GHANTISH FOLKLORE
Legends, Tales & Stories
Vol. I
Many and many a year ago, two Northern warriors from rival villages got into a terrible argument. Harsh words were exchanged, and then swords were drawn. The warriors battled back and forth on the banks of a small creek. They fought with the ferocity of wolverines, tearing at each other with their swords, ripping at each others clothes and flesh.
Suddenly, one of the warriors slipped on the muddy bank and fell into the waters of the creek. His bloody sword slipped from his hand and sank down and down to the bottom, landing upon a rock just beyond his reach. The warrior strained his pain-wracked body towards the sword as his blood filled the waters of the creek, but it was just beyond his fingertips. He thrashed and clawed towards his sword, desperate to reach it before his rival killed him, but no matter how he stretched, it always slipped out of reach.
On the bank above, the victorious Northern warrior saw his rival sink into the blood-stained waters and lay still, the sword just a hair-breadth beyond his fingertips. He did not rise again. The fallen man's people found him a few hours later and tenderly rescued his body from the rippling waters of the creek. But when they tried to retrieve his bloody sword from the rock beneath him, it always slipped beyond their reach, though the creek was not deep.
Many and many a year has passed since that bloody day by the creek, and still the blood-stained sword lies beneath the rippling waters of the creek. Whenever anyone tries to reach it, the sword slips out of reach. It is like trying to touch something on the bottom of the sea, although the creek itself is not deep. Even the rushing waters of the spring season do not move the mysterious sword or wash away the blood staining its blade.
For this reason, the creek is called "The Bloody Sword".
Suddenly, one of the warriors slipped on the muddy bank and fell into the waters of the creek. His bloody sword slipped from his hand and sank down and down to the bottom, landing upon a rock just beyond his reach. The warrior strained his pain-wracked body towards the sword as his blood filled the waters of the creek, but it was just beyond his fingertips. He thrashed and clawed towards his sword, desperate to reach it before his rival killed him, but no matter how he stretched, it always slipped out of reach.
On the bank above, the victorious Northern warrior saw his rival sink into the blood-stained waters and lay still, the sword just a hair-breadth beyond his fingertips. He did not rise again. The fallen man's people found him a few hours later and tenderly rescued his body from the rippling waters of the creek. But when they tried to retrieve his bloody sword from the rock beneath him, it always slipped beyond their reach, though the creek was not deep.
Many and many a year has passed since that bloody day by the creek, and still the blood-stained sword lies beneath the rippling waters of the creek. Whenever anyone tries to reach it, the sword slips out of reach. It is like trying to touch something on the bottom of the sea, although the creek itself is not deep. Even the rushing waters of the spring season do not move the mysterious sword or wash away the blood staining its blade.
For this reason, the creek is called "The Bloody Sword".
Long ago, there was a great storm, and a family trapped in the heart of winter. The storm lasted so long that they thought they would starve. Finally, when the wind and swirling snow had died away to just a memory, the father, who was a brave warrior, ventured outside. The next storm was already on the horizon, but if food was not found soon, the family would starve.
Keeping his sword and spear close, he ventured out upon the most-frequently used game trail, watching intently for some sign, in the newly-fallen snow, of animal footprints or movement of any kind. The forest lay deep and oddly silent under its gleaming coating of ice and snow. Every creature of sense lay deep within its burrow and slept. Still, the warrior hunted, knowing how desperate his family had become.
As he moved through the eerie stillness, broken only by the soft caress of the wind, he heard a strange hissing noise. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once. The warrior stopped, his heart pounding. That was when he saw the blood-soaked footprints appearing on the path in front of him. He gripped his sword tightly, knowing that somewhere, watching him, was a Windigo.
He had learned about the Windigo at his father's knee. It was a large creature, as tall as a tree, with a lipless mouth and jagged teeth. Its breath was a strange hiss, its footprints full of blood, and it ate any man, woman or child who ventured into its territory. And those were the lucky ones. Sometimes, the Windigo chose to possess a person instead, and then the luckless individual became a Windigo himself, hunting down those he had once loved and feasting upon their flesh.
The warrior knew he would have just one chance to prevail over the Windigo. After that, he would die. Or… the thought was too terrible to complete.
Slowly, he backed away from the bloody footprints, listening to the hissing sound. Was it stronger in one direction? He gripped spear in one hand, sword in the other. Then the snowbank to his left erupted as a creature as tall as a tree leapt out at him. He dove to one side, rolling into the snow so that his clothing was covered and he became hard to see in the gray twilight of the approaching storm.
The Windigo whirled its massive frame and the warrior threw the spear. It struck the creature's chest, but the Windigo just shook it off as if it were a toy. The warrior crouched behind a small tree as the creature searched the torn-up snow for a trace of him. Perhaps one more chance.
The Windigo loomed over his hiding place, its sharp eyes seeing the outline of him against the tree. It bent down, long arms reaching. The warrior leaped forward as if to embrace the creature and thrust his sword into its fathomless black eye. The Windigo howled in pain as the blade of the sword sliced into its brain cavity. It tried to pull him off of its chest, but the warrior clung to the creature, stabbing it again and again in the eyes, the head.
The Windigo collapsed to the ground, bleeding profusely, almost crushing the warrior beneath its bulk. He pulled himself loose and stared at the creature, which blended in with its white surroundings so well that he would not have seen it save for the blood pouring from its eyes and ears and scalp. Then the outline of the creature grew misty and it vanished, leaving only a pool of blood to indicate where it had fallen.
Shaken, the warrior, heart pounding with fear and fatigue, turned for home. He was weakened by lack of food, but knew that the storm would break soon and he would die if he did not seek shelter.
