Caliginous Pool - The Crown of the Kirin

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Aufheben
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Caliginous Pool - The Crown of the Kirin

Post by Aufheben »

After reluctantly opting to forsake my pursuit of novel folklore as a result of consistently fruitless ventures, I began to make my way homeward over the Alasre Mountains. While navigating about the skies there emerged a sudden thunderstorm, and my mount was forced to descend into the craggy highlands. While the rain and sleet hounded us in ceaseless volleys as we sought the sanctuary of a sheltered alcove, we were fortunate enough to chance upon a hermitess who was kind enough to share her cabin. I warmed myself by a smoldering crucible, which I can only assume was being used for alchemical purposes at the time. In my final desperate attempt to lift lore from the land, I begged her to consign to me even a table scrap of mythos to help sate my appetite for enlightenment. Though she mulled my request over for quite some time, I was at last generously entrusted with a tale that has allegedly known countless generations and ancient forefathers. With an audience that comprised only of myself and my mount, the hermitess recounted a story about an enigmatic pool that supposedly exists deep within the Silva Forest. My knowledge of this location has been pieced together solely from a motley of rumors - I found the results quite interesting when I was finally able to compare the hermitess’ story to those that I have heard while visiting The Keep.
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The Crown of the Kirin
On the southernmost edge of the Silva Forest stands poised a great aegis of a lake that routinely mirrors the radiance of the sun as an empyreal emblem along its gilded waters. Woven within a reedy plackart smelted in wetland sediment and wrought by the light of day, the lake oversees in its misty wake a vast phalanx of sylvan soldiers. This is one of the forest’s many nourishing wellsprings, an earthen heart heavy with ichor to be circulated through subterranean veins. Here the surrounding countryside remains thick with resources so thriving that the banks of the lake were once sought for settlement in days long since departed. An immature kingdom, doomed to fall long before the dawning of its apex, eventually emerged near the fringes of the forest. No trace of any former civilization exists today; eroded by granules in time’s eternal hourglass, the fallen foundations upon which the kingdom was carried have since been reclaimed by nature on the grounds of a verdant verdict.

The king that formerly ruled this bygone state, a title he bore by noble bloodline alone, barricaded himself behind a threatening façade that expended the full advantage of his fortunate status and faithful personnel. In truth, he made an ungainly retreat from any encounter that threatened to overshadow him. If one were to strip away the menacing countenance that the king masqueraded in, the presence of selfishness in the company of cowardice would become clear. Though not corrupt he was of detestable character, often subjecting his closest kin to the brunt of his frustrations and paranoia.

As the king constantly validated the enforcement of his outlandish arguments from the safety of his stature, few suffered more wear than his only daughter. The princess of the kingdom, tender with innocence, was restricted from the outside world. Confined to the halls of her father’s castle, she caressed the texture of velvet in lieu of grass. The corridors were her footpaths and the banister balusters were her orchard rows. Though sensible for her age, childlike curiosity still enamored her; she frequented the castle’s wide windowsills on tiptoe with her eyes just barely clearing the lofty ledges.

Withheld from the world, very few living beyond castle grounds even knew that the princess existed. The king welcomed this misconception as another excuse to expand the void between himself and his daughter, much to her misery. He denied her from the start and complained that he was without a male heir to prolong his legacy; she could never be a son to him and this made her lower than a pawn in his close-fit mind. Their interactions were scarce and one-sided. The king used his daughter much as one would use a tool; normally she was left with an attendant or ignored altogether, but when visitors of merit were imminent, the princess would be crammed into rigid clothing that numbed her extremities for the sole sake of aesthetic presentation.

There was little that the king cared about aside from self-preservation. His distrust for even seasoned servants was boundless and he seldom left the castle. He alleged that there was always a blade that longed to imbibe his blood, or a regicidal plot being pondered in the depths of a slummy backstreet. The king was especially wary of food and drink – anything palatable served as the perfect basin for the collection of poisons, rendered undetectable amidst culinary additives. Be it a mere portion or a succulent feast, food-tasters and cupbearers were a guaranteed presence when it came to his diet.

Anxiety strung up the king on erratic puppet strings. Such unrest was the parent of susceptibility, a foundation that was altogether fit to support an unhealthy affinity for superstition. The herald of the court, tasked with creating a coat of arms for the newborn kingdom, one day inadvertently irritated this sickness when he proposed his final design to the king. The insignia, etched in fibrous parchment, illustrated a vermillion-streaked hart with half-moon hooves and a mane of twirling tresses that spired about a single antler.

Having never seen an animal like this before, the king demanded an explanation despite his amazement. Standing rigid with respect the herald claimed that the creature depicted the likeness of a kirin, an esoteric entity that was rumored to have been sighted on expeditions routing deep into the nearby forest. As the herald paused to confirm that this description was not sufficient, he then proceeded to proclaim that kirin are thought to play host to an array of curative capacities. Among these abilities he cited their pronged horns as potent purifiers with the ability to promptly banish deadly substances from a surrounding venue.

