“Where is that?” Hyden asked, trying not to sound too ignorant.
“The Southron River forms the natural border between Seaward and Valleya, but in Pratchert’s time, it was all one kingdom. The Evermore Forest trails southward along the river’s banks into the plains, and where this extension of forest ends, sits the town called Tip. King Horst was young then, and ruled over all of those lands, and what is now the Kingdom of Highwander too. The world was relatively peaceful in those days. The Abbadon wasn’t yet strong enough to threaten the lands, but it soon would be.
“Pratchert’s father was commissioned by King Horst to travel to the frozen sea. A quest it was called, a quest to kill a great white bear, the fur of which the King wanted, for some reason or another. Pratchert, along with a large group of men led by his father, set out on this long and dangerous journey.
“They travelled across the continent and made it to the frozen sea in the west. They killed the mighty white bear, but the bear managed to kill more than half of the group in the battle. The survivors were strung out across the icy lands, along the bloody trail the dying bear made them follow. The great beast was hearty, and it led them for dozens and dozens of miles before it finally died.
“Young Pratchert was one of those who got lost along the way. A pair of men, who were too lazy to make a proper search, led his father to believe that his son had fallen into a chasm and frozen to death. Pratchert was left to survive on his own, in the vast frozen wilderness.
“Having been raised by a hunter and woodsman, Pratchert had learned many things about survival. He was both smart and resourceful. He used the sun to determine his direction, and began traveling south, away from the colder climate. As he went, he came along an injured wolf, which was in the process of giving birth. Only four pups came into the world, and two of them died that first night.
“Pratchert hunted for the injured mother wolf, with a bow and arrow he had made out of a fallen limb and some sun dried rabbit gut. He managed to keep her and himself fed long enough for the two pups to wean themselves from the teat, but she died soon after that when a harsh, late winter storm hung over them for a few long days.
“When the weather finally relented, Pratchert found that one of the pups had disappeared. Knowing that he did all he could for the wolves, he started south again with the last of the pups right on his heels.”
Vaegon shifted on his rocky seat, leaned forward, and prodded the dying fire back to life with a stick.
“Somehow, he and the wolf ended up cutting east through the forest your people call the Reyhall.”
“Not my people,” Hyden corrected. He couldn’t help but stare at Vaegon’s wild yellow eyes. They were like cat’s eyes, or an owl’s. “My people aren’t kingdom folk.”
“Yes, yes,” the elf nodded. “I forget that all of you humans are not sworn to a king. Anyway, Pratchert took his time. He and the wolf wandered the forest for a few years. No one really knows why.”
Hyden almost stopped Vaegon to tell him that though he wasn’t sworn to a human king, his people did reside in the Giant Mountains, and were more or less sworn to obey the laws of King Aldar. He let it go though, because he had never actually seen the giant king, or the fabled city of Afdeon, where he ruled from; much less had he ever sworn any sort of oath of fealty.
“…finally crossed the Leif Greyn River, and made it to the Spire.” Vaegon was saying. “There, our lore says that Pratchert was visited by a great, blue dragon. The two of them supposedly spoke for many days.
“After the dragon flew away, Pratchert and his wolf came through the Evermore Forest. He was traveling toward his childhood home, but before they could get that far south, they encountered a problem. His wolf familiar’s thick, white fur was making the animal sick in the warmer climate. Even after it had shed its winter coat, the wolf was suffering in the warm southern air. After much deliberation, Pratchert and his wolf decided to stay together. He used his dagger to trim the fur from the wolf’s hide so that it could stand the heat. It was for the best they both learned. When they came into Pratchert’s village, the people were afraid of the wolf, even though he looked more like a mangy dog now, than the ferocious creature he could be. If he hadn’t been half shaved, he would’ve terrified the simple folk to drastic measures.