At the edge of the wood, he found himself face to face with a great deer. It was a fat old creature, its body lined with gray. The creature stood still, as if it had been brought to him as a reward for killing the Windigo. With a prayer of thanksgiving, the warrior killed the deer and took it home to his starving family. The meat lasted for many days, until the final storm had blown itself out and the warrior could safely hunt once more.
Keeping his sword and spear close, he ventured out upon the most-frequently used game trail, watching intently for some sign, in the newly-fallen snow, of animal footprints or movement of any kind. The forest lay deep and oddly silent under its gleaming coating of ice and snow. Every creature of sense lay deep within its burrow and slept. Still, the warrior hunted, knowing how desperate his family had become.
As he moved through the eerie stillness, broken only by the soft caress of the wind, he heard a strange hissing noise. It came from everywhere and nowhere at once. The warrior stopped, his heart pounding. That was when he saw the blood-soaked footprints appearing on the path in front of him. He gripped his sword tightly, knowing that somewhere, watching him, was a Windigo.
He had learned about the Windigo at his father's knee. It was a large creature, as tall as a tree, with a lipless mouth and jagged teeth. Its breath was a strange hiss, its footprints full of blood, and it ate any man, woman or child who ventured into its territory. And those were the lucky ones. Sometimes, the Windigo chose to possess a person instead, and then the luckless individual became a Windigo himself, hunting down those he had once loved and feasting upon their flesh.
The warrior knew he would have just one chance to prevail over the Windigo. After that, he would die. Or… the thought was too terrible to complete.
Slowly, he backed away from the bloody footprints, listening to the hissing sound. Was it stronger in one direction? He gripped spear in one hand, sword in the other. Then the snowbank to his left erupted as a creature as tall as a tree leapt out at him. He dove to one side, rolling into the snow so that his clothing was covered and he became hard to see in the gray twilight of the approaching storm.
The Windigo whirled its massive frame and the warrior threw the spear. It struck the creature's chest, but the Windigo just shook it off as if it were a toy. The warrior crouched behind a small tree as the creature searched the torn-up snow for a trace of him. Perhaps one more chance.
The Windigo loomed over his hiding place, its sharp eyes seeing the outline of him against the tree. It bent down, long arms reaching. The warrior leaped forward as if to embrace the creature and thrust his sword into its fathomless black eye. The Windigo howled in pain as the blade of the sword sliced into its brain cavity. It tried to pull him off of its chest, but the warrior clung to the creature, stabbing it again and again in the eyes, the head.
The Windigo collapsed to the ground, bleeding profusely, almost crushing the warrior beneath its bulk. He pulled himself loose and stared at the creature, which blended in with its white surroundings so well that he would not have seen it save for the blood pouring from its eyes and ears and scalp. Then the outline of the creature grew misty and it vanished, leaving only a pool of blood to indicate where it had fallen.
Shaken, the warrior, heart pounding with fear and fatigue, turned for home. He was weakened by lack of food, but knew that the storm would break soon and he would die if he did not seek shelter.
At the edge of the wood, he found himself face to face with a great deer. It was a fat old creature, its body lined with gray. The creature stood still, as if it had been brought to him as a reward for killing the Windigo. With a prayer of thanksgiving, the warrior killed the deer and took it home to his starving family. The meat lasted for many days, until the final storm had blown itself out and the warrior could safely hunt once more.
Deep in the heart of the Reach is a small island halfway between two shores. Many moons ago now, there were two tribes living on either side of the lake. While there was no direct warfare between them, the two tribes avoided one another and had no dealings one with the other.
All this changed one day when a handsome warrior on the near shore saw a lovely maiden from the other tribe swimming toward the small island in the middle of the lake. He was instantly smitten by her beauty and leapt into the lake to swim to the island himself. They met on the shore of the little islet, and the maiden was as taken with the warrior as he was with her. They talked for hours, and by the end of their conversation, they were betrothed. After extracting a promise from his beloved that she would faithfully meet him at the island on the morrow, the warrior swam home to his tribe, and she returned to hers.
Oh, what an uproar they met upon their return. Neither tribe was happy at their meeting, and all were determined to break the betrothal instantly. What to do? The man and the maiden had no doubts at all. In the wee hours of the morning, each swam out to the little island to meet one another -- from their to flee to a new land where they might marry. As soon as they were discovered missing, warriors from both tribes set out in pursuit, to bring the renegades back by whatever means available.
But the Great Spirit was watching, and took pity on the young lovers. He sent them a great bird, so they could fly away from their pursuers and so that they would always be together. When the warriors arrived on the island, they found nothing. Only a giant bird, flying away into the sunset.
From that day to this, the little island at the center of the lake was known as "Great Bird Island."
All this changed one day when a handsome warrior on the near shore saw a lovely maiden from the other tribe swimming toward the small island in the middle of the lake. He was instantly smitten by her beauty and leapt into the lake to swim to the island himself. They met on the shore of the little islet, and the maiden was as taken with the warrior as he was with her. They talked for hours, and by the end of their conversation, they were betrothed. After extracting a promise from his beloved that she would faithfully meet him at the island on the morrow, the warrior swam home to his tribe, and she returned to hers.
Oh, what an uproar they met upon their return. Neither tribe was happy at their meeting, and all were determined to break the betrothal instantly. What to do? The man and the maiden had no doubts at all. In the wee hours of the morning, each swam out to the little island to meet one another -- from their to flee to a new land where they might marry. As soon as they were discovered missing, warriors from both tribes set out in pursuit, to bring the renegades back by whatever means available.
But the Great Spirit was watching, and took pity on the young lovers. He sent them a great bird, so they could fly away from their pursuers and so that they would always be together. When the warriors arrived on the island, they found nothing. Only a giant bird, flying away into the sunset.
