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Storywriting Contest Announcement:


Evergreen Festival


The first annual Evergreen Festival will be held June 5th. We will now begin accepting stories for the storytelling contest. Please submit all stories by June 5th for consideration. Winners will be selected on the basis of creativity and originality. First, second and third place prizes will be awarded. Please follow the following rules to submit your story.

* Stories should have good grammar and punctuation, including multiple paragraphs.
* Stories should be at least 500 words, no more than 3000.
* Only one submittal per person ((character)).
* Only original stories will be accepted.
* Please send you submissions to Viola Thistle via a private message. Feel free to also post your stories beneath this message.

((German and English stories will be accepted!))

1st Place Prize: 3 Silver Ingots
2nd Place Prize: 2 Silver Ingots
3rd Place Prize: 1 Silver Ingot

Submitted By: Drathe

The axe head bit into the stump of a tree with a crack and stuck. Releasing his grip on the tool, Wrathe place his hands on his lower back and stood up right, easing the tennsion from his tired muscles. It was hard work lumering and the pay was not befitting such effort. But pay it was and at least the lumberjack could work outdoors with out the constant intrusion of someone looking over his shoulder. The summer’s day was comming to an end as to was the days work. Rubbing the sweat and sap from his face, the lumberjack walked to a patch of golden light shining through the newly felled clearing. It warmed with golden glow a part of the forest floor long forgotton by the memory of the sun.
He sat his weary frame in front of a felled tree and leand back, its corse bark prickling his hot bare skin. Looking around the clearing where he sat, the beatuy of his surroundings soothed him. Wood chips bright with fresh tanns blended with the darker hues of the forest floor as splashes of bright green and speckles of light added boldness to the backdrop of shaded tree trunks. His mind started to wonder over times passed and thoughts never fully concluded.

He had always thought of him self as a bit of a loner, a wandering soul as many of the people who knew him had referd to his natrue affectionatly. Even his parants had named him after a restles spirit. Altho he had got on well with many a man and beast, the lumberer had never quite felt a deeper connection with any of them. They were more people to say hello to and traded the odd favour with as opposed to being true friends, just as with his brother Drathe. They had both played together and looked out for one another as they grew, but Wrathe had never felt a bond with his own blood like that of what he saw and persieved others to. Not long after his brother had come of age, he met a lady and married, soon after moveing away. That was the last he had seen of his brother. He missed their talks of tales and storys together, especialy the ones about angles. Both Wrathe and Drathe would sit in the garden as children, their father telling them of angles and their deeds. At their young age both boys were keen to believe, absorbing and adding their own beauty to their fathers tales. After thier mothers death from lung blite, Conavar, the boys father would tell and talk no more of angles. Both the brothers had taken sadly to this but Wraith more so. He had so wanted to believe in their ethrial beauty and noble natures. How he had layed in bed at night wishing for an angle to watch over him, to see and to toutch. Strange thing was he was not religiouse, nor ever realy sought to believe in gods or the like.

A crack from a stick flinched Wrathe from his thoughts. Looking round to the noise, a fox darted away into the woods leaving only the doughting memory that the beast was ever there. He shook his head with a chuckle and made him self comfortable once more.
'Best be heading back soon.' He softly told him self. Rubbing his face he leaned his head back onto the trunk and looked up to the sky, framed by the edges of green from the surrounding trees. Again his thoughts started to drift off into the infinatly deep blue of the sky.

Angelia, such a woman the like of which was rarley seen. She was easy to look at but by no means a woman of fairy tale beauty. Tho to look into her eyes of crustal blue would beg to differ. Her temprement was kind, gentle to such a degree that Wrathe could never remember ever seeing her angry. He had first seen her at the village festival. She had newly moved to the settlement alone. Her parents had, or so she had only ever willing spoken of once, left her alone to the world as a babe. She would never talk of her upbrining nor how she had made her way through her twenty years of life. This did not matter to the lumberjack, after all Angelia was like a blessing from the gods, even her name was angelic. Every morning religiously she would make a circlet out of long grass that grew by their cabbin, and tied it into her hair. Tho fashonable with few of the younger girls in the village, it was not so for women of Angelias age. Many a time Wrathe had asked her why she did so, even teased her about it. But her reply was always the same. 'I am your angel' she would say with a smile and that look of love. Often had had wonderd if the gods, be there such things would ask of him oneday, a deed as payment for the gift of such a woman in his life.

