Post by Queen Merla, the Sun-Blessed on Apr 22, 2020 18:19:08 GMT
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Before the ’Wilds
Before the ’Wilds
The denizens of Daring Heights have grown increasingly familiar with the music of the fae-bard – light of foot, sunny smile, heart on her sleeve, and a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. But who was she before, this daughter of the Feywild? She claims to have always been in the Summer Court to any who ask, but can she really be a fey? Or is she something else?
Before she was Sheryl, the Fae-Touched, before Titania adopted her into her Court, our Daughter of Summer was known as Merla Copperkettle.
The Copperkettles are a family of pottery makers. Merla, along with her siblings – older sister Yoara, older brother Berton, and younger sister Eina – lived in the same rolling valley for generations. The warmth of their home went beyond the heat of the kiln. There was love there, a light as is typical of all halfling homes. Merla was surrounded by family all the time – not just her mother, Gelni, and her father, Ulvon, and siblings, but her cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, great-grandparents, second-cousin-three-times-removed – the entire clan.
Merla has always been free spirited, rarely heeding the warnings of the Elders of her family, though she loved hearing the stories they told that always accompanied the cautions. She would listen with rapt attention to these tales, more interested in the magic and songs of the stories, in the way feelings of love connected those in the tales, even if they ended in tragedy. Merla would often be seen out in the orchards, fields, or by the forest for hours, reenacting these tales of love, woe, heroism and daring, sometimes with the other halfling children, other times by herself. Gelni would always be watching as her daughter’s little feet carried her away on these childhood adventures.
“Our little bird, tiny feet of whimsy, flying off on another adventure.”
One day, after a long and harrowing journey through the fields and a heroic endeavour to rescue the catfolk of Pawpurton, Merla was by herself, the other children called back to their homes.
Over the boughs of the treetops past the little hill she was dancing upon in celebration with the Price of Cats, came the most beautiful song she had ever heard. At first she thought it was her sister, Yoara, calling to her to come home and help with supper. But the song and the voice, it sounded too beautiful to be her sister’s. It was older, much much older...
“Mama! Mama!” Merla said excitedly as she ran up to her mother’s embrace that evening. “Mama, you will never guess what happened today! I heard the most beautiful bird singing from the forest. It was so beautiful, the wind seemed to carry the song. Oh how I wish I could sing like that!” She did a little pirouette. “La-a la, la-a la, la la la-a la-la!”
Gelni looked at her husband, a little crease forming between her brows. She turned back to her daughter, grasping Merla’s hands in an attempt to hold her still for one moment.
“Merla, listen to me, and listen very well you hear?” She crouched down and Merla’s bright, beautiful blue eyes made Gelni’s rich brown tinge with tears in the corners. “You do not follow that voice, you hear? I forbid– Listen to me!”
Gelni’s hands cupped the sides of her daughter’s face as Merla had started humming the song again. She leaned in very close, their noses nearly touching. Gelni exhaled in an attempt to calm her racing heart.
“Promise me… Promise me you won’t follow that voice.”
“Why?” Merla asked, wide eyed. She did not understand why her mother was suddenly so scared.
“Because,” came her father’s warm baritone voice from behind her. He came over and knelt down beside the child, ruffling her hair with a grin on his face. “Your mother worries. But she loves you Merla, just as she loves Yoara, Burton and Eina.” He looks at his wife and they share a look that Merla, a child of only five years, does not quite understand. “We are a family. We Copperkettles are bearers of the kiln flame. That means you,” he boops her on her nose, which elicits a little giggle from his daughter banishing the uncertainty from Merla’s face, “have a tradition to uphold with your sisters and brother.”
“Okay Papa.”
“That’s a good girl. Now go set the table, supper is nearly ready.”
“Yaaaaay!!” she screams in enthusiasm and dashes off. “I want the butterfly spoon today!”
“We have to keep her safe, Ulvon,” Gelni says quietly, but Ulvon hears her.
“Aye,” he says and looks at his wife. “We will. We will.”
He pulls her close and she buries her face into his shoulder.
But our mischievous child would still find ways to sneak away from the watchful eye of her parents. Merla would go to that little hill to play, but mostly to listen. Wishing, longing to hear that song again. She would hear it, or think she heard it, but not as clear as that first day.
Until one eve, on the cusp of twilight when all was silent in their home, Gelni and Ulvon’s watchful eyes were gazing elsewhere.
Little Merla had been inside all day, helping her mother with preparing the clay they use to make their wares when all she wanted was to go outside and play. Gelni and Ulvon were speaking with the Elders, whilst Yoara and Berton were preparing dinner and watching Eina. Merla was supposed to be helping them but she feigned an upset tummy so she could sneak outside.
Creeping out of her room on those light feet of hers, Merla climbed out of her bedroom window and made her way over to the hill. She reached it just as the sun started to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery oranges, pinks and purples of twilight.
She started with one of her favourite dances from Greengrass then moved on to reenacting the story of the Seven Ravens. Once that tale was told, Merla started singing some of her favourite songs, dancing along to the words. As she danced and played, she did not notice the sun seemed to hang in the sky like it did not want to set. Only the breeze bending the long grass or catching in her hair or tugging at her little skirts would make Merla think about how much time should have passed. But she would twirl and wave her hand and Merla would not care that time seemingly stood still.
As she finished her last song, her child’s voice strained but her heart full from the constant singing, Merla thought maybe she should go home.
Mama might be worried.
It was at that moment when she heard it. Capturing her attention, unmistakable, the same ethereal and otherworldly voice calling to her.
Aimo aimo
nee-de lushe
Noina miria
enderu plotea
fotomi
Moie vea produshka
fetra produshka
Enchanted, compelled to follow, Merla’s tiny feet took her forward, into the darkening forest.
She climbed over fallen trees, across streams, through bushes that scratched and left burrs on her clothes, and still the voice sang to her. At times she felt like her feet weren’t even touching the ground, that she was carried by the wind over the most dangerous crossings. All Merla knew was she felt compelled to find that voice so she kept moving forward. It didn’t matter that her feet were sore, that she had little cuts on her legs, arms and cheeks. That voice was singing to her and she had to find it.