From that day to this, the little island at the center of the lake was known as "Great Bird Island."
By the time he finished his daily tasks, the light was failing. But everything he needed to accomplish before he made the journey to visit his betrothed was complete. He was eager to see his love, so he set out immediately, in spite of the growing darkness. He would row his boat through the night and be with his beloved come the dawn.
The river sang softly to itself under the clear night sky. He glanced up through the trees, identifying certain favorite stars and chanting softly to himself, his thoughts all of her. Suddenly, he heard his named called out. He jerked back to awareness, halting his paddling and allowing the canoe to drift as he searched for the speaker.
"Who calls?" he asked, and then he spoke her name: "Kapel?"
There was no response.
Deciding that he had imagined the incident, he took up his paddle and continued down the dark, murmuring rivers. A few moments later, he heard his name spoken again. It came from everywhere, and from nowhere, and something about the sound reminded him of his beloved. But of course, she could not be here in this empty place along the river. She was at home with her family.
"Who calls?" he asked, and then he spoke her name: "Kapel?"
His words echoed back to him from the surrounding valley, echoing and reverberating. The sound faded away and he listened intently, but there was no response.
The breeze swirled around him, touching his hair and his face. For a moment, the touch was that of his beloved, his fair-one, and he closed his eyes and breathed deep of the perfumed air. Almost, he thought he heard her voice in his ear, whispering his name. Then the breeze died away, and he took up his oar and continued his journey to the home of his love.
He arrived at dawn, and was met by his beloved's father. One look at the old warrior's face told him what had happened. His beloved, his fair one was gone. She had died during the night while he was journeying to her side. Her last words had been his name, uttered twice, just before she breathed her last.
He fell on his knees, weeping like a small child. Around him, the wind rose softly and swirled through his hair, across his cheek, as gentle as a touch. In his memory, he heard his beloved's voice, calling to him in the night. Finally, he rose, took the old warrior's arm and helped him back to his home.
To this day, travelers on the Kapel River can still hear the echo of the warrior's voice as he reaches out to the spirit of his beloved, crying: "Who calls? Kapel?"
The river sang softly to itself under the clear night sky. He glanced up through the trees, identifying certain favorite stars and chanting softly to himself, his thoughts all of her. Suddenly, he heard his named called out. He jerked back to awareness, halting his paddling and allowing the canoe to drift as he searched for the speaker.
"Who calls?" he asked, and then he spoke her name: "Kapel?"
There was no response.
Deciding that he had imagined the incident, he took up his paddle and continued down the dark, murmuring rivers. A few moments later, he heard his name spoken again. It came from everywhere, and from nowhere, and something about the sound reminded him of his beloved. But of course, she could not be here in this empty place along the river. She was at home with her family.
"Who calls?" he asked, and then he spoke her name: "Kapel?"
His words echoed back to him from the surrounding valley, echoing and reverberating. The sound faded away and he listened intently, but there was no response.
The breeze swirled around him, touching his hair and his face. For a moment, the touch was that of his beloved, his fair-one, and he closed his eyes and breathed deep of the perfumed air. Almost, he thought he heard her voice in his ear, whispering his name. Then the breeze died away, and he took up his oar and continued his journey to the home of his love.
He arrived at dawn, and was met by his beloved's father. One look at the old warrior's face told him what had happened. His beloved, his fair one was gone. She had died during the night while he was journeying to her side. Her last words had been his name, uttered twice, just before she breathed her last.
He fell on his knees, weeping like a small child. Around him, the wind rose softly and swirled through his hair, across his cheek, as gentle as a touch. In his memory, he heard his beloved's voice, calling to him in the night. Finally, he rose, took the old warrior's arm and helped him back to his home.
To this day, travelers on the Kapel River can still hear the echo of the warrior's voice as he reaches out to the spirit of his beloved, crying: "Who calls? Kapel?"
They were not even close to the main camp when the snowstorm hit, blasting cold snow into their eyes, hair, and skin. The wind whirled above, around, and under the hasty shelter the two warriors had set up, offering no protection at all. They took small sips of water every hour or so to relieve the dryness of their throats and to shift about to keep from being buried completely under the snow.
A day passed in these terrible conditions. The two warriors drank the last of their water and ate the last of their food, while the wind and snow whipped about in an impenetrable curtain and the cold froze their bodies. One after the other their horses dropped dead and were gradually buried under the snow. Through his increasing misery, one of the men noticed that the sound of the storm was muted, though there was no decrease in the pounding of the wind and the snow. Through the snowstorm rode a man dressed all in white. He was followed by eleven riders, who were also dressed in white. Their spurs, bits, and stirrups gleamed like silver; their belt buckles were gold. They were leading a white horse behind them. He tried to call out to them, but his lips were swollen shut.
The procession stopped in front of the half-buried warriors and two men dismounted. They walked over to the man beside him. Tenderly, they helped the other warrior over to the riderless horse and set him in the saddle. Then they mounted their horses and the men in white started riding away. The remaining cowboy pried his lips apart with shaking fingers and gave a hoarse cry of protest. But the white riders disappeared back into the storm, leaving him alone in the whipping snow. Just before the last rider vanished, he turned back towards the warrior and said: ""It is not your time yet. We will come back for you presently." Then he passed out of sight.
Stricken, the warrior buried his face against his arm and gradually lost consciousness. He was awakened by someone shaking his shoulder. He looked up into the eyes of some of his fellow warriors who had come to find him and his friend as soon as the storm let up. They forced some water through his dry lips and helped him sit up and told him he was lucky to survive.