The woodsmans mind slipped briefly back into reality, his jaw starting to ache form holding a smile.
'Ah but she be the finest woman of this earth' he wisperd to him self through silent lips. He smiled again as thoughts of Angelia softly beconed him back. She was everything to the woodsman, a lover, a friend and so much more. She was always there when he needed her, some times supprisingly so. He had slipped with his axe once out alone in the woods behind thier cabbin. The blade altho had not cut deep, had sliced at an angle accross his leg. Blood flowed from the wound like port from an open bottle. A surge of pannic had swpet through his vains adding to the haste of the blood flow. Holding his leg tight he look around for his shirt to tornicay the wound, there was no shirt but in its place was Angelia, she had been out picking muchrooms and had heard his yelp of pain. She tended his wound with skillful ease and helped him back to their cabbin. The one thing that had always stuck in his mind about that day was, he never seen any mushrooms, nor a basket or bag to fetch them with, tho he guessed they had probably been left in the woods in her haste to reach him.

His mind floated back into the present. With a slight groan the woodsman hauld himself up and walked over to his axe and shirt. Donning the workstained garment he took up his axe with a well leaverd tug and lifted it up to rest on his shoulder. The walk through the woods to the main track was short, the hardend well traved track made for a more comfortable walk than the untaimed forest floor. Wrathe was not long from home and the edge of the forest was in sight, the sky now a Turkish kings delight of early evening pinks and purples.
'Hello there scruff' came a cocky voice to right. Starteld, he looked to find a tall man, broad in shoulder and thick set for his height, leaning against a tree. His hand brandished a well-used short sword, as well as a purple bruise around one eye. It was Khalim Stone, a man long disliked by Wrathe for his respectless attitutde and behaviour to many of the village. Not to mention their braul the other night, in which Kahlime was bested and awarded his black eye to remind him as such for the next week or two.
'Hello to you Kahlime,' Replyed Wrathe. 'What do I owe the unfortunate pleasure of meeting you here.' The woodsman lowerd his axe to rest by his leg.
'Well… I thought I would come and meet you after work, and seeing how you did give me this yestereve outside the tavern.' He pointed to his eye. 'Thought it only fair to teach bastards like you that noone, noone! gets the better of me!' His voice raised slightly with anger as to did his sword and the black-eyed man advanced slowly towards the woodsman.
Just as Wrathe began to lift his axe, he felt a hollow thunk accross his back, as hand reach from behind snatching away his axe.
His winded lungs refused to take in air only relese it. The haze of confusion came over the lumberjack.
Khalime with a grin surged forward and with a murderouse cut slashed out, Wrathe instinctivly threw his arm up and out to meet the blade. As luck would have it his arm caught the flat of the sword, as he droped to one knee and rolled. Now in his sights were two men as his lungs took their fill of fresh breath. Khalime and another unknown to Wrathe. He stood short and thin set, his sloping shoulders making him look all the more feeble wielding Wrathe’s lumber axe.

