Infamous Goose
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Starlit Soul 3 - Returning Home
🕑 Added 2026-01-06 20:04:22 +0000 UTCLysander sighed in heavy relief the moment his canoe hit smooth waters, his arms and back aching from weeks of rowing upriver. He’d forgotten how much work it could be, and gingerly rolled his shoulders as the craft gently drifted forward. Whoever thought making this journey in a canoe was a good idea is an idiot. He thought bitterly. Oh wait, that was my idea, because I wanted to try out my new canoe. Moron. He sighed heavily and relaxed a bit, enjoying this smooth, easy stretch of river and, for a brief moment, admiring the scenery.
The mountains on either side were tall and grey, green trees dotting the harsh, jagged sides. Puffy clouds drifted over the snowy peaks high above, a hawk circling as it rode the wind. Before him the river curved and twisted, gentle and slow, the waters placid and glittering sunlight. Trout leapt from the waters, splashing like children as the river led to the two great stone spikes jutting from opposing mountainsides a hundred feet into the air, ending in pinnacles that very nearly touched as if to form a kind of broken archway over the river. And beyond that…
Well, he couldn’t quite see it from here. All he could see was flat land and more mountains in the distance – a caldera, in the middle of which stood the Sacred Mountain, where elves first descended to the physical world millennia ago. It was around another bend, but he knew it awaited him. Home.
With a groan, yet a smile still on his lips, Lysander began to paddle once more, pushing his canoe forward with each stroke. The going was easy but his shoulders still burned so he often took little breaks, huffing and puffing like a child. Dad could have made this trip without breaking a sweat. He grumbled to himself, rolling his shoulders. The Silvermoor River was mostly easy paddling, especially when compared to the Goldstone River that flowed next to Bite Mountain and merged into the Silvermoor some ways North, but the journey from where he’d found the lizards along the Goldstone to the Sacred Mountain was mostly upstream. And as easy as it might be comparatively, travelling upstream was still hard work.
He groaned and rubbed his shoulders, longing to just rest for a time. The hawk was still circling overhead, weaving in-between the broken stone arch, just ahead of him. It had been following him for some time now. Normally he wouldn’t put much credence into it, but this close to home? I wonder…
A sharp whistle broke Lysander out of his thoughts, his gaze immediately snapping to a figure standing on the riverbanks, grinning and waving like a madman. His hair was a soft grey color, pulled back into a ponytail and held in place with griffon feathers. His long ears poked out a few inches from the side of his head and were decorated with small, polished bone piercings. Like most elves he wore light brown leather pants, tassels hanging off of the seams and decorated with colorful beads. However, he wore a shirt unlike anything Lysander had ever seen; it was white and small, the sleeves barely reaching down to his biceps, very much unlike the soft leather jackets and shirts he was used to seeing.
“What in the gods’ name are you wearing?” Lysander demanded loudly.
“Good to see you too!” his friend called back with a cackle, wading into the river until the water was waist high. Lysander made a face. Wearing wet leather was horrible, yet this idiot never seemed to care much about it. Maybe it was just to spite him. He seemed to enjoy doing things Lysander hated, sometimes merely to see his reaction.
“I’m not letting you aboard if you jump in, Geovrick. You’ll get everything wet,” he said firmly, paddling a little faster, ignoring the burn. Geovrick either didn’t listen or didn’t care, leaping headfirst into the water and splashing his way over to Lysander’s canoe. “No, I said!” he protested, batting at Geovrick’s head with one end of the oar as he neared – but the man was not to be dissuaded, and, with much rocking, splashing of water, and cursing from Lysander’s end, he finally managed to haul himself into the small watercraft.
The extra weight of an entire person had the wooden vessel sitting low in the water, a mere two inches of distance between the rim of the boat and the river’s surface, and, to top it off, Geovrick decided to settle right on top of Lysander’s pack, kicking his net and spear out of his way as he settled in. That’s going to take forever to dry out. He thought acidly, watching water drip from his friend and soak into his pack.
“Well, what do you think? Do you like it?” Geovrick asked, plucking at the white shirt he had on, soaked with water and showing his tanned chest beneath. “The Xi family finally managed to tame some of those giant spiders and figure out a way to harvest their web silk. Giant spider silk makes awesome clothes, did you know? Once you make it not so sticky, I mean.” The rude comment that had been on the tip of Lysander’s tongue died as his brain caught up with what Geovrick had said. The Xi tamed…giant spiders? He knew that they’d been working on that for a while now, but hearing about it and seeing that something had actually come of it were two different things.