Something in their grim air made him turn to look at his friend, who lay dead at his side. His heart beat rapidly as he realized suddenly how narrow his own escape had been. And suddenly he understood something else. The riders he had seen had been the white riders of death. By leaving him behind, they had spared his life when they came through the storm to take his friend home.
A day passed in these terrible conditions. The two warriors drank the last of their water and ate the last of their food, while the wind and snow whipped about in an impenetrable curtain and the cold froze their bodies. One after the other their horses dropped dead and were gradually buried under the snow. Through his increasing misery, one of the men noticed that the sound of the storm was muted, though there was no decrease in the pounding of the wind and the snow. Through the snowstorm rode a man dressed all in white. He was followed by eleven riders, who were also dressed in white. Their spurs, bits, and stirrups gleamed like silver; their belt buckles were gold. They were leading a white horse behind them. He tried to call out to them, but his lips were swollen shut.
The procession stopped in front of the half-buried warriors and two men dismounted. They walked over to the man beside him. Tenderly, they helped the other warrior over to the riderless horse and set him in the saddle. Then they mounted their horses and the men in white started riding away. The remaining cowboy pried his lips apart with shaking fingers and gave a hoarse cry of protest. But the white riders disappeared back into the storm, leaving him alone in the whipping snow. Just before the last rider vanished, he turned back towards the warrior and said: ""It is not your time yet. We will come back for you presently." Then he passed out of sight.
Stricken, the warrior buried his face against his arm and gradually lost consciousness. He was awakened by someone shaking his shoulder. He looked up into the eyes of some of his fellow warriors who had come to find him and his friend as soon as the storm let up. They forced some water through his dry lips and helped him sit up and told him he was lucky to survive.
Something in their grim air made him turn to look at his friend, who lay dead at his side. His heart beat rapidly as he realized suddenly how narrow his own escape had been. And suddenly he understood something else. The riders he had seen had been the white riders of death. By leaving him behind, they had spared his life when they came through the storm to take his friend home.
The girl with pink hair snapped awake out of a deep sleep, screaming aloud in terror. In her nightmare, a large white wolf had been chasing her around and around the house, gaining on her with every step until it finally pounced on her and ripped out her throat. She lay shaking for hours, unable to sleep after such a terrifying dream.
But morning finally arrived, and the day was completely normal. Alice forgot all about her dream, until the moment her parents reminded her that they would be going out that night to celebrate their anniversary. Alice turned milk-white. In her dream, the white wolf had come to kill her while her parents were out celebrating their anniversary! She started shaking and begging them not to go. Her parents were astonished at her behavior, and finally shamed her into staying home alone that night.
Fearfully, Alice locked herself into the house as soon as her parents left, checking every door and every window. She tried to laugh it off as she got into bed, and finally she shook off her irrational fear and fell asleep.
Alice snapped awake suddenly, every muscle tense. She heard the tinkling of falling glass from a broken window, and the snuffling sound of a snout pressed to the floor. It was the sound of a hunting wolf. A werewolf. Real wolves did not break into houses when there was plenty of game outside. She could hear the click-clicking of the creature’s claws on the wooden floor. The musky, foul smell of wet animal fur combined with the meaty breath of a carnivore, drifted into the room.
She could hear the werewolf’s panting right outside her bedroom. Then her body was out of bed and she sped through the bathroom and down the back stairs. She heard a soft growl and then the sound of animal feet pursuing her as she raced down the steps and tore open the back door. A glance at the window beside her showed a reflection of the werewolf leaping down the last few steps behind her.
Alice’s feet screamed in protest as she ran painfully across the sharp gravel driveway toward the tool shed with its shovels and baseball bats. Anything she could use as a weapon. But the huge, red-eyed wolf was suddenly between her and the toolshed, stalking toward her. The cold wind pierced her skin as she turned and fled around the side of the house. She gasped as the white wolf howled and took off after her. She could hear the terrifying sound of the creature’s pounding feet.
Faster, faster, she commanded her legs, panting desperately against the fear choking her. She would run around the house and back down the driveway, she thought with the clarity of sheer horror. She felt the wolf snap at her back leg and felt the sting of teeth. She put on speed.
The wolf veered away from her suddenly, and she felt a rush of hope. She couldn’t hear the wolf now, couldn’t see it in the cloud-darkened night. She kept running around the house, heading back toward the tool shed. To her intense relief, she heard the sound of a car coming down the road in front of her house. Her parents were back and would save her from the wolf!
Then her heart stopped in panic as she turned the last corner and saw the shape of the white wolf as it stood balanced on the porch railing right in front of her. It sprang at Alice, but from behind her emerged a man with a golden spear. The man fell under the weight of its body, hot blood spilling all over the ground, and the werewolf died seconds after it hit the ground.
The man was tall, with black hair and yellow eyes. He was dressed in golden chainmail, and black leather underneath as dark as night. Only his head was uncovered. "You didn't see anything, girl", the man said, as he dragged the werewolf's body into the night, with the golden spear buried deep in its heart.
One minute later, her parent's car pulled into the driveway, its headlights blinding the girl as it pulled toward the house. Disturbed, the girl ran back into the house.
But morning finally arrived, and the day was completely normal. Alice forgot all about her dream, until the moment her parents reminded her that they would be going out that night to celebrate their anniversary. Alice turned milk-white. In her dream, the white wolf had come to kill her while her parents were out celebrating their anniversary! She started shaking and begging them not to go. Her parents were astonished at her behavior, and finally shamed her into staying home alone that night.
Fearfully, Alice locked herself into the house as soon as her parents left, checking every door and every window. She tried to laugh it off as she got into bed, and finally she shook off her irrational fear and fell asleep.
