The stories below are intended to be read aloud or alone. Read slowly as each song progresses. When you no longer have words to read, listen to the song tell its story.

A Frost Not Felt Before

Returning from its yearly southward flight with the hopeful spirit of a newly blooming spring beneath its wings, the fledgeling wren finds its forest home still frozen with the icy drowse of winter: a feeling unfamiliar to the wren. As it frantically flies through boughs and branches searching every known milestone in its memory for its woodland companions, the wren realizes it is now alone in the skeletal forest. In its final sorrowful thought before abandoning the land its known all its life and surrendering it to the winter, the wren remembers the tales of the ancient Owl living in the trunk of the very first Yew in the valley, which had now withered thin with age,

First Dusk (The Path of Serenity)

The valley is old. Older than any living creature within it can remember. There first was light and light pooled atop the Sun Tower: an illusive lamp of immeasurable height with the width of a thousand oaks. From this basin of light, the world was watered with life and the valley bloomed with its flora and fauna flourishing. The forest creatures too found peace and serenity here for many uncountable generations. The valley has seen many things born and many things die. It has seen ageless cycles of seasons and passed its wisdom down to the few willing to bear its burden.The valley speaks in whispers heard throughout the carry of time.

Bidden by the Ancient Owl (Icy Death Of Ugeleth)

In the hollow trunk of the first Yew in the valley, the wren finds Ugeleth: the ancient owl worn with age and tired from his many journeys. Ugeleth tells of his past ventures and deeds of greatness traveling the vastness of the wide worlds beyond all edges of any map, into the realm of the hidden earth. Saddened by his withered state, being unable to fulfill his primordial task, he speaks of a flower that has grown beneath the ground since the first light was blessed upon the world. It is now the duty of the lowly Wren, by the desperate plea of Ugeleth, to find this flower and dip the cup of its pedals into the water of light that sits atop the Sun Tower. It must now restore life to the valley and stave off the endless winter as Ugeleth has done for many centuries past. With the wren’s acceptance of this sacred task, Ugeleth draws his final breath and dissolves into dust.

Lost in the Boreal Mines

Flying further north than any Wren has flown before, it finally comes to the gaping mouth of the Boreal Mines. The Wren forsakes all cowardice and enters the glimmering halls, allured by the mystifying shimmer of the reflective stone. Soon, all its senses begin to deteriorate as it finds itself lost in a delirious trance - wandering seemingly endless labyrinthine tunnels of ice and cold rock. Every corner resembles the last, every wall appears identical. The icicles glow an ethereal turquoise and dance in the eyes of the Wren. His consciousness fades.
Suddenly, a noise resonates from deep within the caverns: a low rumbling thunderous roar that shakes the ground beneath him. He follows it down, down, down, further than he thought he could comprehend. He reaches an open chamber, wide like the world outside, but still resting beneath a mighty canopy of crystalline stalactites. In its center he sees a mighty form, larger than any beast above. Riddled with rage and rampaging through the caves, the Wren saw that its right eye was gleaming a strange glow. It soared up to the cavern ceiling and perched high above the creature, watching as it tore through the stone like grass. In its peril, the Wren heard a comforting whisper and began to sing along.

As the Wren sang, the beast was lulled to a soft and calm slumber. It laid itself down on the floor of the cavern and the Wren descended. In the beast’s glimmering eye, the Wren saw a shining crystal embedded in glass over the eye of the beast. With its needlepoint beak, the Wren plucked the stone from the giant’s eye. The beast awoke enlivened, feeling rejuvenated. It saw the Wren with the stone in its beak and lifted it in thanks. From the cavern floor, a host of tiny creatures emerged like pooling water: the Watersprouts.

The Watersprout Festival

It was a day of merrymaking like the Wren had never seen: songs that were sung by every voice in the village, stories told that were known by every sprout old and young. A feast of wifflenuts and bibbleberries, scrumpkins and thistlewicks was served to all the company's delight. They danced with arms and legs outspread, moving about the fireglow with joy that felt neverending. The Wren had eaten his fill and heard his share of Watersprout tales when the Elder Sprout came forth.

Passed Down Through The Ages

The Wren could feel the blanket of night drawing over the lands above as the evening’s festivities came to a close. Small lamps were lit by each of the watersprouts as their leader approached the Wren. In his hands, he held the sacred flower: the purpose for their celebration. Now that the Wren had availed them of the beast’s frenzy, the First Forsythia was bidden to bloom. He laid it at the feet of the Wren and spoke of winters past and the springs that ended them. The deeds of mighty owls and of valiant eagles who have since visited their humble village in search of the First Forsythia. Many have tried, many have failed. It was now the duty of this little Wren and the Wren alone to bear this holy flower to the far fabled Sun Tower and dip its petals in the living water. Only then would spring return to the valley and only then would life restore anew.

The Hasty Wren

Now invigorated by the watersprout’s words, the Wren takes full charge of its task and sets out in search of the sun Tower, the forsythia gripped tight in its tiny talons. On its journey, the wren encounters a series of challenges which are each overcome in turn with great toil. He faced the tempest tyrant and the thunderhawk, he laid siege to the sunken castle of Axe: the Forthright Commander, and crossed the stranded ocean with the help of its guardian Val Merael. After persevering these many toils, the weary wren at last reaches the Sun Tower in the valley of light.

The Long Climb (A Drop of Water)

The cold winds bite with every flap as the wren finally reaches the great tower. Its frozen wings stiffen in the air and the wren falls crashing to the enormous base, unable to fly any further. With the flower still clenched in its beak, it struggles to stand and press on, now nearly crawling upward with its weakened legs. Every clasp of its talons feels more difficult than the last, every inch it climbs seems to add another mile. The wren feels defeated by the tower’s immense height, for it is too great to be conquered by a creature so small. How could such a task be left to a lowly wren? Just then, when all hope had left the poor bird, the friendly voice of the Eldersprout echoed in his memory, “many have tried, many have failed, but the duty now is yours.” Slowly warmth returns to the heart of the wren and the will of all great birds that came before lifts its weary wings all the way up to the tower’s mighty pinnacle. There rests the magnificent fountain, untouched by winter’s hand and glowing with heavenly light. As the wren is let down upon the platform, with its last gasp of strength it dips its beak into the pool, wetting the Forsythia with a single drop of water. With that, the wren closed its eyes and collapsed back over the edge.

Life Returns to the Valley

As the Wren fell the great distance, a flood of light flowed over it from atop the great basin like a rain shower under an unclouded sky. Suddenly, a wondrous vision came into focus. There was green below that stretched over the mountains and beyond the horizon, the valley was flourishing with the life of a new spring. Fields of flowers blossomed to greet the light of the morning, mighty trees sprung out from the earth and erupted with leaves of all shapes and sizes, and all that was once dead now lived and breathed and bloomed once again. With its task complete, the spirit of the Wren left to join in the chorus of the great birds that came before it, singing in whispers for others to carry in years to come.

Thus ends this tale of our valley: how even the forest’s smallest creature can deliver it from despair. These tales, like all the others from the ageless pages of our people, have been passed down through time from elder to kin and back again. As the Wren bore its burden over unimaginable distances, so too must you carry these ancient origins and keep them close as you weather the tides of time.