'Get him Kamrak,' shouted Khalime pointing his sword at the lumberjack. Nervouisly Kamrak looked at Wrathe then back at Khalime, he licked his dry lips and stood where he was.
'You get over there you bag of horse turd and run that bastard through!' screamed the taller man, raising his sword to the sweating Kamrak. The axe man flinched and hesitantly started towards Wrathe.
The woodsman stared into the face of the approaching Kamrack as he stood from his crouch.
'If you think you can walk away alive Kamrak, you are mistaken. You may kill me but make damn sure you know this. I will take you screaming with me’ Wrathes voice showed a hint of anger and he took a step forward challenging the axe mans advance. 'Do you want to die for another mans wrong, another mans false pride?'
Kamrack paused in his advance, halfway between the two men. Taking a worried look at Wrathes confident stance then at the cumbersom axe in his trembling hands, he tunred to look at Khalime, who jestured again with his sword his face red with anger.
The axe man looked back to Wrathe then bolted to the right into the woods, dropping the axe where he once stood. Both remaining men looked at the axe, then at each other, then lunged for the weapon.
Khalime the taller of the two men slashed his sword down to bear on the axe and Wrathes out streached hands. It missed the woodmans hand by a hairs bredth, and with a ching slid from the axe head.
Wrathe lashed out with his fist catching Khalime square on the jaw, the blow unbalancing the outstreached swordsman. Swiftly he struck out again, this time his fist smashing into Khalimes nose. Blood burst across his hand.
Khalime collapsed to the floor letting go of his sword to hold his face. Wrathe picked up his axe and stood, he kicked the sword out of reach of the bleeding man.
'Will you ever learn.' Spoke Wrathe angrily. 'I dought it, its in your breeding to be stupid, full of false pride.' With that Wrathe walked away rubbing his fist.

'Stupid oaf of a man.' spoke Wrathe aloud shaking his head. He spun on his heels as the sound of a roar eruped from behind him. A flash of fire burned through his chest as a wall of force knocked him from his feet. He slammed hard on his back. Dazed and winded he looked up into the bleeding face Khalime.
'You weak bastard.' shouted Khalime. 'You should had done me through, now you won’t be messing with me again.' The broken nosed man punched Wrathe in the face, before standing and running. His hurried path through the forest growing quieter as he fled.

Wraithe made to stand but a fresh talon of fire surged through his chest. He winced as he lay back down and lifted his head to look. The hilt of a short sword was struting out of his chest. Pannic surged through his vains like a cold ice. He could feel the galloping beat of his heart inside his lung, pulsing against the sword blade. He groaned and layed his head to rest on the floor. A choke quickly grew in his throat, he gently cought and spat. Bright red frothy blood ran over his lips and down the side of his mouth.
‘Son of a whore’ He groand as he eased him self onto his wounded side. Blood almost tricked from his throat now into his mouth, the tickleing of which made him retch, and with each convulsion a fresh sering hot pain in his chest.
His eyes flared with a blinding light, closing them he spat again, as blood filled his mouth.
‘Oh the gods… watch over me, I don’t want to… die alone.’ He wisperd through bloody lips.
‘You are not alone.’ Called a calm voice.
‘I am.' He gurgeld, before spitting out more the metalic tasting liquid. ‘I am, and so…’ He spat again. ‘Will my love be, left widowed and… alone.’
He moved his arms up and curled his hands around the sword hilt, ready to pull out the foregin object from his body.
‘Don’t!’ Came the calm voice sternly.
He felt his hands being uncurled from the weapon as another stroked his brow reasuringly.
He cought and splutterd, blood ran out of his mouth and nose.
‘You stupid man, what have you done to your self now.’ The voice was familiar, so familiar.
Wrathe opend his eyes and tunred his head to the voice. Deep crystal blue eyes looked back at him. It was Angelia.
‘But how... why are you here,’ He gurgeld supprised to see her.
‘I came out to meet you from work, I saw you luying on the floor.’ Tears started to well up in her eyes as her calm voice started to break.

Placing an arm around his back she halled him onto her kneeling lap, resting his head against her breast. She held him close as she rocked gently back and fourth. Tears rolled from her eyes and took flight from her cheeks like preciouse stones.
Altho skillid in healing, she knew there was nothing much to be done for a lung as badly puncturd as her loves. Nothing except wait for the bond of life to ebb away, releasing its grip on a soul.
‘I... love you Angel, there never was… a word...’ His speech was slowing and starting to sler. ‘With enough passion… or meaning to express… my hearts feeling for you.’
He twitched as he coughed up a throaty gargle, the blood splatering over Angelias cotton top of blue.
She stroked his bloody face, crimson staining her pale skin, before leaning down to kiss his lips.
‘Please don’t leave me.’ She sobbed and pulled him tighter to her chest.