When he heard of the preventative powers that these creatures supposedly possessed, the king, in all his infested wisdom, ordered for the culling of a kirin’s antler so that he may become immune to toxicants borne by both consumables and conspiracy. With disjointed vigor he added impatiently that only he himself was suited to carrying a crown so upright with dignity. But the herald, taken aback by his superior’s sudden yet predictable outburst, was quick to append that kirin could not be hunted by normal means.

From the apocryphal excerpts of unverified folklore emerged only one approach that claimed to be capable of yielding a kirin’s company; the assistance of a young woman was the sole requirement, so long as she was pure-hearted and virtuous. Though some ambiguity resided in what passed for such prerequisites, the credence of this method aligned with the idea that kirin were drawn to the minds of maidens unfettered by wicked intent. The herald detailed all of these aspects, and though he applied no small amount of emphasis on the questionability of the sources that supported these accounts, the king considered every specification to be the undisputed truth.

And so it was with haste that the princess was ushered from the castle with an attendant in tow to be managed as a living lure. What such a capricious gesture meant she herself knew not, but even as the sun’s corona gathered against her temples and ventilated her spirit, the liberated princess captured alongside balmy breezes the scent of something gone awry. She was nevertheless corralled as a lamb might be in the custody of a clumsy shepherd, and they journeyed into the forest on the unusual edict of mushroom picking.

The attendant thereafter kept his distance from the princess for fear of delaying any potential kirin sightings; he had been told to anticipate assistance from a handful of troops that were instructed to shadow their woodland voyage. The princess paid the attendant no mind as she timidly traveled a sparse pathway, eagerly skimming to contain this exotic chapter of her existence in unspoken awe. How curious that the mortar of this mansion was cloven into rows that felt like wrinkled tabletops, illuminated from overhead by a lattice of gossamer green skylights. There was not a dusty cut of concrete to be found in the marvelous masonry that the princess beheld. The mail of sapling soldiers, gilded with gloss, brought her comfort that was neither familiar nor foreign.

Though the apprehensive attendant scoured for auxiliary aid with uneasy eyes, he could find no respite from the strain of his errand. His distance from the princess grew in response to the concern he amassed for himself. In his careless comportment, the attendant failed to regard the curious princess as she was gradually claimed by the dense underwood. When at last arose the realization that he was a chaperone to nothing aside from leaf-litter and sod, postponed panic quickly surmounted in deep creases against his paling face.

Oblivious to the treacherous tenants that occupy the wilderness, the princess wandered the forest with little fear to restrain her. The dim light of dusk now loomed in every quarter and she wondered why no one bothered to ignite the candelabrums that must surely be nestled away somewhere in this peculiar residence. Soon the woods grew very dark and still there was not a single luminous source to guide her. A fortress this vast was guaranteed to have inhabitants; having long forgotten of her attendant and their mushroom-picking mission, the princess resolved that she would presently find the owner of this manor.

With only the moon to shine on her surroundings, the princess stumbled about unaware of the grave peril that her quest posed. It wasn’t long before the howl of a direwolf announced the presence of a nearby pack. The princess, believing this sound to be a variety of fanfare, rejoiced with naïve delight. In reference to her isolated life roaming solely her father’s castle, she knew that such sounds foreshadowed only individuals of immense authority; it was this unfortunate assumption that sent the princess in the direction of the howl.

The wolf-call brought her to a small clearing that brimmed with shadows. She imagined that soon she would achieve an audience with an important lord or lady. Advancing across the clearing, a half-buried root caught her ankle and she tripped into the loamy embrace that waited below. Her outstretched arms broke the fall so that she knelt prone in the grass, disoriented by the wayward shadows that now appeared to throw themselves about the vicinity. Reclining to regain herself, the princess briefly spotted movement from a nearby thicket just before the umbrous being it concealed burst forth.

An abundance of vicious animals stalk the Silva Forest. Savage tooth and mortal claw are the tools of trade that yield the cruelest kingpins. The violent declare absolute sovereignty until otherwise challenged and the vulnerable plead with those victorious for refuge as their serfs. Sagacity is delivered in cutthroat blows that result in didactic lessons the recipient may or may not survive to appreciate. But in defiance of this brutal reality merciful sympathy endures, a dim light in a dark land.

The princess found herself bowing before the feet of what she could only construe to be the king of this court. Only royal paraphernalia that the princess had noted in the castle such as flags and badges portrayed figures even remotely comparable to his. Even in the meager moonlight, he was brilliant. The king was cloaked in a mantle of vivid vermillion that was hemmed with a lovely marble trim. The brink of his coattails surged with the undulations of a large, plumed tassel. His shoes were shiny with varnish, although the princess found his requirement for four to be very silly along with his unusual posture. Finally there was his ivory crown. This was unlike any sort of circlet or coronet that the princess had ever seen; its apices were uneven, and stranger still was the way it vaulted in an arc like the roof of a grand doorway.

