Taken from:

Travels in the Unmapped Lands of Einarinn

BY

Marris Dohalle

The Number Song of the Forest Folk

That the Forest Folk are an ancient race is clear from this song. It is used to teach children the words once used for counting; marmol, edril and so on, now meaningless in themselves as the language has changed over the generations.

One is the Sun, soaring in the height,

Marmol, the hearth-circle me all share.

Two are the moons in their dance of might,

Edril, their web woven in the air.

Three races share mountain, plain and wood,

Semil, on all is the sun's face warm.

Four are the winds, bring they ill or good,

Dexil, the life-breath of calm or storm.

Five are the fingers for harp and bow,

Wrem are the days of a minstrel's wake.

Six are the rivers that foil the foe,

Tedren, when hoofbeats the greenwood shake.

Seven, the Wise Ones the windrose spin,

Fathen, the empty, the seat of fears.

Eight are the seasons, each one begin,

Adren, new wood on the Tree of Years.

Nine are the Holy, the Three of Three,

Parlen, the fate-sticks the foolish mock.

Ten are the fingers of weapons free,

Vrek, double handclasp of friendship's lock.

Much of the original meaning of this ancient rhyme has been lost as the Forest Folk have only an oral tradition of history, and that varies from clan to clan, each concentrating primarily on its own members. Concepts once familiar become blurred with repetition and changing circumstance. Forest Folk are not troubled by this, seeing history as an ever-changing, ever-spreading framework for life, rooted in creation and expanding with each new season — the Tree of Years, in fact.

Spreading and dividing is seen as healthy and natural; family groups travel the vast reaches of the Great Forest, joining together at some seasons, separating at others. Bonds are rarely permanent and it is entirely acceptable for family members to leave their own kin for a season or more, travelling with another group or leaving the Forest altogether. It is this tradition that keeps Forest Folk minstrels a familiar sight on so many roads, combining their incorrigible wanderlust with the race's love of music, which stems from their reliance on song and epic poetry in place of a written history.

Given the abundance of the Great Forest, the Folk are able to supply all their needs easily, sharing without conflict between themselves. Accordingly, this results in a lack of understanding of more formal boundaries and concepts of ownership. For similar reasons, Forest Folk are rarely proficient in physical combat, concentrating on those skills of eye and hand needed for hunting in a wildwood rather than for direct confrontation over land or resources. However, the incautious traveller leaving the highroads through the Great Forest risks inadvertently stopping an arrow tipped with deadly venom if he blunders into a chase.

The Forest Folk are largely a tolerant people, living close to nature. Harmony — between races, between individuals and of

course, in music — is highly prized. When they need to decide any question of dominance or authority among themselves, this is usually done in a contest of poetry or song. It is considered far more damaging to humiliate an opponent than to actually kill him. However, when faced with dire peril, the Forest Folk display a doughty determination few races, ancient or modern, can equal.