As he lay there, all sounds faded away, the pain dulled. He could no longer feel Angelia holding him. The silence and darkness was infinatly everything and nothing.
‘Am I alone’ Wrathe called out, his words echoing off into the distance.
‘No’ came a womans voice followd by a blinding flash of light.
The lumberjack coverd his eyes as the heat of the flash warmed his skin briefly.
Oppening them again. He was back on the forest path, his head still resing on the warm breast of woman, the sword still in its place strutting from his chest, only, the sceen was silent.
There was no breeze, no bird song, no life.
‘You were never alone Wathe.’ Continued the voice. ‘Even as a child, I was there. Hearing your wispers late at night, wishing for the sight of an angel.’ She pasued for a moment. ‘You have had more than the sight of an angle, you have had the love and the toutch of one.’
The woodsman looked up just as he had done before into eyes of deep crystal blue, they almost glowed with brilliance. The womans face, her skin pale but so pure it almost radiated light, around her head a glowing band.
‘I always told you I was your angle.’ Smiled Angelia ‘ Now you will be one to.’

Submitted by a Stranger

Long ago in the eastern lands, where the sun is always up and sands are white and hot, two travellers - an old man and his little grandson - were walking home to their village, returning from a long journey.

They made a stop on their way, in a nearby town, replenished their supply of food and water, and bought a small donkey at the market to have him at their convenience during the rest of the way. They put all the bags they had on the donkey, and went along.

They exited the town and continued on their path.

In three days of walking through the deserts, they come across another small town. As they were walking down the main street, people laughed at them and shouted:
-Look at these strange and stupid people! They have a donkey, and yet they are walking all this way through the dry sands. If I was them, I would ride the donkey instead.
The travellers stopped and thought for a minute.
-Indeed, why do not we do just that? Go ahead, - said the old man, and put his grandson on the donkey.
They continued on - the boy was riding a donkey, and his grandfather walked beside him.

They exited the town and continued along their way.

Three more days, and they entered yet another town. The people there, as they saw the strangers, started to yell:
-Look at that obnoxious and rude lad! He is young and full of energy, but yet he is riding a donkley and making the old man walk! No respect for age whatsoever.
Hearing these words, the boy jumped off the donkey, and offered his grandfather to sit. They decided it would be more fair, and went along in that manner - the old man riding a donkey, and the boy running beside him.

Three days and three nights in the journey went by like three hours. Another town appeared on the horizon. As the strangers entered the streets, people yelled as they passed:
-Look at that selfish and ignorant old man! He is relaxing on his donkey, and making that poor little child run along.
Our travellers did not know what to do, and the old man got off the donkey, as they slowly walked away from the main street.
A local trader stopped them with laughter:
-Ha-ha, I know how to solve your problem, you silly men. Why don't you simply both get on the donkey, and safely ride through your way home?
Old man and a boy did just that and continued on.

Before they reached their village, the donkey was dead.

Submitted by Damien


The morning is warm, kind, the beginning of a sunny day. A soft, warm late summer breeze, the tweeting of birds, just a few bright clouds in a perfect blue sky, the soft red glow of the reborn sun about to rise out of the waters - a wonderful morning, but still, the beginning of a bad day.
Khorlim waits. Waits for the sun to rise fully, waits for the things that will happen. He waits, standing still on his place, like he did since the evening - almost without moving.
He remembers, calls the past happenings back into his mind. Remembers the day when it all happened.

