Before long, they came to a clearing. As they entered, they sensed an eerie, ancient stillness, the kind that lingered in places steeped in forgotten power. Towering oaks formed a protective ring around the grove, their twisted branches arching overhead to form a canopy that let in only slivers of silver moonlight. At the heart of the clearing stood the Weeping Obelisk, a monolith of dark stone veined with glowing green runes. The carvings pulsed faintly, their script intricate and flowing, yet heavy with purpose.
The grove was ancient, a place where time itself seemed to falter under the weight of age-old oaths and forgotten powers. Mighty oaks, their gnarled trunks thick with moss, encircled the clearing like silent sentinels. Their sprawling branches met above, forming an intricate web through which only the faintest beams of moonlight pierced, casting silver dapples on the forest floor. At the heart of the grove stood the Weeping Obelisk, a towering monolith of dark stone veined with faintly glowing green lines. Its surface was etched with flowing runes that pulsed rhythmically, like the heartbeat of some slumbering giant. The air was heavy with the hum of the obelisk’s power, and it seemed to vibrate through the very earth, setting every leaf trembling.
Kaelen stepped cautiously into the clearing, his sharp silver eyes scanning the grove with wary precision. The obelisk’s hum grew louder as he approached, and he could feel it resonating in his bones. It wasn’t just a sound; it was a presence, ancient and oppressive, watching and waiting. At his side, the nymphryn padded silently, its sleek silver-gray form low to the ground, muscles coiled and ready. Its ears twitched, catching sounds too faint for mortal ears, and its luminous eyes reflected the obelisk’s glow.
The air around the obelisk seemed alive, humming with a resonance that prickled against the nymphryn’s fur. The creature crouched low, its silver eyes gleaming as it watched the stone, ears flicking at the faint vibration. It recognized this energy, remembered it from a time it had stumbled through a celestial rift. That memory—a maelstrom of disorienting winds and endless void—made its claws dig reflexively into the mossy ground.
Kaelen approached the obelisk with caution, his sharp gaze sweeping over its glowing runes. The hum grew louder as he neared, a low, almost melodic vibration that resonated through the ground. He touched the surface of the stone lightly, and the runes flared brighter, their light casting strange shadows across his face. He drew his hand back as if stung.
“The Weeping Obelisk is humming,” he said, his tone grim. “Not a great sign.”
The nymphryn tilted its head, watching him intently.
Kaelen let out a slow breath, his silver eyes narrowing. “This is a seal,” he explained, gesturing to the runes. “A binding crafted to hold something back. If it’s humming like this, it means the seal is straining. Something is testing it—or trying to get through.”
He leaned closer, reading the ancient script aloud, his voice low:
“Leithian tulvathar na-lindale. Telir vaer menel-gar istari. An-rauthas cairn-ephal va’dyan.”
As he spoke, the words seemed to resonate with the hum, the sound vibrating faintly through the air. “This is the Binding of the Wandering Forces,” he translated, his tone somber. “The guardians of the Grove have crafted a shield. Beneath this seal lies peril and ruin.”
The nymphryn growled softly, its tail flicking. It didn’t need a translation to sense the danger.
Kaelen straightened, his hand brushing the hilt of his dagger as he surveyed the clearing. “The Grove-Shapers inscribed this centuries ago,” he said. “They used the Nandorin tongue because it is tied to the living things of the forest. The language itself carries power. Originally it was only spoken, but Grove-Shapers transposed it into runes. These runes were carved with star-forged steel and the sap of the elder trees, each stroke imbued with magic meant to endure the ages.”
Kaelen stepped back from the obelisk, his brow furrowed. “The Grove-Shapers made this,” he said, half to himself, his fingers brushing his jaw. “They were an ancient order—caretakers of the forest. Long before kings claimed these lands, the Shapers wove magic into the roots of the world. They believed the forests were not just alive, but sacred—a bridge between realms. The obelisks were their greatest work, seals placed at points where the veils between the worlds were thinnest.”
He gestured to the runes. ““They used the Nandorin tongue because it is tied to the living things of the forest. The language itself carries power. Originally it was only spoken, but Grove-Shapers transposed it into runes. These runes were carved with star-forged steel and the sap of the elder trees planted by Yavanna herself, each stroke imbued with magic meant to endure the ages.”
The nymphryn flicked its ears, its sharp gaze catching a faint ripple in the shadows at the grove’s edge. A low growl rumbled in its throat, and Kaelen’s hand returned to his dagger, his fingers tightening around the hilt.
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The air shifted subtly, the oppressive hum from the obelisk deepening into a resonant vibration that set the very ground quivering. The nymphryn crouched, its fur bristling as its eyes locked on the shadows. There was something there—something that shouldn’t be.
The nymphryn growled softly, its attention snapping to the edge of the grove. The faint whispers had returned, fragmented and sinister, carried on a wind that didn’t stir the leaves. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the hum from the obelisk growing louder, more insistent.
Kaelen’s posture shifted, his hand tightening on the hilt of his blade. “Stay close,” he said, his voice low but firm. “If the seal is straining, something may already be here.”