More importantly, though, giant spiders?
He shuddered, but still managed to cast a critical eye over Geovrick’s shirt. It certainly looked light and airy, and much more comfortable to be wearing when wet than leather. He glanced down at his own bare chest, his claw-and-tooth necklace still proudly on display. He’d have to drop by the Xi’s place to take a look at it all. As much as he hated spiders, specifically the giant kind, it did sound interesting, and he’d been complaining about how much he hated leather shirts for decades.
“I haven’t even been gone that long. What’s it been? Eight months? That’s a big change for such little time,” Lysander complained, resting his oar across his knees.
“Only four or five months actually. You left right after the snows melted, remember? And yeah, they basically figured it all out right after you left; said they’d managed to tame the spiders a while ago, but hadn’t made a big deal of it until they figured out how to make them more useful than just as…uh, pets, as they put it.” Geovrick said with a small shudder. Lysander scratched the tip of one of his pointed ears awkwardly as he imagined keeping giant spiders as pets. All the legs and fangs and…no. But then again, no one had ever blamed the Xi family of being particularly sane.
Especially knowing who they were descended from.
Gods, is that why everyone just rolls their eyes when I bring back new stuff? He considered who his parentage was, who his only surviving sibling was, and decided yes, that was exactly why. What a harsh realization.
“That aside, did you find anything interesting on your little trip? Bring me anything neat?” Geovrick asked, once again interrupting Lysander’s thoughts and completely changing the subject. He absently began to paddle again, thinking both on why he’d ventured away from home this time and what he’d found.
“Yes, actually –“ he cut himself off and glared at his friend, abruptly tossing him the double-sided oar. “Actually, no. You’ll find out later. What you can do is make yourself useful and paddle, I’ve been hightailing it back here and I’m tired.”
“So rude. I’m a guest in your boat, and this is how you treat me?” Geovrick complained good-naturedly, though he had already dipped one end of the oar into the river and began backstroking. Lysander nodded and crossed his arms.
“My canoe, my rules,” he said firmly, lying back so his head was resting on the stern, his long black hair dipping into the river to trail behind them. For a moment they were silent, Geovrick paddling as best he could and grunting with the effort while Lysander watched the hawk circling above. “…how’s Sybella doing?”
“Your sister? She’s good, last I checked. Same old, same old.” Geovrick said lightly. Lysander knew that tone, and he knew his sister. He sighed heavily.
“Nightmares again?”
“Daymares, more like,” he grumbled, shaking his head and heaving on the oar. The canoe listed slightly, and Lysander lifted his head to look at his friend. “Been going on about spears with heads of silver light and whatnot. Keeps asking for you. Think you should probably go see her.”
“Not before the elders,” Lysander said lightly, though he did hesitate a bit. A part of him did want to go see his elder sister, but she could wait a bit longer. Besides, he was almost completely certain she was already watching. The hawk above banked to the side, catching the wind and soaring higher.
“Ooh, sounds interesting. Last I checked a few had climbed to the top of the Sacred Mountain. Want me to take you straight there?” Geovrick asked. Lysander muttered his affirmation, lying his head back and enjoying the chance to relax a bit. The conversation largely dwindled into small talk from there, Geovrick bringing up any gossip or going-ons that had happened while Lysander was gone. There had been a couple more births, which marked more children born in the last fifty years than the last two hundred, and so-and-so had gone and hunted something or other – Lysander honestly didn’t think he cared much.
What he had discovered was vastly more interesting than mild gossip, and nothing, except for the spider-silk clothes, was really unexpected.
He watched the sky until they passed through the faux stone arch, tracing the hawk’s path as it continued to circle. I swear it’s following me. He let one hand dip into the cool river. As soon as they rounded the first bend within the caldera, a few elves fishing on the banks waving as they passed, Lysander raised his head and beheld his home.
The Silvermoor river snaked and wound its way to the base of the Sacred Mountain, farm fields and the occasional wooden, yellow-reed roofed house or teepee set up near the banks, where it pooled into a great lake. Canoes paddled about on its surface, elves swimming and fishing or just enjoying the day, while others still walked the banks and fields. Smoke curled from the main town, built just next to the Sacred Mountain and on the edge of the lake, though it was impossible to differentiate the buildings and teepees from where he was, obscured as it was by trees and the sheer number of buildings.