It was two days ago, on a rainy summer afternoon. He came back from the hunt with his father, a successful hunt, and the old man still was the better archer. No man could top his father with a bow, not even in his old days - the old man's hands trembled so much that he was almost unable to light his pipe in the evening - but still, his arrows never missed. And still, with his seventy years of age, he walked without any stick, and he still went on the hunt.
As always when they went hunting, they brought sacrifices with them : some berries and fruits, and a belt of flowers, as present for the spirits of the forest and to show their respect to the forest's lord. As usual, his father threw the fruits and the flowers into a small lake. As usual, they asked for protection and guidance on the hunt, for permission to take life for the sake of their own survival. As usual, his father never missed any shot. And as usual, his father was talking all the way back from the hunt. Not only to Khorlim, but he talked with the forest, or the forest lord sometimes, as if talking to an old, invisible friend, thanking for the good hunt.
Khorlim always remembered his father talking this way when they returned from hunting. He told jokes, told news from the village. And as usual, he said that the forest had its own spirit, its own life. And that this spirit, the lord of the forest, may sometimes be seen by mortal eyes - as a man sometimes, dressed in leaves, sitting by a spring or between the bushes, quickly disappearing when human steps approach, never leaving a single trace. Khorlim liked this story.
When they approached at their little cottage on the edge of the village, his sister already waited nervously.
She was seventeen years old, quite pretty though, and would soon marry Gerome, the son of the carpenter. Gerome was an intelligent person, skilled in his handcraft, and always about to tell a joke.
"Have you heard it ?" she asked, as she ran towards them. "Strangers are in town. Weird strangers. They say, they are not human..." His father raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
They worked through the whole late afternoon and early evening, skinning the rabbits and the deer, and preparing the meat with salt, cutting it into stripes so it could be hanged out to dry in the morning. The whole time, his sister told the rumors she heard about these strangers. She herself had not seen them, since they arrived in the late morning, rented all rooms in the tavern, and never came out since. "And they payed old Sam with a golden coin ! He bit on it three times, could not believe that they said he should keep the change ! Milly said, there was something wrong with these strangers, said they were tall and almost thin, and speaking as few as Khorlim... By the way, what do you think of Milly, Khorlim ?"
Khorlim snorted, enough sign for his sister to stop. The most men in his age were already married, he was thirty-four years old. In the evenings he often read in one of his fathers old books, and sometimes drank a beer in the tavern, with Gerome and other men from the village. Or he played the harp, sometimes while his father told one of the old stories. Khorlim was a good harp player, knowing to play every known melody and even made own ones.
This evening was, of course, a special evening. Strangers were there, as it seemed, rich strangers from far away. As his sister had put it - weird strangers. Normally, Sam charged seven copper coins for a room and a breakfast. These strangers rented all three rooms, and paied with a big golden coin - worth almost two hundred times more than the total. Khorlim knew that Sam would ask him to play the harp in the evening, as always when there were paying guests at the tavern. Not only that he enjoyed playing it, also people often started to dream when he played, even the most drunk man would stay silent until he finished - but he would also get all his drinks free these evenings - not that he ever drank much.
But this evening was strange.
When he arrived at the tavern, Khorlim saw that something was wrong. About ten men were standing outside the tavern, some with weapons - torches or forks. Sam stood in the entry doorway, his face red, shouting to the men outside.
"They are travellers, coming from far away. No monsters or sorcerers. Just strangers, and noble ones too, just remember their fine clothes. There is nothing you have to fear of them, and if i find out who talked this nonsense, i'll get the biggest club i can find and beat some reason into that nut's head ! Now go, move, right out of my sight !"
Then he nodded to Khorlim, as the men slowly walk away. "Not tonight. Some fool, already drunk, saw the elves and... no matter. But, go and tell your father to come here this evening, as quickly as possible. I have some surprise waiting for his old lazy bones."
With these words, Sam closed the door.
Half an hour later and still carrying the harp, Khorlim followed his father back to the tavern. Sam opened the door, waved them in.
"Go upstairs. Your old friend Jonnelaith wants to talk to you, he's waiting upstairs."
Khorlim took a seat near the fireside, while the old man went upstairs. Still carrying his harp with him, Khorlim starts to play, nothing else to do while waiting for his father to finish his business.
Some time later, Khorlim awoke by the sound of footsteps and laughter. The old man and three other persons came downstairs, talking and laughing. When Khorlim opened his eyes, he saw his father accompanied by two elves and a young woman. Of course Khorlim had heard about elves, not only from his father, who always claimed to have known many of them. And he never believed the rumors that came up by stupid people from time to time. Rumors that elves could curse everyone by simply looking at him, or that they could kill a man by whispering words into the wind... Of course, these rumors were pure nonsense - elves have a high culture and peaceful manners.
"Every child knows that," thought Khorlim.
"Here, this is my son, Khorlim Aeskandar," Says the old man, introducing him to the three others. "Khorlim, this is my old friend Jonnelaith, his brother Larennan, and this is Saleena, daughter of Warnhelm the Storyteller... They are on their way to the bard's feast in Samalkar, and they will also journey on to the meeting of Silhuennae, a kind of elven meeting of bards, that is held every thirty years..."
"One moment," Khorlim said, standing up and bowing towards the elves, stumbling as he sees a disturbing grin on the youn woman's face. "You don't think that i will go on that journey, just because you did that thirty years ago..."
The old man did not give any answer, just smiled the same way he always did when not allowing any discussion.
"Of course he will come with you in my place, Jonnelaith. I myself am too old for this... my time has almost come."
There was no reason to discuss anything, realized Khorlim in that moment. There would be no problems with the housework, since his sister and her fiance would take care of that - and he himself wanted to go. He always wanted to see Samalkar, and even more he wanted to see the elven town.
"I'll go, and tell the people the news. My son will become a far better bard than i ever was !"
With these words, the old man stepped outside the tavern.
That was when it happened.

