Infamous Goose
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Starlit Soul 4 - The Sacred Mountain
🕑 Added 2026-01-06 20:04:39 +0000 UTCSomething was moving outside of his tent. He wasn’t sure what time it was or even what was going on; all he knew was that it was dark outside, and something was fiddling with his tent flap. He rolled onto his feet, off of the pile of furs he used as bedding, and clenched his fists, instincts screaming danger. The tent flap opened and in a split second of hesitation, Lysander waited. It took every ounce of willpower to stop himself from leaping at Sybella as she poked her head into his tent, his mind still locked onto threat-mode.
The two locked eyes in the darkness, Lysander’s entire body tense and on edge as he struggled to lucidity.
“Um,” she said, and that was enough to snap him out of it.
“What?” he snapped, white-hot adrenaline pumping through his veins as he settled back down, forcing himself to relax. Maybe he’d spent too much time alone in the wilds recently, if attack was his first response to his own sister waking him up.
“Don’t sleep there. It’ll make you grumpy. Move your head three inches to the left,” she said after a brief moment, staring at something only she could see.
“That’s what you woke me up to say? Gods above, Sybella,” Lysander groaned, flopping back down onto his furs, limbs splayed out dramatically.
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I didn’t. Get up. It’s almost light out, you need to get a move on.” She said. He huffed and didn’t move, staring at the dark fabric of his teepee. “Mom’s back.” That got his attention and he lifted his head, cocking an eyebrow at her, not that she could see it in the darkness. The question of how she knew that bubbled on the tip of his tongue, but he swallowed it. With how sensitive she was to spirits and magic, it would be impossible for her to miss their mother’s return.
Another person who should have noticed those lizards. His mind whispered, reminding him of his purpose in coming back. He really should hurry to the elders…
However…
“I don’t want to,” he whined, closing his eyes again. Even if Mom was back, sleep was sleep. Sybella didn’t say anything else, but she didn’t move either. He could feel her eyes on him, and for a while he stayed still out of pure stubbornness. Eventually, though, impatience won out. He was wide awake at this point – there would be no falling back asleep for a while yet. With a sigh he sat back up, scratching his chest and searching about for his pack. “Fine, I’ll get up.”
“Good,” she said, and withdrew from the tent. At least she’s in a better mood than yesterday. He figured, finding his pack beside a number of small clay pots he’d placed at the edge of his teepee. He didn’t grab the entire thing, there was no need to, instead only pulling out the lizard’s knife and putting on some pants. His claw necklace still hung from his neck; he rarely took it off.
With a yawn he stretched, twisting this way and that until his back popped pleasantly, then slipped out of his teepee. It was only slightly cooler outside than in, and the sky was only just starting to turn grey as the sun rose. A few fires flickered from inside town, casting dancing orange lights on the mismatched homes therein. Sybella was waiting for him, standing with her back to the town, staring off in the direction of the mountains, and only turned to look at him once he stopped to stand beside her.
“Think if I wore a dreamcatcher like you wear those claws it’d help keep some of the visions away?” she asked, eyeing the necklace around Lysander’s neck. He shrugged, toying with the knife almost absently – but being very careful not to break it. The blade was already loose enough, the sinew binding loosening. “What do you have there?” she asked innocently, and he spun the lizard knife in his fingers with practiced ease.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He replied, just as innocently. Somewhere in the distance an owl hooted and he hooted back, pointedly ignoring Sybella. He could practically hear her frown, and feel the curiosity radiating from her. His hand snapped around the handle of the knife mid-twirl, casually stuck it into his leather belt, and turned on his heel while stifling a yawn. “Think I’m going to eat some breakfast first, then I might head into town. See if Geovrick is hanging around the wrestling pit. What do you think?”
“What about the elders?” Sybella asked, and Lysander smirked. He had talked up how important his discovery was last night in the most casual of ways, which, while not a lie, had only served to heighten her curiosity even more. Her waking him up like she had might even have been because she couldn’t stand the wait any longer, a thought which immediately dispelled any lingering frustration he might have had over that. It didn’t matter what she did now, for he had already won.
Now it was time to savor his victory, and hold his knowledge over her head. For once. Since it was usually the other way around, he was going to savor this moment.