Alice snapped awake suddenly, every muscle tense. She heard the tinkling of falling glass from a broken window, and the snuffling sound of a snout pressed to the floor. It was the sound of a hunting wolf. A werewolf. Real wolves did not break into houses when there was plenty of game outside. She could hear the click-clicking of the creature’s claws on the wooden floor. The musky, foul smell of wet animal fur combined with the meaty breath of a carnivore, drifted into the room.
She could hear the werewolf’s panting right outside her bedroom. Then her body was out of bed and she sped through the bathroom and down the back stairs. She heard a soft growl and then the sound of animal feet pursuing her as she raced down the steps and tore open the back door. A glance at the window beside her showed a reflection of the werewolf leaping down the last few steps behind her.
Alice’s feet screamed in protest as she ran painfully across the sharp gravel driveway toward the tool shed with its shovels and baseball bats. Anything she could use as a weapon. But the huge, red-eyed wolf was suddenly between her and the toolshed, stalking toward her. The cold wind pierced her skin as she turned and fled around the side of the house. She gasped as the white wolf howled and took off after her. She could hear the terrifying sound of the creature’s pounding feet.
Faster, faster, she commanded her legs, panting desperately against the fear choking her. She would run around the house and back down the driveway, she thought with the clarity of sheer horror. She felt the wolf snap at her back leg and felt the sting of teeth. She put on speed.
The wolf veered away from her suddenly, and she felt a rush of hope. She couldn’t hear the wolf now, couldn’t see it in the cloud-darkened night. She kept running around the house, heading back toward the tool shed. To her intense relief, she heard the sound of a car coming down the road in front of her house. Her parents were back and would save her from the wolf!
Then her heart stopped in panic as she turned the last corner and saw the shape of the white wolf as it stood balanced on the porch railing right in front of her. It sprang at Alice, but from behind her emerged a man with a golden spear. The man fell under the weight of its body, hot blood spilling all over the ground, and the werewolf died seconds after it hit the ground.
The man was tall, with black hair and yellow eyes. He was dressed in golden chainmail, and black leather underneath as dark as night. Only his head was uncovered. "You didn't see anything, girl", the man said, as he dragged the werewolf's body into the night, with the golden spear buried deep in its heart.
One minute later, her parent's car pulled into the driveway, its headlights blinding the girl as it pulled toward the house. Disturbed, the girl ran back into the house.
Long ago, a Chief had a very beautiful daughter who was sought after by many brave warriors. There were two suitors who led the rivalry for her hand, one warrior from the forest, and a warrior from the hills. The girl herself favored the hill warrior, and when he brought a beautiful white horse from the south as a gift for her father, the man agreed to the marriage.
The forest warrior was enraged by the rejection of his suit. On the day of the wedding, he gathered a war-party and came thundering across the fields toward the home of the beautiful maiden. The hill warrior tossed his lovely bride on top of the white horse and leapt upon his own gray steed. The couple fled to the west with the rejected warrior and his war-party on their heels.
The canny hill warrior doubled back several times and the couple hid among the hills. For a time, it seemed as if they had lost the war-party. But once they were on the fields again, the beautiful white horse was visible for miles, and the war party soon found them. A rain of arrows fell upon the fleeing lovers, and the warrior and his bride fell dead from their mounts. At once, the war-party captured the gray steed, but the white horse evaded them. One man claimed he saw the spirit of the young bride enter into the horse just before it fled from their clutches.
The white horse roamed the fields for many years following the death of the hill warrior and his lovely bride. The inhabitants feared to approach the horse, since the spirit of the maiden dwelled within it. Long after its physical body passed away, the soul of the white horse continued to gallop across the fields, and the land where it roamed became known as the White Horse Fields. They say that the soul of the white horse continues to haunt the fields to this very day.
A statue of the white horse was erected upon the highest hill in the White Horse Fields, to remind all who see it of the phantom white horse and the beautiful maiden who once rode it.
The forest warrior was enraged by the rejection of his suit. On the day of the wedding, he gathered a war-party and came thundering across the fields toward the home of the beautiful maiden. The hill warrior tossed his lovely bride on top of the white horse and leapt upon his own gray steed. The couple fled to the west with the rejected warrior and his war-party on their heels.
The canny hill warrior doubled back several times and the couple hid among the hills. For a time, it seemed as if they had lost the war-party. But once they were on the fields again, the beautiful white horse was visible for miles, and the war party soon found them. A rain of arrows fell upon the fleeing lovers, and the warrior and his bride fell dead from their mounts. At once, the war-party captured the gray steed, but the white horse evaded them. One man claimed he saw the spirit of the young bride enter into the horse just before it fled from their clutches.
The white horse roamed the fields for many years following the death of the hill warrior and his lovely bride. The inhabitants feared to approach the horse, since the spirit of the maiden dwelled within it. Long after its physical body passed away, the soul of the white horse continued to gallop across the fields, and the land where it roamed became known as the White Horse Fields. They say that the soul of the white horse continues to haunt the fields to this very day.
A statue of the white horse was erected upon the highest hill in the White Horse Fields, to remind all who see it of the phantom white horse and the beautiful maiden who once rode it.
They say that the Wampus used to be a beautiful woman. The men of her tribe were always going on hunting trips, but the women had to stay home. The woman secretly followed her husband one day when he went hunting with the other men. She hid herself behind a rock, clutching the hide of a shadugar around her, and spied on the men as they sat around their campfires telling sacred stories and doing magic.
According to the laws of the tribe, it was absolutely forbidden for women to hear the sacred stories and see the tribe's magic. So when the woman was discovered, the medicine man punished her by binding her into the shadugar skin she wore and then transforming her into a terrible monster - half woman and half shadugar. Ever after she was doomed to roam the forest, howling desolately because she desires to return to her normal body.
