Orla

This story holds a humble beginning: a Fae named Orla, her mate Ulrik, and a tiny lair in the wild, winding Woods. For a time, it was good. The two had struck out together not long ago, an unlikely pairing to say the least. They were young. Through their travels the loping Tundra's ever cheerful demeanor put her worries at ease. The whole world lay open before them, full of promise and wonder. Their lair was filled with merriment and warmth, and above all, laughter.

Until one evening, when something went terribly wrong.

After the eye of The Shadowbinder fell upon Ulrik and her first clutch of eggs along with him, small Orla began to wither. The empty nest and the cold, resonant chambers became too much to bear. She missed the warmth of his fur beneath her little feet. She missed riding high on his shoulder. She missed his laughter; the way he would sweep her worries away and fill her days with meaning. She lay in the dark for days, bereaved and utterly silent. Outside, the cold wind loosened autumn leaves.

As Fall marched forward, she remained alone in the desolated caverns. Her thin, monotone voice filled the night with pleading whispers and many maple leaves. The sound of her echoes crescendoed as it sprung off the cave walls. In the dark of the night, when the moon was blacked out overhead, even the glowshrooms at the mouth of the cave seemed dim. Dropping leaves by the clawful, her pleading became more and more desperate, and something broke way. Her voice cracked forth from her tiny body in a wretched shriek. She was blinded by a bright light with no source. Shadows were thrown high up the cave wall in shades of deep purple and brilliant blue. The light wound its way up through her chest. It filled her eyes and lit her wings and sparked in each word that fell, repeating, repeating, stuck, repeating from her lips. Embers filled her voice.

As quickly as it came, the strange magic faded in a burst of static sound.
Spent and exhausted, she crumpled back atop her tiny hoard of bone fragments, bloodied feathers and gold. Orla had collected much in her loneliness, but overnight, the story goes, a new collection began: Weary wayfarers through the wood, misfits and oddities, lost hatchlings and abandoned eggs. They found their way, one by one, two by two, from every reach. They came to the wood like butterflies, migrating to a home they'd never seen before and without any idea how they knew where it lay. Her clan rose from the ashes, came again, new into the world and stronger than before. She brought them together, cold and alone, and warmed their bones in the Wispwillow Grove, where the brambles ebbed and the flora glowed.
She brought them home.

From nothingness, she stitched them together and filled the emptiness around her with good deeds, bearing Clan Melori aloft on her tiny shoulders. She looks upon her growing clan with pride in her tiny chest and a fluttering in her heart.
To this day, the glowing light has never left her.