“I’ll get around to it,” he said noncommittally, ducking back into his teepee to grab some food. He didn’t want to eat any travel rations, so instead aimed for last night’s leftovers – a bit of flatbread with rhubarb and dried blueberries cooked inside. It was a bit of an odd combination of flavors, what with how sour rhubarb could be, but the blueberries added a bit of sweetness to mellow it out so it actually turned out pretty well. His sister could have some good ideas from time to time.
The delicious taste didn’t stop him from eating with deliberate slowness, though, even taking the time to start a small fire, fill a stone cup with water, and toss some dandelion roots into it to make some dandelion tea. He sipped at it and nibbled on his bread as he watched the sun rise over the mountains, turning the skies orange then blue as the light chased the mountains’ shadows across the valley floor.
The town had come to life at this point. Canoes and rafts had been pushed into the lake, paddling about, while sounds of activity echoed from the town proper. Others still ran out into the fields in the early morning light, carrying spears or running free, off to do whatever it was they wished. Lysander finished off his flatbread and sipped the last of his tea, spitting out a bit of leaf he accidentally sucked up. This was a time of peace and plenty. There was enough food to go around, and the elves were free to pursue whatever they wished.
Lysander frowned, fiddling with the knife. Of course, there were still dangers but it was nothing like the old times, when elves still had yet to learn spirit magic, when demons and malevolent spirits still tried to possess them. Or so he’d heard. Not many still remained who lived through those times; when the world was still barren, before life truly bloomed. The time of dragons and giants and demons.
“Well, time to get moving, I suppose,” he said, standing and kicking out his fire. Sybella leapt to her feet from where she’d been nibbling on a bright red apple, tossing it aside at the same time he set his cup inside his teepee. He shot her an amused look and sauntered into town, clasping his hands behind his head while Sybella followed.
He didn’t meander. He was too impatient to do too much wandering. Despite his act, he did want to see what the elders had to say and did want to see his mother, but he also needed to taunt Sybella a little bit more as an act of petty revenge. So he took the long way to the Sacred Mountain, winding through the center of town. It was always an experience to do so. There was no other place in the world quite like it.
Elves bartered and traded with each other, or sat in front of their homes and crafted items. A man stood in front of a large stone oven, watching loaves of bread rising inside, while a woman across the street carefully shaped a clay pot with her hands. A similarly shaped oven was visible around the side of her dome-shaped house, a blonde man placing a wet clay bowl inside to be fired. Pottery lined the windows and outside of their house, painted in bright colors with fanciful designs, showing the fruits of their labors.
Others still weaved blankets out of sheep wool, dyeing them in pleasing ways, or made jewelry out of colored rocks and polished bone. Outside of a longhouse, another still had what looked to be the beginnings of a canoe just starting to be made. A thick pine log had coals sitting on a flat spot, burning away the interior yet leaving the outside untouched. Lysander knew the family who made those canoes – they were top quality, made to last hundreds of years. Second only to the canoes and boats his father made.
But that was, in truth, an unfair comparison. No one matched his father’s canoes, and that was an objective truth.
Lysander smiled and nodded to the green-haired elf watching the coals burn, who nodded back with a little wave, recognizing him. Maybe it was a good thing I wandered through town. He thought, forgetting about antagonizing his sister for a moment. Reminds me of the gravity of what I have to say.
No other species he had ever met created like the elves did. No magical beast sought out beauty after finding shelter, or adorned themselves for pleasure. No animal ventured outside of their habitat just to explore the unknown. No other being innovated and created like the elves; no other lived nearly as long, free to pursue their craft – only in myths and legends did it seem those beings appeared, in the form of giants and dragons.
Until now, that is.
Figuring he’d wasted enough time and tormented his sister long enough, he revised his direction, heading directly to the looming Sacred Mountain. She audibly sighed in relief as soon as they left the town center, leaving behind much of the daily noise. Whether it was a sigh because she was free from the crowds, something she actively tried to avoid, or because he was finally heading to the Sacred Mountain, he wasn’t sure.
“Y’know, maybe I should go to the wrestling pits,” he mused, unable to resist the urge to tease his sister a bit more. He could see parts of the open fields this side of town, through a few of the homes now. The pits themselves were little more than indents in the ground, carefully combed of rocks so participants could toss each other around without too much fear. Around the pits, though, were open fields for elves to practice with their slings, or even play games. A popular one involved two teams trying to kick a leather ball in between two sticks in the ground, the goal.
As he watched, a young elf girl did a backflip, kicking the leather ball out of the air – only for it to be kicked right back as the goalie mimicked her backflip-kick.