A man was hunting one night with his dogs when they both whimpered and ran off the path. At that moment, the woods were overpowered with a horrible smell like that of a wet animal that had fallen into a bog after it messed with a skunk. Then something howled on the path behind him and the man whirled around, dropping his bow. His heart pounding with fear, the man found himself staring into the big, glowing yellow eyes of the Wampus. The creature had huge fangs dripping with salvia. It looked kind of like a shadugar, but it was walking upright like a man. Then it howled, and the man's skin nearly turned inside out in horror.
With a scream of terror, the man leapt backwards and ran as fast as he could through the woods, the Wampus on his heels. He fled to the home of a friend who lived nearby, and burst through the front door only a breath ahead of the creature. His friend slammed the door in the face of the Wampus. Instantly, it started shuddering under the weight of the attacking monster. The man's friend grabbed his holy book and started reading aloud from the scriptures. Upon hearing the holy words, the Wampus howled in frustration and then slowly abandoned its attack and went back into the woods.
The man spent the rest of the night at his friend's place. When he went home at daybreak, he found his dogs huddled in the barn, shaken but still alive. The man never hunted after dark again.
According to the laws of the tribe, it was absolutely forbidden for women to hear the sacred stories and see the tribe's magic. So when the woman was discovered, the medicine man punished her by binding her into the shadugar skin she wore and then transforming her into a terrible monster - half woman and half shadugar. Ever after she was doomed to roam the forest, howling desolately because she desires to return to her normal body.
A man was hunting one night with his dogs when they both whimpered and ran off the path. At that moment, the woods were overpowered with a horrible smell like that of a wet animal that had fallen into a bog after it messed with a skunk. Then something howled on the path behind him and the man whirled around, dropping his bow. His heart pounding with fear, the man found himself staring into the big, glowing yellow eyes of the Wampus. The creature had huge fangs dripping with salvia. It looked kind of like a shadugar, but it was walking upright like a man. Then it howled, and the man's skin nearly turned inside out in horror.
With a scream of terror, the man leapt backwards and ran as fast as he could through the woods, the Wampus on his heels. He fled to the home of a friend who lived nearby, and burst through the front door only a breath ahead of the creature. His friend slammed the door in the face of the Wampus. Instantly, it started shuddering under the weight of the attacking monster. The man's friend grabbed his holy book and started reading aloud from the scriptures. Upon hearing the holy words, the Wampus howled in frustration and then slowly abandoned its attack and went back into the woods.
The man spent the rest of the night at his friend's place. When he went home at daybreak, he found his dogs huddled in the barn, shaken but still alive. The man never hunted after dark again.
The blizzard was raging fiercely around them as the brothers stumbled down the long road. They were miles from any village, and knew they had to seek shelter or freeze to death. So it was with gratitude that the two brothers spotted a tavern and pushed their way through the door.
Every eye in the room turned upon them, as the boys ordered cider with the last of their money. As the bartender went to fetch the hot drink, most of the regulars returned to their conversations. But one man continued to stare; a massive butcher with a mop of red hair and a long red beard who was the worse for drink.
“You’re looking at me funny,” the butcher slurred, looming over the two boys.
“We weren’t looking at you,” said the older boy. “We were just warming ourselves by the fire.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” he shouted. Around the room crowd grinned; they loved a good fight.
“We didn’t say that,” said the older boy quickly, waving his hands and accidentally striking the butcher on the arm. That did it. The butcher grabbed the boy by the collar. “No one hits me and gets away with it,” he roared and threw the boy headfirst into the huge fire raging in the hearth.
There was a moment of stunned silence in the saloon, and then the elder boy screamed in agony as the flames engulfed him from head to toe. The younger lad shouted in terror. The older boy stumbled out of the fireplace, as the little brother tried to beat out the fire with his small hands.
The butcher loomed above them, grinning sadistically as the flaming boy lost consciousness, his screams dying away.
“Your turn,” the butcher said to his brother. The younger boy gasped in fear and fled for his life out into the raging snow. The boy’s little frozen body was not found until the spring.
One evening, a decade after the death of the two young boys, a burly man with a long red beard came strolling down the road one taken by the brothers. The butcher had heard rumors of a ghost but had discarded them as so much poppycock and tavern talk.
As he meandered down the road, he became aware that a silence had fallen. In the odd silence, he heard the footsteps of a large animal. They walked when he walked and stopped when he stopped. Pulse pounding madly, the butcher turned. Behind him, large as an ox, stood a black wolf with blazing blue eyes and sharp teeth. The butcher had seen those blue eyes once before, gazing at him from the face of a young boy trying to save his burning brother.
The black wolf growled softly and took a step forward. The butcher whirled around to flee and found himself face to face with tall figure covered from head to toe in flames. The burning boy reached out toward the butcher with hands withered and blackened by fire. The butcher gave a terrified scream and fell, blood gushing from eyes and nose. He was dead before he hit the ground.
To this day, the black wolf and the flaming figure still appeared in that vicinity to harass travelers and speed them on their way.
Every eye in the room turned upon them, as the boys ordered cider with the last of their money. As the bartender went to fetch the hot drink, most of the regulars returned to their conversations. But one man continued to stare; a massive butcher with a mop of red hair and a long red beard who was the worse for drink.
“You’re looking at me funny,” the butcher slurred, looming over the two boys.
“We weren’t looking at you,” said the older boy. “We were just warming ourselves by the fire.”
“Are you calling me a liar?” he shouted. Around the room crowd grinned; they loved a good fight.