From the shadows beyond the grove, something stirred. The nymphryn tensed, its silver eyes locking onto the movement. At first, it seemed like a ripple in the air, a trick of the light. But as it stepped into the clearing, its form solidified. But as it stepped into the clearing, its features solidified, and Kaelen felt a chill run down his spine. The creature was massive, its hulking frame an unnatural amalgamation of twisted vines, thick branches, and vibrant energy. Its glowing green eyes burned like cold fire, unblinking and filled with an ancient, implacable will. With each step it took, the ground beneath it shook.
Kaelen’s grip on his dagger tightened. “A Warden,” he muttered, his voice edged with disbelief. “One of the old ones.”
The nymphryn hissed, low and sharp. Wardens were constructs of the Grove-Shapers, guardians bound to protect the seals. But they were meant to lie dormant, awakening only in the direst of circumstances. The fact that this one was awake meant something had gone very wrong.
The Warden’s voice, when it spoke, was a deep, grinding rumble, like the groan of ancient trees bending in a storm. It spoke in Nandorin, its words heavy with power:
“Lestannen na-lindale. Loth vaer ar-ni falathren.”
(“You have disturbed the song. Strangers do not belong here.”)
Kaelen raised his free hand, his tone calm but firm. “We mean no harm,” he said. “We’re only passing through.”
The Warden did not respond. Its massive arm began to unravel, vines and branches splitting into writhing tendrils that coiled like serpents. With a sudden, violent motion, the tendrils lashed out, striking the ground where Kaelen had stood moments before. He dove to the side, rolling to his feet as dirt and moss exploded into the air.
“Not friendly!” he shouted, drawing his dagger. “Definitely not friendly!”
The nymphryn darted forward, its sleek form a blur as it leapt at the Warden. Its claws flashed, slicing through one of the tendrils, which recoiled with a hiss. But the Warden didn’t falter. Its glowing eyes locked onto the nymphryn, and it struck again, its massive arm sweeping through the air.
Kaelen moved to flank the creature, his dagger flashing as he struck at its limbs. His strikes severed smaller vines, sending fragments of wood tumbling to the ground, but the Warden’s sheer size and strength made it a formidable opponent. Its movements were slow but relentless, each strike forcing Kaelen and the nymphryn to dodge and weave.
The hum from the obelisk grew louder, its runes flaring brighter. The nymphryn darted back, its sharp eyes flicking toward the monolith. The patterns on the stone pulsed in time with the Warden’s movements, their glow intensifying with each attack. The connection was unmistakable: the obelisk wasn’t just an anchor; it was the source of the Warden’s power.
Kaelen seemed to realize this too. “The obelisk is tied to it!” he shouted. “If we disrupt the runes—”
The nymphryn hissed sharply, cutting him off. It sprang between him and the obelisk, its silver eyes blazing with warning. Breaking the seal wasn’t the answer. The runes were a safeguard, holding back something far worse than the Warden.
Kaelen froze, understanding dawning in his expression. “You’re right,” he said. “The seal isn’t just keeping this thing alive. It’s holding something in.”
The Warden loomed above them, its tendrils coiling for another strike. Kaelen’s mind raced. If they couldn’t destroy the seal, they had to find another way to stop the creature. His gaze flicked back to the runes. The Nandorin script wasn’t just a barrier; it was a puzzle. Perhaps the Grove-Shapers had built in a failsafe for those who would know the Nandorian language.
“The runes!” Kaelen called. “They’re a command structure. I might be able to override it.”
The nymphryn growled but held its ground as Kaelen moved toward the obelisk. The Warden lunged, and the nymphryn intercepted, its claws raking across the creature’s tendrils in a flurry of silver. Kaelen reached the monolith, his fingers tracing the runes as he murmured the ancient words. He began to etch new patterns into the glowing lines, his dagger carving into the stone with deliberate strokes.
“Tirion na’agar. Laithar nin gaur. Sildar lin na’vethrim.”
(“Guardians arise. Lay down your wrath. Let peace return to the veil.”)
The runes flared violently, their light blazing like a sudden sunrise. The hum rose to a deafening pitch, and the Warden froze mid-strike, its tendrils trembling. Slowly, its massive frame began to unravel, the vines loosening as the energy dissipated.
Kaelen stepped back, watching as the Warden’s glowing eyes dimmed. The creature hesitated, as if caught between instincts, before turning and retreating into the shadows. Its hulking form dissolved into the forest, leaving only a faint echo of its presence.
The clearing fell silent once more, the oppressive hum fading into the background. Kaelen leaned against the obelisk, his breathing ragged. The nymphryn padded over to him, its silver eyes watching him intently.
The nymphryn flicked its tail, its gaze shifting to the shadows where the Warden had vanished. The whispers were gone, but the air still carried the memory of them—a faint reminder of the dangers held back by the ancient binding.
Kaelen let out a shaky laugh, sheathing his dagger. “Well, I’m glad that worked” he said, glancing at the runes. “but we can’t stay here. If the seal is weakening, others might try to cross.”
The nymphryn growled softly, a sound of agreement, and the two of them turned to leave the grove. Behind them, the obelisk stood silent once more, its ancient runes glowing faintly, a reminder of the fragile balance it had been crafted to protect.
Together, they slipped into the forest, leaving the grove and its secrets behind. The Weeping Obelisk stood silent once more, its runes glowing faintly—a sentinel over the delicate boundary between worlds.