Of the thousands of elves who called the caldera home, only a few hundred, maybe nearing a thousand, actually lived in the main town. Which was still a lot, but most elves wandered the caldera or built their homes elsewhere, preferring to stay away from crowded areas. Only occasionally did they feel the need to build a new village or town. Of which there was only one close by.
If Lysander stood upright and craned his neck he could almost see the village on the far end of the caldera, the first to have left the shade of the Sacred Mountain, even if they were still only a day’s travel away. But doing so was foolish and meant standing up, so he stayed put, letting his head fall further back into the cool waters and letting Geovrick do all the work.
A shepherd waved as they passed, herding his goats to the river, while farmers walked through their fields, letting the long wheat grains trace through their fingers or tended to berry bushes. More still walked amongst the fruit tree groves occasionally dotting the landscape, fed by irrigation ditches that flowed from the river proper. It still boggled Lysander’s mind sometimes to think that farming was a relatively new trade for many elves, especially considering how many elves he knew growing up that had taken a shine to it.
There was a purity in watching things grow, they’d said.
Lysander smiled and closed his eyes for a moment, twisting his head back and forth as he both tried to get comfortable against the hard rim of the canoe, and find the rhythm. If he listened closely, sometimes he could hear it…
And then the first note gently tickled his ears. It was a low hum, lilting and soft, that seemed to echo from the entire caldera. Elfsong, his mother called it, the true song of their people. Farmers hummed to their crops, spirit magic infusing the plants and protecting them from the worst bugs and weather. The shepherd sung under his breath, each note directed toward his goat herd, guiding them to the river where they would stop and drink. As they got closer to the Sacred Mountain, the song only continued to grow into a perfectly imperfect harmony, rolling through trees and buildings alike and resonating from the land itself.
Magic infused these lands, powerful spirit magic. But to hear it, you had to listen.
It wasn’t for another hour of rowing before Geovrick gave up and tossed Lysander his oar back, diving overboard with a shout that there was a fish he needed to catch. Lysander spluttered and cursed as his canoe rocked in the water, glaring as Geovrick burst from beneath the murky surface, a flopping rainbow trout in hand. He grinned triumphantly and promptly released the fish, watching it dart off.
“Welp, it’s time to call it quits. I’ll see you in town, ‘Sander.” Geovrick said with a cheeky wink, splashing back over to the shoreline. Lysander did the mature thing and stuck his tongue out at his retreating form before getting back to paddling, scowling as the burning of his muscles started to return.
Just a few more hours, and you’ll be home. Just a few more. Bear with it, Lysander.
***
He didn’t reach the lake town until a little past midday, and at that point he was tired and hungry enough to forget his original idea of immediately climbing the Sacred Mountain to visit the elders. Instead he planned on immediately dropping his stuff of at his teepee and grabbing a bit to eat, which meant visiting his sister. That would take a bit of time, so he figured he’d just visit the elders in the morning.
With a grunt he hauled his canoe up onto the riverbanks, near where stone steps had been hewn into the mud, beside the dozens of other canoes that already lay there. Further into town, where river met lake, larger rafts and canoes could be seen bobbing in the water or tied up on the banks. But Lysander didn’t live in the middle of the village. With how often and long he was gone, and how quickly everything was growing anymore, it was better if he put his teepee somewhere that could be moved.
Geovrick was, of course, nowhere to be seen as Lysander hauled the canoe ashore, feet slipping on the loose dirt. Thankfully someone still came to his aid, a woman with blonde hair and wearing a flowing white…blanket? Wrapped around her shoulders and stretching down to her knees. It looked like it was made from the same material as Geovrick’s shirt, but he didn’t get the chance to ask because as soon as she had helped haul the canoe up the banks to a flat spot she sprinted off after an even younger girl, who was waiting patiently for her.
Lysander just smiled and grabbed his stuff – his spear and pack only, leaving his net in the canoe – then marched off in the direction of where he remembered setting up his teepee.
No matter how short of a time he’d been gone, he still spent time marveling at the town itself. There was nowhere in the world like this place.