“We didn’t say that,” said the older boy quickly, waving his hands and accidentally striking the butcher on the arm. That did it. The butcher grabbed the boy by the collar. “No one hits me and gets away with it,” he roared and threw the boy headfirst into the huge fire raging in the hearth.
There was a moment of stunned silence in the saloon, and then the elder boy screamed in agony as the flames engulfed him from head to toe. The younger lad shouted in terror. The older boy stumbled out of the fireplace, as the little brother tried to beat out the fire with his small hands.
The butcher loomed above them, grinning sadistically as the flaming boy lost consciousness, his screams dying away.
“Your turn,” the butcher said to his brother. The younger boy gasped in fear and fled for his life out into the raging snow. The boy’s little frozen body was not found until the spring.
One evening, a decade after the death of the two young boys, a burly man with a long red beard came strolling down the road one taken by the brothers. The butcher had heard rumors of a ghost but had discarded them as so much poppycock and tavern talk.
As he meandered down the road, he became aware that a silence had fallen. In the odd silence, he heard the footsteps of a large animal. They walked when he walked and stopped when he stopped. Pulse pounding madly, the butcher turned. Behind him, large as an ox, stood a black wolf with blazing blue eyes and sharp teeth. The butcher had seen those blue eyes once before, gazing at him from the face of a young boy trying to save his burning brother.
The black wolf growled softly and took a step forward. The butcher whirled around to flee and found himself face to face with tall figure covered from head to toe in flames. The burning boy reached out toward the butcher with hands withered and blackened by fire. The butcher gave a terrified scream and fell, blood gushing from eyes and nose. He was dead before he hit the ground.
To this day, the black wolf and the flaming figure still appeared in that vicinity to harass travelers and speed them on their way.
Long ago, before time was traced by man and when the world was thawing from the great ice, there was a village deep in the forest, at the base of a great mountain. The chief of this village had a daughter, with skin as white as snow, with hair the color of night, and eyes the color of the sun. Every warrior in the village and beyond wanted her hand, but her father was quite stubborn, and gave her to no one.
One day, word had spread of beings descending upon the land. Vampyres, they were called by the people. The Chief dismissed this, calling it nonsense.
On one summer's night, the Chief's daughter was bathing in a lake in the woods. She was visited upon a Vampyre, who was enchanted by her beauty. The Vampyre hypnotized her, and took the maiden there that night. When she came to, the Vampyre was gone. She dismissed the encounter, thinking it a dream. She returned to her village and went about her business.
Soon enough, she realized that she was with child. She ran crying to her father, and told him. Ashamed of his daughter for bringing her family dishonor, she was banished into the forest, left to die.
However, she knew how to hunt, fish, and find shelter. She lived in a cave in the mountain, and it was there that she gave birth to a son. He was strong and healthy, with black hair and eyes the color of the sun. She named him Orin.
She taught Orin how to hunt, fish, and find shelter. She loved him very much, and told him the stories of her village. He grew tall and strong, and was wise beyond his years. On many a night, he would climb to the top of the mountain, and would stare at the stars and wonder.
One winter, she caught a chill and grew ill. Orin was nearly a man grown, and did everything he could to help his mother get better. She was dying. As she lay dying, she told Orin about the night at the lake, where she was taken by a Vampyre, and of the village where she was from. Orin swore to avenge her, and to take her home one day. She died cradled in his arms.
In his grief, Orin ascended to the top of the mountain, and stared at the stars for comfort. He felt a shiver behind his neck, and in a rock he saw a sword, the blade was white as snow, with the hilt black as night, and the pommel the color of the sun. The sword was beautiful, and it reminded him of his mother. He named his sword Vengeance.
When the summer came, Orin set out to find his mother's village. When he found it, all of the people there were slaves, and the Vampyres ruled over them. The Vampyres challenged him, thinking he was merely a man. However, Orin was revealed to be a Dhampyre, half-Vampyre, half-man. He had the strength of a Vampyre, and the compassion of a man. He was as skilled a warrior as any of the Vampyres, but unlike them, he had a heart.
Orin defeated the Vampyres, slaying each one with his sword. He then freed all of the villagers, and asked to speak to the Chief. He found the Chief, who was an old man. Orin revealed his identity, and demanded retribution for his mother. The Chief was stricken with grief- he did not believe his daughter's story, and only learned that she was speaking the truth when the Vampyres came and enslaved them. Orin forgave his grandfather, and he was welcomed into the village. Not long thereafter, he brought his mother's remains back to the village, and buried her with her ancestors.
Orin learned that Vampyres had occupied all the lands near the village, and tried to defend it for a time. He went on many quests and adventures, and slayed many more Vampyres, as well as Dragons, Trolls, Wyrms and other great beasts. His reputation spread throughout the land.
When the Chief died, Orin became the Chief of the Village. He realized that as long as they stayed there, they would not be truly safe. He asked them all to come with him to the top of the mountain, and build a new village there, which would be much easier to defend against the Vampyres and other beasts of the forest. When the villagers asked him what their new village would be called, he thought for a time, not knowing what to call it. It was night, and he looked up to the stars for inspiration. "Nightstar", he said. And so it was called.
In time, he made Nightstar a great village, and from it he launched many campaigns against the Vampyres, beasts, and barbarians beyond. People from throughout the land sought refuge there, and Orin accepted them all. He ruled Nightstar wisely and fairly, and never stopped fighting the forces of evil, earning him the love and admiration of the people. Eventually, the village was so big, and had so many people, that they named him King. And so it was that Nightstar was a Kingdom.
Orin took a wife and sired children, and ruled Nightstar for hundreds of years, fighting the Vampyres until they retread from the land. Orin was sad, however, because he never found the one who took his mother. That winter, he went to the lake where the encounter occurred hundreds of years ago, and prayed to the old gods. Then, a beam of light descended from the heavens, and a flying horse appeared, the color of night.
