Venla Thiel
Lettucewielding foreman
There's always that voice in the back of her head.
It lived in the back of her skull, past the daylight of common sense.
It murmured to her.
Of things waiting to be unearthed.
Of knowledge older than books, older than prayer, older than the first piece of metal pulled from the mountain’s ribs.
Of possibilities that would bend the path of her life in new, strange, but wonderful directions.
Of limitations fallen away like bark from a dead tree.
That whispered to her that Astenvale was nothing but a cage of deep roots with chains of vines and rotten green.
You will burn yourself in this big knot of nettles....
The festival of lights had swollen the monastery with warm voices and wandering strangers, so she took to the forest-covered hills instead, letting the winding shadows swallow her. The forest crackled and creaked while Venla moved with swift steps through the wild grass and brambles, on the gnarled trails between large birches, pines, and oaks.
The sun was slipping toward the rim of the world when her feet finally stopped. She had come upon a glade deep in the old forest, wide as any town square she’d known, circled by trees that remembered more winters than some men ever would.
With her eyes closed, she sat down and focused on different sounds at different distances. The faint echoes of ting-ting of a blacksmith, the wind in the rustling leaves, the sounds of civilization trying to wrestle through the thick wall of vegetation and fog, her own calm breathing and heavy heartbeats... She thoughtfully ran her thumb over a chestnut she had picked up from the ground earlier. Gathering strength and seeking a foothold somewhere beyond everything in that gloomy monastery, seeking a foothold beyond the earth.
When she opened her eyes again, the Weave hung before her like a lattice of living threads, stretched through the air and the spaces between moments, humming with a sound she felt more in her soul than in her ears. Venla rose to her feet slowly as prayer, knowing without knowing that this was the hour the whispering things inside her had been waiting for.
She reached out, careful as a child touching a tombstone. Her fingers closed around one of the threads.
The first thing was the crackle, like glass cracking under sudden pressure. A sound that ran hungry up her arm and rattled her teeth. Then her hand burned bright, red as fresh-forged iron. A red bolt tore loose from her palm, enormous and ravenous, and it devoured the thread whole. It ripped across the glade in a quick, blazing lunge and struck a deer at the far edge. Blood and muscle exploded, painting the ferns and tree trunks in dark, glistening streaks. Heated, moist air rose upwards.
When the storm of gore cleared, nothing recognizable remained of the deer but four bloody leg stumps, planted stubbornly in the dirt. The same force had picked Venla up like a puppet and hurled her backward. She slammed against a tree, breath ripped from her chest.
She slid down into the ruin of moss and broken bark, stunned beneath the copper-colored sunset sky.
It lived in the back of her skull, past the daylight of common sense.
It murmured to her.
Of things waiting to be unearthed.
Of knowledge older than books, older than prayer, older than the first piece of metal pulled from the mountain’s ribs.
Of possibilities that would bend the path of her life in new, strange, but wonderful directions.
Of limitations fallen away like bark from a dead tree.
That whispered to her that Astenvale was nothing but a cage of deep roots with chains of vines and rotten green.
You will burn yourself in this big knot of nettles....
The festival of lights had swollen the monastery with warm voices and wandering strangers, so she took to the forest-covered hills instead, letting the winding shadows swallow her. The forest crackled and creaked while Venla moved with swift steps through the wild grass and brambles, on the gnarled trails between large birches, pines, and oaks.
The sun was slipping toward the rim of the world when her feet finally stopped. She had come upon a glade deep in the old forest, wide as any town square she’d known, circled by trees that remembered more winters than some men ever would.
With her eyes closed, she sat down and focused on different sounds at different distances. The faint echoes of ting-ting of a blacksmith, the wind in the rustling leaves, the sounds of civilization trying to wrestle through the thick wall of vegetation and fog, her own calm breathing and heavy heartbeats... She thoughtfully ran her thumb over a chestnut she had picked up from the ground earlier. Gathering strength and seeking a foothold somewhere beyond everything in that gloomy monastery, seeking a foothold beyond the earth.
When she opened her eyes again, the Weave hung before her like a lattice of living threads, stretched through the air and the spaces between moments, humming with a sound she felt more in her soul than in her ears. Venla rose to her feet slowly as prayer, knowing without knowing that this was the hour the whispering things inside her had been waiting for.
She reached out, careful as a child touching a tombstone. Her fingers closed around one of the threads.
The first thing was the crackle, like glass cracking under sudden pressure. A sound that ran hungry up her arm and rattled her teeth. Then her hand burned bright, red as fresh-forged iron. A red bolt tore loose from her palm, enormous and ravenous, and it devoured the thread whole. It ripped across the glade in a quick, blazing lunge and struck a deer at the far edge. Blood and muscle exploded, painting the ferns and tree trunks in dark, glistening streaks. Heated, moist air rose upwards.
When the storm of gore cleared, nothing recognizable remained of the deer but four bloody leg stumps, planted stubbornly in the dirt. The same force had picked Venla up like a puppet and hurled her backward. She slammed against a tree, breath ripped from her chest.
She slid down into the ruin of moss and broken bark, stunned beneath the copper-colored sunset sky.