The kirin looked as if he was radiating with mist like a sacred thurible. The garland about his neck blazed like a beacon in the night. He slowly dipped his regal head before the princess as if to confer a knight’s accolade with his single antler. She was at that moment replete with renewed enchantment. Not only this, but something new as well - a profound sense of acceptance that she had never before experienced. All aspects of her former life were eclipsed by the kirin’s nearly otherworldly shadow. As he safeguarded the princess like a sentinel, they made their way through the darkness unhindered.

Whenever the princess was harassed by hunger, the kirin directing her to secret corners of the forest that overflowed with edible seeds and fruits. Whenever thirst threatened to wither her throat, they would soon come across unsullied springs. There was one pool in particular that they frequented, a chalice of clear water that was particularly delicious. Small white lilies flanked the banks of this pool and the princess would occupy herself for hours as she wove chains from their blossoms with the kirin kneeling close by as if regarding her handiwork. Sometimes she would wear these flower crowns up until they inevitably fell apart. In time, the princess came to fancy herself a royal lady of the forest sanctioned by the crown of the kirin.

On infrequent occasions, usually when the princess was collecting food or water, the kirin would momentarily recede into the surrounding wood. She interpreted this to be a portrayal of his vigilance and would always wait patiently in the brief minutes before his reappearance. One such occasion left the princess alone near the pool with the white lilies. Commotion from the coppice beckoned her concern away from the ashen blooms that she tangled between her fingertips – she thought it sounded much like the tolling of a bell in an empty tower.

Soon the peals were powerful enough to pierce through the glade where the princess lay recumbent. The dread that then permeated her face became a glassy portrait against the lurid plane of the pool. She watched tautly as muddled knights bearing polearms marched forth into the clearing. The clangor came from the links of chainmail tucked away between their familiar tunics. The princess did not stir from her spot and when the detachment was upon her, the paladin that bore the most prestigious armor accosted her wrist in the icy grip of his gauntlet.

He drew his dagger and steadied the edge. The princess gaped skyward in an empty scream. But before the blade was allowed to bite, a vermillion blaze intervened so immediately that the paladin reeled and released the princess from the snare of his grasp. The kirin stood athwart between the princess and the opposing circle - only this had been the long-awaited contingency that the armed assembly had counted on from the very beginning.

Pikes bore down in a collective formation like the teeth of a greedy carnivore, plunging deeply between the kirin’s velvet flesh. A wealth of ruby carbuncles escaped from the lining of his hide. Bloody banners trailed his body and saturated the threads of his lustrous coat. The kirin made no sound and neither did the princess, though she tightly wove her fingers betwixt her tresses and her knuckles went white along with her countenance. Barbaric battle cries rang deafeningly from the ruthless knights.

And though the kirin held his ground far longer than any living creature should be capable of withstanding, his knees finally crippled beneath the wounds of his body. In a final demonstration of sacrilege, the painted paladin produced a serrated blade that he used to sever asunder the king’s crescent-shaped crown. With no further business to attend to, the knights left in a raucous procession with the ivory antler hanging high from a makeshift standard.

The princess was paralyzed with grief. It wasn’t long before she overflowed with watery cataracts that cascaded thickly down the gullies of her sunken face. She approached the kirin on knees that sifted through the soil. Cradling his heavy head, she peered into his extinguished eyes and wept warmly against his silken cheek. The rolling folds of his mantle dried her tears long enough to give her intermittent vision, and she watched as his dark blood filled the sunlit pool by which they had shared so many pleasant memories together. He was the rightful king of this land and, more importantly to the princess, the surrogate father that had nurtured her and protected her to the point where he had readily relinquished his life in an effort to see her unharmed.

Shielding her eyes from the pool with one hand, she could then distinguished dry baubles with the consistency of thin paper against her brow. Alabaster petals fluttered away to fleck the kirin’s mane, and she realized that she still wore a crown of lilies. With shivering hands she lifted the chain of flowers from her head and, as dozens of the shriveled florets twirled gracefully into the darkening pool, she placed it between the kirin’s ears.

Not much is known about what happened to the princess who was left to perish in the forest alongside the kirin that had protected her. Many believe that she did indeed die beside the body of her king. Those with a more optimistic outlook suggest that the princess herself was transformed into a kirin by the power of the dark pool, now host to a ballet of lacy white lilies brought back to life by martyred blood. Consensus tends to reside exclusively in the fate of the kingdom that was abandoned by the princess in advance; the kirin’s horn was found to have disintegrated upon its delivery to the king and unending misfortunes followed soon after.

Whatever the truth may be, those well traveled enough to know that the Caliginous Pool exists somewhere in the Silva Forest may entertain the belief that whatever strange properties reside within are a result of blood from a kirin. The bright bride of the sky illuminates the vital sanguine that has settled amidst the sand, while the shining priest of the dark forest casts a leaden glow upon the wounds of the sacrificial cistern with just enough light to make the waters appear cleansed.
"No tree, it is said, can grow to heaven unless its roots reach down to hell" - C. G. Jung Image
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