“If you go over there, I will join you.” Sybella said, and Lysander shuddered, glancing over his shoulder at her. She had one eyebrow raised, her arms crossed as she walked, and that look on her face that screamed annoyance. There’s a fine line between annoyance and irritation. And I don’t really want to make her mad. Not to mention that he didn’t want to be anywhere near the wrestling pits when she was there.
She was far too competitive. To the point it wasn’t fun to play with her sometimes. So he raised his hands in surrender, and kept walking.
It was a relatively short walk to the base of the Sacred Mountain, the town ending a good thousand yards before the gently sloping land inclined steeply. A staircase of pure white stone had been carved into the mountainside, winding this way and that as it made its way up to the middle of the triple peaks that made up the Sacred Mountain’s…well, peak. Dense pine trees clung to parts of the rocky hillside, untouched for thousands of years, while birds flitted about in their branches and squirrels darted up and down the trunks. Lysander sucked in a deep breath, mentally preparing himself for the climb to come.
“You sure the elders are still up there?” he asked, not looking forward to it. The climb was steep, sure, but it wasn’t the steepest mountain he’d ever climbed – and that one without stairs. No, this climb was intimidating for an entirely different reason.
“Yes, of course they are. You know there’s always at least one, and I can see mother’s fire from here,” Sybella said exasperatedly. Lysander squinted at the peaks. She always talked about mother’s fire, but he’d never understood what she meant by that. She brushed past him, marching up the stone steps without a shred of hesitation, clearly impatient to get the whole thing started.
Grumbling, he followed after, forcing himself to relax a bit as he marched up the smooth, seamless white stone steps. He always marveled at them, every time he climbed these stairs. There was not a single crack, not a single sign of weathering or water that stones usually showed – and he’d never seen anyone clean them. It was just…perfect stone, sticking out of the mountainside, and had been here since the first elves descended onto this land from the heavens above.
Or so they said.
Any such extraneous thoughts were soon wiped from Lysander’s mind as he continued to climb, through no effort of his own, leaving him in a state of quiet that let him look around the mountain and enjoy its beauty. It was very much like every other mountain in the range, if a bit steeper than most, and standing on its lonesome in the center of a caldera. There were ridges and boulders, long grasses and thistle flowers, a few plateaus, and of course a wonderful view. The town below was rapidly shrinking as he climbed, the Silvermoor River winding its way to the two stone arches that marked the exit of the caldera – he could even see a few elves walking about the banks, some playing in the sparse, dark sandy beaches.
But soon enough he couldn’t even admire the view. His pace did not change, but each step felt heavier and heavier the higher he got. Each heartbeat echoed in his ears, a rhythmic thumping he timed his steps to, as all other thoughts faded away except for the climb. Then came the voices. Little whispers that tickled his ears, the tinkling sound of laughter. Shapes darting about in the corners of his eyes that vanished if he tried to look directly at them, the wind tickling the back of his neck. Spirits ringed the mountain, the veil between the physical and spiritual weakening in this place.
Magic thrummed through the air, so dense it was almost visible, even to him. It prickled his skin, set his blood to thundering in his veins, and pressed down upon his shoulders like an invisible weight. He did not sag beneath its pressure. He straightened his shoulders and continued the climb, sweat pouring down his body as the hot sun beat down. Each step added weight to his shoulders, threatening to break his posture – his legs trembled beneath the strain, each footstep thudding against stone with weighty, heavy finality. His breathing came in ragged huffs until, finally, he reached the top.
The weight almost immediately vanished, his thoughts returning and a heavy sigh of relief escaping his lips. The staircase ended in the v created by two of the peaks, which rose only a hundred or so feet higher into the sky, in a little flat area covered in sparse brown grasses. He wiped his brow, turning around to frown down at the long staircase and the tiny houses below. They were well above the tree line now.
“You did better than last time,” Sybella remarked from where she sat on a boulder of white marble set just beside the last stair. She looked none the worse for wear – in fact, she looked better than before. Her eyes had a bit more clarity to them, her expression a bit more severe. She wasn’t looking directly at him, he realized, instead focusing on a spot over his shoulder with a frown.
“It’s been nearly a hundred turnings of the seasons since I last climb this. Probably longer,” he admitted, shaking his head. “It may be easier now, but I’ve still a long way to go.”
