List of Names:
* Hóthráin (HOH-thrahyn, HOH-thrah-in, by dialect)
* Úbarriel (oo-BAHR-ree-el, Lord of Passion’s Flame)
* Nerissë (NEH-riss-say)
Few things in Sylvanalor are more mysterious than the waters. Their music and their call is full of memory, of sadness and of many deep things; and the echo of this music carries farther than other sounds. At least, so it is said.
Once there was a man named Hóthráin, who dwelt in the central mountains of Sylvanalor. He was of the brotherhood of Úbarriel, that spirit known by many as the lord of passion, great among the good powers of the world. Hóthráin and the monks of his brotherhood lived at a monastery far up the central mountains, many miles from any town. They were vigorous men, for Úbarriel’s is a martial order; and they spent their days training in combat armed and unarmed, to keep their bodies strong, and honoring their lord of flame. But it is in the nature of Úbarriel and of those who serve him to be led by the passion of their hearts, and to only restrain it should it turn astray to evil; and thus many of the brothers would fare forth on wanderings, braving the dangers of the mountains.
And so it was that one day Hóthráin found himself exploring a valley between two of the great peaks, out on one of his sojourns. The place was a few days’ travel west from his monastery, and he was alone; for he sought both adventure and solitude. He was clad in mail and had a greatsword at his side, for he knew that goblins and like creatures lived in the mountains, but he had met no trouble so far. Now the valley he was descending into was green and beautiful, full of grasses and pine trees; but on either side the land rose in steep slopes as it approached the mountains, becoming rockier and more withered.
Hóthráin reached the depths of the valley, and stood amid the pine trees. He watched them sway, listening to them call out to the loneliness of the mountain winds. After a time, his desire satisfied, he turned to exit the way he had come. But as he turned his face to the north, he saw a thick cloud of fog drifting towards him, obscuring the whole length of the valley from west to east. Knowing the unpredictability of weather in the mountains, and fearing some great storm, he chose to dare the fog anyway, in hope of escape. Yet within minutes of plunging into the fog he was lost, and could determine neither north nor south nor any clear direction. For very great and treacherous are the vapors of the mountains, and the fog settled impenetrably about him and clung to him, confounding him. And even though it was hopeless he continued on, seeking to pass through to some clear spot where he could see again. He walked on directionless for a long time.
Eventually, the fog lifted, and Hóthráin was able to see about him again. But he had no idea where he was! He was no longer in a mountain valley, full of pine trees: a hilly land surrounded him now, flowing with short grasses. Instead of pines, oak and maple dotted the gentle slopes about him, and here and there a willow lay beside a little stream. For a brief time he walked about in wonder. Then, realizing his thirst (for he had thought it only a few hours he had been in the fog, but it could have been a day or more), he headed to one of the willow-trees to refresh himself in a stream.
He knelt beneath the shade of the leaves to splash his face, and drink. And as he drank, he heard something, come from further down the stream. It was a voice, singing. Perhaps it was too far away, but Hóthráin could not understand the words: all he heard in the singing was the sadness of water, in its deeps; and its merriment, in the laughter of flowing falls. Curious and enamored, he stood, and began walking towards the sound. Immediately the song’s power rose, and he heard and saw in the music the swell and crash of great waters, and the lap of gentle waves against lesser shores; the quiet nonsense of riversides, and the unknown of depths great and small, the mysteries below the surface of even little ponds. His heart full of desire beyond his understanding, Hóthráin continued along the stream, now walking quickly. And as he walked the song continued, calling him.
After a few minutes Hóthráin could hear the voice, so full of loveliness, loud and clear, and he quickened his pace the more, eager to meet it. But suddenly, the music stopped. In its place came cries, from the same lovely voice; and there were also coarse, jeering yells, of a kind all too familiar to Hóthráin. His heart hardened; his eyes blazed in anger. Running hard, he turned the last bend and beheld the sight before him.
In front of him lay a sparkling pond, into which flowed the stream. It was a large pond, over fifty yards across, and on all sides save his was sheltered by wild, overgrown slopes. At several spots around the pond were clusters of cattail and other rushes, and here and there waterlilies floated, some white and some pink. And, to the left of the pond, there stood a woman.
The first thing Hóthráin saw of her was her golden hair, tinged with lightest green; long and fair it swept behind her. Her skin was palest white, unnaturally so, and her beauty in its fullness; she wore only a gown like clear water, flowing almost to her knees. Her eyes were pale gold, and fearful. The reason for her fear was evident: for surrounding and advancing on her were several bugbears, savage monsters like goblins but larger than men. Bear-faced, fanged, and clawed, seven foot tall with spiked clubs in hand, they leered down at her: two stood in between her and Hóthráin, at least three others stood behind.
White fire blazed in Hóthráin’s veins. With a cry Úbarriel! Úbarriel! he charged the monsters, sweeping his sword from the sheath. The closest two had reacted just enough to turn toward him; leaping at them he hewed one down, with a mighty stroke that carried into the other. The fey woman cried out in terror and ran aside. As the first bugbear fell, the second, wounded, tried to fight; but Hóthráin clove its spiked club in two in its hand, and ran it through.
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Freeing his blade, Hóthráin turned to receive the charge of the other three bugbears. One club he parried, and another was turned aside on his mail. The third struck his left arm, causing a gash. Hardly injured, Hóthráin roared and continued the fight, felling the one that struck him. Within moments, only one remained. But it grinned.
