I was raised in the Crags, the highlands south of Mirabar, where the winds taste of pine. Druids taught me, not smiths. My tools were staff and sickle more often than hammer and anvil. My clan was nothing if not rooted, but I’ve always grown restless when the moon climbs high. While others slept, I walked by her light.
One night, while following strange tremors beneath the earth, I stumbled upon a great bear made of moonlight lying wounded upon broken stone. I healed what I could using ancient druidic rituals. In return, the spirit spoke to me—not in words, exactly, but in resonance, like a vibration through the bones of the earth—and I felt a vision bloom in my mind. I saw a cavern deep underground, where stone hummed with forgotten music and blue-green firelight flickered on ancient walls. Before the bear faded into motes of moon-dust, it left me with a message: “Find the lost song beneath the earth. Others seek it. Protect what must awaken.” Then the spirit vanished, leaving behind only a few musical notes written across two pieces of parchment.
My circle urged caution, but I knew the lunar spirit had chosen me. So I left them behind and came down from the mountains. If the moon wills it, I’ll see the spirit again, but if not… well, Marthammor Duin watches over wanderers, and it’s said he loves a good traveler’s tale.