glimpses of the interconnectedness of life beyond the familiar moss and stone of our hidden home. They instilled in me a sense of wonder and a nascent understanding that The Greenwood, vast and encompassing as it was, was but one thread in a much larger tapestry.

Though the magic and safety of the grotto held a special place in my heart, these early forays into the world beyond, guided by the loving hands of my parents. Those adventures planted the first seeds of curiosity and a yearning to understand the intricate web of life that stretched far beyond our secluded haven.

These were days steeped in the golden light of love and an unshakeable sense of belonging, a stark and precious contrast to the relentless demands of survival that would later define my existence. High in the sturdy branches of the oak tree on the noll, silhouetted against the fiery hues of the sunset from a nearby hilltop, my parents beside me, I was safe.

As the seasons spun their endless cycle and I grew taller, my limbs lengthening, my understanding of the world expanding beyond the grotto’s gentle confines, the shimmering presence of the small folk, my earliest companions, faded.

Where once their laughter chimed in the twilight and their wings brushed against my cheeks, their presence became like the fading scent of spring flowers on an autumn breeze. Perhaps it was the natural course of things, or perhaps the magic of the Fey is not meant to follow a child forever. Maybe we simply stop believing in the unseen parts of our world as adults.

I now remember Tinuvel, the tiniest of them all, his name a whisper of Elven meaning “little spark.” He had wings like petals, soft and veined like wildflowers, and a laugh that seemed to ring from inside blossoms. We would sit together beside the spring, or high in the grotto oak’s boughs, and he would hum tunes known only to the fey. I do not know when I last saw him. One day he was there, tugging at my hair and teasing me with riddles; then he only came in forgotten dreams.

I would call for him sometimes in those early years when I began venturing further from home. But the woods were quiet, and the magic that once felt so close now lingered only in memory. Still, in my heart, I carry the echo of his voice and of all the small folk who once filled my world with wonder.

Their absence did not leave me empty, but it did leave me changed. The boy who once danced with fairies now walked beside his parents through The Greenwood, wide-eyed with questions. Though new wonders awaited beyond every tree and trail, I would always remember that I was once the child of the grotto, blessed by firefly light and the whispers of wings.