“That’ll come with time. It took me a long time to get used to the mountain’s magic, too,” Sybella said with a shrug. “I was maybe a hundred years older than you when I could make it up without losing my thoughts halfway through. To say nothing of the spiritual weight.”
“So I’m told,” he grumbled, turning around face what awaited him – the threshold.
It was a stone archway of the same white marble that made up the staircase. Vines and leaves had been carved into it, so detailed they were nearly lifelike, twisting and writing up the arch to the very top, where the vines melded together around a carved depiction of the sun, the moon, and stars. And beyond that was the open temple of the gods, and the elders’ seats.
The small bowl that made up the area between the mountain’s three peaks had been turned into an auditorium, sung into the shape by the first seven elves, and kept in an almost eternal shade by the three peaks. Only the midday sun would illuminate it fully. In the center, in the middle of the three rows of stone seats that made up the auditorium proper, stood a basin of black stone filled with water – around which stood three elves discussing something in low tones.
He recognized all three, of course, and in his good fortune, they were the three he needed to talk to most. One was Alaric, a tall, muscular elf with a white wolf pelt draped over his shoulders, his red hair pulled back in a bun and held in place with bone spikes. His expression was perpetually stern, as was his attitude, which made it all the more fun for Lysander to try and annoy the hunter. He was also in charge of the project Lysander had originally been sent out for; to scout a spot for a potential new village outside the caldera.
The other was a grey-haired, old-looking elf with a hunched back and a buffalo skin draped over his form. Old Man Xi looked even worse than last time Lysander had seen him – the progenitor of the Xi family had been fading for a long time, but now it seemed to be speeding up. His real focus was on his mother, though, who had her back to them.
She looked much the same as last time he’d seen her, before she’d left to visit his father at the sea. There was a new shawl draped across her shoulders, and a colorful bracelet of seashells hanging on one wrist. And, now that he looked at her, a few more lines of grey in her otherwise pitch-black hair. She’d grown older. Concern squirmed in his stomach as he descended the steps into the auditorium, his movement drawing Alaric’s eyes.
“Fyra, your youngest is here. So is your strangest,” he said gruffly, crossing his arms across his chest, his claw-and-tooth necklace, far more impressive than Lysander’s own, clacking with the simple movement. Lysander waved at his mother and Old Man Xi as they turned to look at him, the grey-haired man snorting and crossing his arms beneath his heavy blanket. His mother smiled warmly at him, waving back. “I assume you’re here to talk about the village spot? What did you find?” Alaric continued, voice booming through the empty auditorium.
“The twin lakes spot is as good as any. Fertile soil, lots of fish, plenty of lumber for houses. Might take some time to soak magic into the ground so they can grow everything we can here, but we have nothing if not time.” Lysander said with a shrug. Alaric nodded sagely.
“Good. The other scouts have yet to return, but I expect them back soon. For now, catch up with your mother.” He said, glancing at Fyra. Lysander understood the implication. The only reason an elf physically aged once they reached their prime was if they were dying. An elf was immune to time so long as they kept ahold of their will to keep living – Alaric himself had lost his own parents only a hundred years ago.
And Lysander’s mother was already among the oldest living elves. Bit of an understatement. He thought to himself. There were no elves older than her. And never had there been. She was one of the first elves to ever walk the earth, created directly by the goddess of stars, Sidra. Now, of the first seven elves to ever walk the world, only three remained. Old Man Xi, his mother Fyra, and his father at the ocean.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” his mother said dismissively as Lysander approached, staring at her hair. They grey did compliment it, in a way, looking a bit like streaks of silver moonlight in the black. “I’ve lived a good, long life. It will soon be time for me to move on, to rejoin Sidra in the stars above, but I’ve still some time left yet. Not like Xi here, the old coot.”
“Old Man Xi. You forgot the ‘old,’” Lysander corrected almost automatically, glancing at said old man. He scowled at him, the expression somehow giving his face even more wrinkles.
“I’ll never understand what convinced you to have another child at your age, Fyra.” Xi grumbled, shaking his head and pointedly looking over Lysander’s left shoulder. Sybella was doing that, too. “Let alone one like him. Always attracting strange attention. Wasn’t Sybella strange enough?”
“Rude,” Lysander said in mock hurt, glancing over his shoulder at his sister, who had seated herself at the top of the auditorium to listen.