Hóthráin looked around, quickly, but not fast enough. Two more were behind him – bugbears, despite their size, have uncanny stealth – and advancing on him they struck him in the back. His mail saved him, but it was dented and bruised, and he was staggered by the blows. Turning he sundered their spiked clubs with a single stroke, and felled one beast. But the grinning bugbear hit as he turned, striking his hand horribly, and he dropped his sword in agony. Like lightning he jumped back, so that the two remaining were in front of him; he set himself just in the water, with his back to the pond – where the fey woman had fled – and raised his hands to fight. Now the brotherhood of Úbarriel trains armed and unarmed, and the martial art of their monks is renowned. As the two monsters advanced, Hóthráin leapt at the one still armed, and felled it with a single powerful blow from his fist. The other lunged and pierced his neck with its claws, a terrible wound. He felt strength leaving him, as his blood poured out, and with a last effort he slammed the bugbear with a blow from his bleeding hand. It fell.
But Hóthráin, so wounded, fell too, and the water about his legs enveloped him as he sank down. There for all his strength he could not move, weighted by his armor and badly hurt, and he expected to drown in a pond.
But it was not to be. As his air ran out, a lily-white hand reached down into the water, and touched his forehead. Suddenly his lungs filled. He could breathe! He lay there as slowly, with much struggle, the fey woman dragged him out of the pond. There she lay beside him, her golden-green hair falling over his chest; and she wept softly, caressing his face as he lay and singing to him the same haunting song as before. After a while, he strove to speak.
“O lovely water-maiden, why did you call for me? It was an honor to defend you, if that was the reason. Please do not weep.”
To this she answered, “I called you out of loneliness, for I have no one. I sought companionship; but it seems that is not my fate. I called you, and you were doomed. Perhaps it was a warning; for you could not have long enjoyed the depths of my pond, or this lonely place in the wilds; and despite the heartbreak I have even at this parting, maybe it is better than that which would have occurred otherwise.”
And he answered, “Do not call it a parting, lovely one. Even now I may survive and heal. And my heart was called by the waters, captured in your voice. If I do survive, I will not leave you.” He lifted his bloodied hand to her cheek; her tears rolled down upon it in glimmering silver. “I am Hóthráin. Please, tell me, what is your name?”
“Nerissë” she responded, in a whisper amid her tears. “And you will leave. You only came because of the enchantment of my song.”
“Nay,” said he, “I felt the lure of your song, and resisted it. But I was still enchanted, and still came, and am enamored of your beauty. If you will let me, I will remain with you.”
And in wonder Nerissë the water-maiden did not deny him, but began to hope. She put forth her art and labored in healing, binding his wounds with riverweeds and tending them with magical water-plants. She brought him into the depths of her pond with her, so she could make him more comfortable in a realm under her power. And she talked with him, enjoying his company despite her worries, and telling marvelous tales. Still the first day he worsened, and the second lapsed into dark dreams. She fell into sorrow, and wept often while tending him; for as she cared for him she came to love his sky-blue eyes and long, golden-brown hair. In the midst of the third day, when Hóthráin gave no sign of waking, she despaired, and gave him a kiss as token of parting. But late in the third day he seemed to improve, and the fourth day more color returned to his face; and the fifth day, he awoke.
Then she delighted in his company; for he was passionate and empathic, and for each mysterious tale she told him of the waters about her home, he shared one in turn about the mountains, the winds, and wondrous creatures of the outside world. She showed him much of the lore and magic of waters, and she sang for him. Often he would ask her to sing, and sometimes he would sing for her; and still other times when one began the other would join, and they would sing together. And after several days of this delight, Hóthráin was healed.
Then Nerissë feared, for she knew the waywardness of men; and Hóthráin himself was a man of passion and wanderlust. And one day Hóthráin announced to her that he must go. Then in distress she wept, and begged him remain, taking his left hand in both of hers and holding it to her breast. But with his right hand he gently lifted her chin, and promised her he would return; for he desired only to be with her, and being an honorable man he would first return to his brothers and inform them of his choice, to become a hermit at her side. Again, she begged him not to go; but out of love she told him where he was, and how to find his monastery.
And so Hóthráin departed, and Nerissë’s heart was heavy. He left her with the token of Úbarriel he wore, the wild red rose wreathed in white flames; and she wore it on her neck for many days of doubt. Months passed.
Finally one day Nerissë heard rumor, from the stream that came to her pond, of an approaching man. She began to tremble, and then slowly started to sing. For many minutes she was unanswered, and in sorrow she began to waver. But then at last she heard a voice answering, singing back to her; and she knew it was Hóthráin’s. He found her crying at the pond’s edge, and he ran up to her, holding her in his arms until she calmed. And, once she had finally quieted, and embraced him in return, he said to her, “I heard you calling me.”
Thus ends the tale of Hóthráin and the River-Maiden. It is said that they had many children, some of whom became great wanderers themselves, and mingled among the peoples of nearby lands. And even to this day if there be found a man or woman with long golden hair or pale skin or who has an enchanting voice, in that region about the central mountains, or a person of exceeding beauty, it is said that they descend from Hóthráin and Nerissë, and carry the gifts thereof. Some legends claim that Hóthráin lives still with the River-Maiden, who as ageless fey has shared her power and life with him; and that he wanders about that land still, adventuring with his children, but ever returns to Nerissë’s arms.