Khorlim stands at the edge of the forest, fulfilling his duty, thinking. The ceremonial spear he leans on feels heavy, almost as heavy as his legs. He could have taken a seat, but he did not want to.
He never talked much, and he always tried to understand by himself before asking, as the old man told him. The same old man who raised him, who now lies in front of him, laid out on the litter, prepared for his last journey, in all honors an old bard has to expect.
A single stone had ended the old man's life. A stone that was thrown by a stupid, drunken man, who did not even mean to aim it at him. Thrown with the stupid words "Take this, dammn strangers." The drunken man who threw the stone was crying when he saw what happened, again and again saying that he only wanted to hit the door or one of the stupid elves.

The sun rises, and the light fog of the early day slowly vanishes. A single tear runs down Khorlim's face. A very bad day, indeed.
"Stupidity can be as deadly as a blade", says a voice from somewhere. Khorlim turns around, just to see a man clothed in leaves vanishing between the bushes.
The tavern door opens. The two elves step outside, followed by the yawning woman, slowly walking towards him. Other people come from their houses, the burial ceremony is about to begin.
Afterwards, Khorlim will leave the village. A journey is waiting - "Whole life is a journey", the old man often said. "Whole life is a journey, and death ist always a new beginning."

StoryTelling Winners

First Prize of 3 ingots goes to: Drathe
Second Prize of 2 ingots goes to: Damien
Third Prize of 1 ingot goes to: The Stranger

Please find me in town and I shall give you your prizes!! Congratulations and thank you for submitting a story!!

We will have future storytelling contests, so everyone else - start weaving your tales and sending them to me!!

Votes were cast by the Evergreen Halflings: Crosis, Hermie and Bumbol.

Congratulations to Drathe for winning and a special thanks to all whom took part. I hope if we ever do another contest in the future that more people should take part!

Hermie

T'is a great achievment for me to win this contest. I would like to thank you the judges and Viola for the actual running of a good contest I thought.

I would also like to thank my mother, father and nay to mention my brother, who tho I have not seen in many a moons did give me the inspiration for this textual master piece of fictional tale telling litriture.
I wish to also give praise to the maker of such a fine quill I did use for my work and to the stretcher of the parchment that did grace the ink from my pen.
I would just like you all to know how happy I am, and I hope to live a more full filling life and bring to others the joy that winning this competition has brought me. I ... I would like for my three ingots to be donated to the oprhanage, of lazy and bone-idle gutter snipes. In you I trust this Task good lady Viola.

This leaves me with only one more thing to say;
We read storys that caputre or imagination, the characters of such are often bigger, more beautiful, lead more full filling lives, do the things and always seem to survive the odds. How sometimes we read and wish to be like them... or even them, them sleves. But if you wrote your life now as the story, skipped all the mundane parts and read it back through. I think you will be supprised at just how much of a character you realy are.