Trees of all kinds grew in organized chaos through the town, from thick spruces to aspen groves, to, most commonly, the large leafy oak trees many turned into homes. Elfsong had helped those oaks grow, their trunks thicker and taller, their branches wider and stronger and canopies denser so entire houses could be built in the boughs. As he passed by one such home a man pulled down a grass-woven curtain obscuring the interior of the house; a single room with branching limbs going everywhere, making both the floor and rafters, wooden bowls and stone utensils hanging from the branches.
Right beside it was a mud hut, green grasses growing on the dome-like building. A woman sat just outside the circular door, humming softly at the pile of reeds that lay between her legs. The reeds twisted and writhed like snakes, magic taking ahold of them and weaving together into a basket. And that was only the beginning. Closer to the mountain were even bigger houses and buildings. Some of the older, more powerful elves had sung their homes out of stone, great slabs white marble rising into the air to make one seamless whole. The Xi were one of these families, though their stone houses were built on the other side of the Mountain.
Others still preferred log longhouses, which were far easier to build large and took less magic.
The scent of something cooking hit him, and his stomach grumbled. He glanced at a man and woman standing just outside their mud hut – this one with a thatched reed roof and flowers growing from the windows – cooking stew in a stone bowl over a small fire. He licked his lips and picked up the pace, marching through the houses, weaving between people, as he made his way to where he remembered setting up his tent.
Only to find it not there.
He sighed, slumping his shoulders dramatically as he stared at the flattened patch of grass where his teepee used to be, the firepit still blackened and not yet fixed by whoever moved it. It hadn’t even been that long. He thought icily, shifting his grip on his spear. A dozen other teepees, most belonging to wanderers who were back at town less than half the time he was, surrounded the spot, telling him it wasn’t because the town had expanded again. Some part of him thought to blame Geovrick, he’d moved his teepee before, just to mess with him, but he hadn’t had that shady look in his eyes that usually accompanied his mischief. No, this was someone else’s fault.
He spun in a circle, meeting the eyes of a couple others who called this little spot home. Only a few sat outside their teepees, most going about their days somewhere else. Many tents nearly abandoned, though gods only knew if they were. Some wanderers took centuries to come back. Others never returned. It was considered polite to keep putting up the teepee until it rotted away into nothingness, even if it had to be moved. Lysander was about to call out to those hanging about, asking if they knew where his teepee went, when something else caught his eye.
The hawk from before, sitting atop a pine tree not too far away and staring straight at him. He hung his head. He should have known.
“Hey, Sybella. I’ve got it, I’m coming,” he said tiredly, leaning against his spear. The hawk cocked its head to the side and leapt from the teepee, winging silently through the air across town, toward his sister’s place. He followed, wandering through the dirt streets and waving to the odd townsfolk as he made his way.
The house wasn’t too far, situated a little bit outside of town and away from the river, and was very much conspicuous.
The wooden house had changed since the last time he’d seen it, but only a little. At least a dozen white strips of cloth hung from the wooden building Sybella called home, all probably from the Xi, while wildflowers now bloomed in little stone pots hanging from the windows. Besides that, and the fact that Lysander’s teepee had been erected just beside it, it was mostly the same. The logs that made up the walls and roof of her home were still covered in bark, branches sticking off of them haphazardly, green pine needles still growing from them and making it look like a giant, house-sized and shaped pine bush. Head-sized, smooth round stones ringed the house in a perfect circle, the door flung wide open.
Someday I do need to get her to teach me how to sing a house into this shape. He thought idly, spotting movement through the open doorway as he approached, taking good care to step over the ring of stones. Maybe if I grow past my wandering phase.
“I’m here,” he drawled, stepping into the single roomed house. A simple bed of fur blankets sat in the corner, slabs of cleaned, smoothed wood scattered about the place. A dream catcher hung over the bed, decorated with a dozen colorful beads, with a number of other little trinkets scattered across the room. No fire burned in the firepit, the only light coming from the doorway, the windows, and the chimney.
“Lysander!” his sister called, leaping up from where she sat at a low table; a tree trunk cut in half and smoothed, and set into the ground for eating on. She didn’t hit him with a flying hug like he’d half expected. Instead she grabbed the hand that held his spear and eyed it closely, almost frantically, examining both his hand and the spear itself.
He took this moment of quiet to inspect her. It was hard to see in the dim light, but she clearly hadn’t been sleeping well. Dark circles hung heavy under her eyes, and her midnight black hair was in disarray. Her leather pants and elk skin shirt were stained with sap, and a new set of bone decorations hung from her ears.
