Saga of The Greenling Clan

[CapnStabby]

I fidget with the drying twigs of my sprucecap as I take my turn on swan-watch. It is almost time to get fresher twigs for my cap, and I muse on the various choices I could reconstruct it from. Suddenly, my thoughts are interrupted as I see a newcomer on the horizon.

A newcomer, it seems, that is setting camp nearby to us. Clearly he knows this land is sacred hunting ground? He must see the huts, and smoke of the wood cookfire. The cairns of fallen ancestors dotted throughout the forest, past victims to this untamed land.

I let out a grunt and my dust-laden companion looks up from his fishing. We've caught just enough minnows to survive another night. This is the time for greater action.

Of course, we have met strangers before. Some have sail by jeering at us, bedressed in their funny clothes. Sometimes speaking funny languages. Others offer gifts of friendship as they pass our lands; results of their legendary campaigns against the mighty badger, or the dreaded fox.

Our simple clan has naught to offer in return but a humble handful of local dirt, given in a sacred offering. Sharing of our land is a gesture of kindness to our people. Somehow, it is quite frequently unaccepted. The ways of strangers are different and this is okay.

This newcomer, however, smells wrong. He did not exchange gifts, nor accept dirt. He stacks his wood in tremendous lengths side-by-side evenly to the inch. He clears fields so fast one cannot see across to the other side. The noble squirrel our tribe depends upon for survival cannot cross such grand and high walls that he erects single-handedly.
As night falls we sneak in to the unnatural clearing, discovering his large wheeled box, upon which his other boxes may be moved swifter than our traditional methods. We shall take his technology, and prevent this encampment from being built. He will then return to whence he came and all shall return to normal.

The night has passed and he somehow has another wheeled box. Drat. How? We immediately head in at night and make off with this second one - surely he cannot produce them indefinitely? We load it with prime timbers, the likes of which will surely never be replenishable to the region for a hundred years.

Disaster. The day before has been repeated again. If we cannot track the squirrel migrations it may spell doom to our people. There seems to be no hindering him now. We head out night after night, removing his wheeled boxes and the choicest of construction material, clearly indicating to this queer individual that he is not welcome. How can he keep going? Why can he not see? This land does not want to be his home. We see no hope yet but do hinder our spirits. We will push onward. We didn't learn to navigate the magpie death-swarms with that kind of surrender attitude.

Shinestone has been discovered in the dirt. We think this may be what attracts this newcomer. We've rock-bashed it into some interesting shapes recently. The shiney bits in our ivy garments give us a new confidence and outlook to the situation. Legend tells it may be dangerous were such material to fall in the wrong hands. Its highly possible we are dealing with a sorcerer who tracked it down here. He must be quite powerful to work as he does; alone and uneaten. Should he gather enough Shinestone, it very well may spell doom to us all.

He must be stopped, somehow...