Orin mounted it, and drew his sword. He flew it back to Nightstar, and landed in the Village square, and many people came out to greet him. He told the people that he must depart their fair and noble land. The people were sad and asked him why. He told them that he made a promise to his mother long ago, and that he must complete it- find the Vampyre that took her long ago. He told the people not to fear, because they were good people who made him proud to be their king, and that once his promise was fulfilled, that he would return. He then flew away, with his sword raised high, and was never seen again.
Orin's son ruled for hundred's of years as well, but in time he died, because his mother was a mortal woman, and his father part man. Each King of Nightstar lived a shorter life then his father, because with time, the Kings became less Vampyre and more man, until a time came when they lived and died as ordinary men.
A statue of Orin, riding his flying horse and with his sword drawn, was built at the spot where he told the people of his departure. The people await his return.
One day, word had spread of beings descending upon the land. Vampyres, they were called by the people. The Chief dismissed this, calling it nonsense.
On one summer's night, the Chief's daughter was bathing in a lake in the woods. She was visited upon a Vampyre, who was enchanted by her beauty. The Vampyre hypnotized her, and took the maiden there that night. When she came to, the Vampyre was gone. She dismissed the encounter, thinking it a dream. She returned to her village and went about her business.
Soon enough, she realized that she was with child. She ran crying to her father, and told him. Ashamed of his daughter for bringing her family dishonor, she was banished into the forest, left to die.
However, she knew how to hunt, fish, and find shelter. She lived in a cave in the mountain, and it was there that she gave birth to a son. He was strong and healthy, with black hair and eyes the color of the sun. She named him Orin.
She taught Orin how to hunt, fish, and find shelter. She loved him very much, and told him the stories of her village. He grew tall and strong, and was wise beyond his years. On many a night, he would climb to the top of the mountain, and would stare at the stars and wonder.
One winter, she caught a chill and grew ill. Orin was nearly a man grown, and did everything he could to help his mother get better. She was dying. As she lay dying, she told Orin about the night at the lake, where she was taken by a Vampyre, and of the village where she was from. Orin swore to avenge her, and to take her home one day. She died cradled in his arms.
In his grief, Orin ascended to the top of the mountain, and stared at the stars for comfort. He felt a shiver behind his neck, and in a rock he saw a sword, the blade was white as snow, with the hilt black as night, and the pommel the color of the sun. The sword was beautiful, and it reminded him of his mother. He named his sword Vengeance.
When the summer came, Orin set out to find his mother's village. When he found it, all of the people there were slaves, and the Vampyres ruled over them. The Vampyres challenged him, thinking he was merely a man. However, Orin was revealed to be a Dhampyre, half-Vampyre, half-man. He had the strength of a Vampyre, and the compassion of a man. He was as skilled a warrior as any of the Vampyres, but unlike them, he had a heart.
Orin defeated the Vampyres, slaying each one with his sword. He then freed all of the villagers, and asked to speak to the Chief. He found the Chief, who was an old man. Orin revealed his identity, and demanded retribution for his mother. The Chief was stricken with grief- he did not believe his daughter's story, and only learned that she was speaking the truth when the Vampyres came and enslaved them. Orin forgave his grandfather, and he was welcomed into the village. Not long thereafter, he brought his mother's remains back to the village, and buried her with her ancestors.
Orin learned that Vampyres had occupied all the lands near the village, and tried to defend it for a time. He went on many quests and adventures, and slayed many more Vampyres, as well as Dragons, Trolls, Wyrms and other great beasts. His reputation spread throughout the land.
When the Chief died, Orin became the Chief of the Village. He realized that as long as they stayed there, they would not be truly safe. He asked them all to come with him to the top of the mountain, and build a new village there, which would be much easier to defend against the Vampyres and other beasts of the forest. When the villagers asked him what their new village would be called, he thought for a time, not knowing what to call it. It was night, and he looked up to the stars for inspiration. "Nightstar", he said. And so it was called.
In time, he made Nightstar a great village, and from it he launched many campaigns against the Vampyres, beasts, and barbarians beyond. People from throughout the land sought refuge there, and Orin accepted them all. He ruled Nightstar wisely and fairly, and never stopped fighting the forces of evil, earning him the love and admiration of the people. Eventually, the village was so big, and had so many people, that they named him King. And so it was that Nightstar was a Kingdom.
Orin took a wife and sired children, and ruled Nightstar for hundreds of years, fighting the Vampyres until they retread from the land. Orin was sad, however, because he never found the one who took his mother. That winter, he went to the lake where the encounter occurred hundreds of years ago, and prayed to the old gods. Then, a beam of light descended from the heavens, and a flying horse appeared, the color of night.
Orin mounted it, and drew his sword. He flew it back to Nightstar, and landed in the Village square, and many people came out to greet him. He told the people that he must depart their fair and noble land. The people were sad and asked him why. He told them that he made a promise to his mother long ago, and that he must complete it- find the Vampyre that took her long ago. He told the people not to fear, because they were good people who made him proud to be their king, and that once his promise was fulfilled, that he would return. He then flew away, with his sword raised high, and was never seen again.
Orin's son ruled for hundred's of years as well, but in time he died, because his mother was a mortal woman, and his father part man. Each King of Nightstar lived a shorter life then his father, because with time, the Kings became less Vampyre and more man, until a time came when they lived and died as ordinary men.
A statue of Orin, riding his flying horse and with his sword drawn, was built at the spot where he told the people of his departure. The people await his return.
Bonus: The Song of Queen Susannah