“It’s not broken.” She breathed out, tears pooling in the corners of her eyes. Lysander blinked, concern washing through him and he gently touched her shoulder.
“Not broken?” he asked.
“I – uh,” she stammered, looking up at him with wide silver eyes. Like this she looked young. Small. Very much unlike the big, overwhelming elder sister she usually was.
“You’ve been having visions again,” he said simply. She shifted from foot to foot, casting her eyes about nervously and glancing frequently over Lysander’s left shoulder. He leaned his spear against the wall and grabbed her hands, squeezing them firmly to draw her attention back to him. “Focus on me. Are you ok?”
“I – yes. No. Lysander, listen to me, you can’t break your spear. Starlight comes – it will, I – don’t let it break.” She wheezed out, gripping his hands so tight it was almost painful. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. She was rambling. She needed to focus more. So he’d distract her, and if she really had vivid visions then she’d focus through it to make sure her point got across.
“Got a question for you. Did you know that if you tear a hole in a net, there are fewer holes?” he asked conversationally, nodding as if this was some great big revelation. Sybella opened her mouth to continue chattering, then registered what he’d said and frowned at him.
“Now is not the time for jokes, Lysander,” Sybella snapped, a bit of manic energy bleeding out of her expression. There she is.
“There’s always time for jokes,” he argued. “I can tell another if you’d like.”
“I – there’s something coming. I can feel it. The spirits are talking way too much. The big ones are all excited, it’s distracting. Can barely hear myself think some days. You have to tell the elders, the North has something big up there. The distant village they’re planning, it’s…I don’t know. Important.” She rambled, each word bringing with it a bit more clarity. She took a deep, shuddering breath, stepping away to pace a bit and glancing over Lysander’s left shoulder once more.
Then she noticed his expression, and the smug smile that danced on his lips.
“What did you do?” she demanded, putting her hands on her hips and frowning at him, all sense of rambling concern evaporating like early morning mist.
“For once, sis, I don’t think the spirits are telling you everything,” he said happily. Even among elves his sister had a close relationship with the spirits of the world, and they had an annoying habit of whispering secrets to her. Surprising her was almost impossible because of it. It also let her perform feats of magic far greater than usual for someone her age; the spirits liked her, and were far more willing to help her out than most. Unfortunately, this affection came at a bit of her sanity. She had a connection to the world of an elf thrice her age, yet without the mental strength to fully withstand it yet.
“What?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. Then recognition dawned, and her eyes went wide. “You know what I’m talking about?”
“Oh yes. Can’t say I know why you were talking about starlight, but I’m almost positive I know what’s got the spirits all riled up.” He nodded sagely, crossing his arms. There could really only be one explanation. The lizards. It had to be. Finding another sapient race was a big deal.
“Tell me,” she demanded.
“Do you really think I’m going to give up this chance to surprise you? No, you have to wait until I talk to the elders, like everyone else.” He said. Sybella glared at him but didn’t argue further, much to his disappointment.
“Fine. Wait until morning. They’re communing at the top of the Sacred Mountain right now and shouldn’t be disturbed. Here, you must be hungry, I’ll get you something to eat,” she turned on her heel, freezing in place as she beheld the state of her home. “Messy,” she grumbled, stepping over some of her wood panels and snagging a pouch hanging from the opposite wall.
“I’m going to go set my stuff down, then.” Lysander said, earning himself a distracted wave as Sybella started setting up her cook area; lighting the fire and placing a flat stone slab over the top to warm it up. He grabbed his spear and stepped out of the little house, heading for his teepee and looking up at the Sacred Mountain as it loomed overhead.
Probably for the better I talk to them tomorrow. As it is now, I’m pretty tired. The thought was punctuated by a jaw-popping yawn, followed by a rumbling in his stomach. He slid into his little teepee, placing his pack and spear atop the pile of fur blankets just beside the entrance. All his other little curios were stuffed into a few packs scattered about the small area; he’d have to go through them to make sure nothing was missed when the teepee was moved.
But that was for later. Now was time for food.
***
Character Glossary:
Lysander: MC. Elf. Petty revenge is best served against siblings.
Geovrick: Elf. Friend of Lysander. Town gossip, but also good friend. Enjoys annoying 'Sander and his sister.
Sybella: Elf. Lysander's sister. Just a touch kooky.
