Since leaving the inn where our paths had first crossed, we had travelled many miles together, advancing ever further between desert expanses and busy villages where the presence of a witcher, a sorceress and an alchemist could hardly go unnoticed. Our search for their daughter had naturally led us down many paths, some promising, others far more perilous and deceptive, until one day it became clear that we had to take different roads to make better progress. Sitting around the fire that evening, we drew up our plan of action with the rigour typical of long hunts. Each option had been carefully evaluated, each danger studied, and we had finally decided on those which seemed most likely to bring us closer to our goal.
The next morning, we parted without much fuss - it couldn't have been any other way with companions so attached to their respective independence - but our last words, although serious, had remained marked by a certain form of brotherhood. The wind was still carrying the echoes of our last conversation as I left the camp, mechanically fiddling with the crystal the sorceress had given us. It was a communication artefact that could help us keep each other informed of our personal progress.
My choice fell on Brokilon, a place where few men dared venture and from which even fewer returned, which no doubt explains its nickname of the Forest of Death. According to some rumours, the lady we were looking for had been spotted on its outskirts, although no one was able to tell us exactly when. This is precisely why we had to split up, as other rumours suggested that she had been spotted much further north.
The entrance to the forest was distinguished not so much by an abrupt change in the landscape as by the sensation of crossing an invisible threshold as you passed the first trees. At least that's what struck me most. I moved forward cautiously, picking up my cloak so that it didn't catch on the brambles that could be found in places, aware that every step I took was already being watched. This place certainly reminded me of another forest escapade, but the almost palpable vigilance surrounding me didn't seem to emanate from the wooden colossi themselves. It has to be said that this was the domain of the dryads. So I was hardly surprised when an arrow plunged into the ground, just a few steps away from me - it was inevitable. It was followed by an authoritative voice with a lilting accent as slender figures emerged from the foliage, their faces marked with ritual paintings and their bows drawn towards me.
Raising my hands in peace and greeting them hastily in their language, I stood still while they came over to question me. Far from being cruel, the inhabitants of Brokilon were nevertheless quick to take the life of anyone who had the audacity to enter their domain. It was for this reason that I had used their dialect to request an audience with their sovereign and make amends. They then lowered their weapons, albeit cautiously, and led me further into their lands, under careful guard. As we advanced, the gnarled trunks grew taller, intertwined like the threads of a single living tapestry.
When we finally reached their sanctuary, I was struck by the harmony that reigned there. The thousand-year-old trees rose up in natural domes, their branches intertwining to form a canopy of vegetation that filtered the sunlight in a soft golden halo. The air was saturated with woody scents, soothing and enchanting. Large wooden platforms, supported by the trees themselves, served as resting and gathering places. However, the heart of their kingdom was distinguished not by massive constructions, but by the perfect symbiosis between the sylvan archeresses and their environment. They moved with instinctive ease, their movements as fluid as the wind through the foliage. In this unspoilt world, everything seemed to breathe with the same breath.
It was there that I was introduced to their queen. She watched me in silence, sizing me up as I explained in detail why I was there. My companions had warned me that the inhabitants of the wood knew their daughter and held her in high esteem. So they agreed to give me information. As far as they knew, no-one had entered the forest, but there was nothing to say categorically that the witcher's daughter hadn't actually been there. So they decided to investigate. Divided into several groups, the dryads probed their fiefdom with infinite patience, looking for the slightest sign of a foreign passage and questioning trees and creatures according to their mysterious rites. As the days passed, I became more and more familiar with the habits and customs of my hosts, discovering the indestructible bond that linked them to this ancient land and developing a certain complicity with those who made up the troop I now accompanied on a daily basis. Along the way, they spoke to me in detail about their forest, each word reflecting their love of all things that grow.
Little by little, we obtained our first results. Subtle clues seemed to suggest that the presence of the witcher's daughter had been perceived, in places, to the east. In all likelihood, however, she had not entered the forest, continuing northwards. So Brokilon's trail seemed to end there. Nevertheless, I took the precaution of waiting until our information was a little more reliable before informing the parents of the apprentice monster huntress using the artefact entrusted to her by her magician mother. I then learnt that the witcher, for his part, was on to something promising. He was approaching a small town where several witnesses had reported that someone matching his daughter's description had passed through. It was therefore agreed that I should extend my stay in case more help was needed to follow up this new lead. The village in question was, it must be said, not very far from where I was at the time, a matter of a few days' travel at most.
The following days dispelled the remaining uncertainty: the trail became clearer, and the hunt of the White Wolf seemed to be nearing its goal. All that remained was for him to continue on his way. As for me, the time had come to take my leave and return home to my work. By way of farewell, the dryads who had offered me hospitality entrusted me with an exceptional gift: a few leaves from their domain, fragments of life containing a little of the very essence of Brokilon.
I left the woods filled with deep respect for these fierce wardens as, behind me, the forest closed its embrace on its secrets. In my bag, the leaves, carefully sheltered, continued to radiate that special energy. I was convinced that they hadn't yet revealed their full potential, and I couldn't wait to incorporate them into my creations to preserve their magic and then give life to new dragons, the future protectors of the sylvan kingdoms.
This collection is composed of four medium-sized eggs and one larger egg, all decorated with hand-carved leaves.
The shop will be updated on 12 March at 8.30pm.
Certain characters and locations (Geralt of Riv and Brokilon) are the exclusive property of Andrzej Sapkowski. They are presented here for entertainment purposes only.
Comentarios