“He was a gift from Sidra,” Fyra said with a roll of her eyes. Alaric snorted. “You know that as well as I do. Now, Lysander, we have a lot to talk about. You’ll need to go visit your father soon too, but first I want to –“
“Ah, sorry, I almost forgot. Real quick, Alaric, there is one thing that might be a problem with the twin lakes area.” Lysander said, cutting his mother off. As much as he loved her, she could ramble sometimes and now really wasn’t the time. Not to mention that this might spark her interest in life again. He thought, reaching behind his back to grab the knife. Without another word he pulled it out and presented it to the elders, all three of them frowning at it.
Old Man Xi was the one to grab it, pressing his thumb hard against the edge to test it. Lysander knew how sharp it was, having cut himself on it before, but the blade didn’t so much as make a scratch on the old man.
“It’s sharp, but the quality leaves much to be desired. I know you taught your boy to make a better knife than this, Fyra,” he said dryly. Alaric was silent, staring at the knife with a complicated expression, almost as if he had some idea of what it might be. Lysander made a mental note of it, even as his mother turned to him with a frown.
“I did teach him better,” she said firmly. “It’s a pretty rock though. All black and shiny, like that gold stone you found for me.”
“Well it’s a good thing I wasn’t the one to make it, then, so we can’t blame your teaching methods,” he said lightly, feeling everyone’s attention on him now, especially Sybella. He let that statement hang in the air, smirking at them all and reveling in the confusion.
“If it wasn’t for your penchant for dramatics, I might actually like you,” Old Man Xi deadpanned. “You take too much after both your parents. Inherited the worst traits from both of them, I swear to the gods. Explain yourself, boy, before I decide to up and die,”
“Is that a promise?” Lysander widened his eyes comically, then flinched and cackled as Old Man Xi raised his hand as if to smack him.
“Boy,” he spat, though both knew there was no real heat to it. This was just how they talked to each other.
“Easy, old man. Fine, fine. A lizard made it,” Lysander said simply, falling silent for half a second. A glare from both Old Man Xi and Alaric had him quickly continuing. “No, really, a lizard. Bright orange and yellow scales, about the size of you and me. The scales are smooth, which is kind of weird, and they’re smart. Used spears too; originally found three of them trying to get away from a pissed off frost bear.”
“A lizard,” Alaric said dryly, clearly not convinced.
“He’s not lying.” Fyra said, eyebrows raised as she examined him closely. That was the thing about these older elves – you couldn’t hide anything from them, and not in the same way as Sybella tended to know things. They could just see and sense more in a way that was almost impossible to describe. Maybe that’s why I enjoy messing with others so much. I grew up in a family you can’t hide anything from. He remembered the first time he’d tried to sneak out and go visit a girl. That had been a mortifying experience, to be caught by his own mother.
“That might explain the angel,” Sybella added from just behind Lysander. He jumped a little and whirled, having not heard her get that close. She cracked a smile, then went back to staring at the knife from over his shoulder.
“Angel?” he asked.
“You’ve had a powerful spirit hanging over your shoulder. It’s not an angel, but it is powerful,” Old Man Xi said without looking up. Lysander twisted to look over his shoulder, as if he could see the spirit. Of course all he saw was open air and one of the mountain peaks, a bit of snow clinging to the top. One day he’d be able to see them. One day. “Are you certain a lizard made this?”
“I could go fetch you one of their spears. Or a trap they made. Or a basket. Take your pick.” Lysander said dryly. “I spent a full week observing them to make sure of it. Never let myself be seen just to be safe, of course. Their home cave was only a few weeks downriver from the twin lakes – close enough that if elves moved there, they’d be likely to run into them at some point. Even just canoeing down the river.”
“You should have led with this,” Alaric absently toyed with one of the fangs on his necklace, eyes still fixed on the knife. “I’ll have to see it to believe it, though. What you’re describing almost sounds like baby dragons.”
“They’re more like salamanders than dragons,” Old Man Xi mused, still turning the knife over and over in his hand. “He said the scales were smooth.”
“You know me and my dramatics,” Lysander quipped, meeting Alaric’s stern gaze with a cheeky grin. Only Sybella and Fyra were silent, Sybella staring at their mother as she looked at the ground, considering.
“Great change is coming,” his mother muttered at last, looking up and meeting Lysander’s eyes. Interest sparked in her gaze, and she grabbed Lysander by the shoulder.
“Show me,” She said, and he smiled.
“Of course.”
