"Gryffin! You better not be daydreaming again, boy!"
Dropping the book and jumping nimbly to his feet, Gryffin Moorwood stared through the trees and dashed between them without thinking, green eyes flashing impishly as he danced across the stone bridge over the creek and into the forge nestled within a glen at the center of the forest. It was odd that Donnor had chosen to build his business so far from the outskirts of town- it took a full day for the average visitor to reach the Moorwood cottage- but his skill with metal was so undeniably a gift from the Gods that he could've set up shop in the middle of the Ocean and customers would trek out to visit him. Eccentric and talented, it was said that Donnor had been touched by the Fae, captured and taken into their Shining Lands, from which he escaped physically, but not spiritually. Villagers whispered that Donnor's location, so deep within the woods the Fae loved so much, had as much to do with this as his legendary fear of other people.
Gryffin's talents, it was also whispered, outshadowed his own fathers; at eighteen years old, it was he from whom First Knight Sir Aeric Glaswyd had accepted the gleaming broadsword everyone now saw hanging at his side. The boy, himself, was as odd and unexplainable as his extraordinary talent; his features were unmistakeably Fae- beautiful and otherworldly, more perfect than any pure-blooded Mortal in Gwynvyr. Green eyes flashed with an otherworldly glow, and his body moved with a grace uncharacteristic of so many boys his age. Everything about Gryffin seemed to dull the world around him.
Futher whispers, of course, suggested that this was the reason Donnor lived so far into the forests. Like all sensible theories, it was discarded as too obvious and those who believed it were obviously delusional.
"Father, I wasn't daydreaming." Brushing an offending lock of golden hair out of his face, Gryffin smiled and stared around the forge. "I was reading."
Donnor looked nothing like his son. Where Gryffin was slender and delicate, Donnor was like a grizzled old black hair, dark featured and looming with a certain cynicism and gruffness that came with age. He wore a look of grim resignation on his soot-covered face, his black eyes slipping to the corner of the room.
Gryffin's smile fell, replaced by a frown and a furrow of confusion, as he peered into the shadows of the room. "Hello, Gryffin."
"Sir Aeric! What do you here, sir?" Gryffin's smile returned and a slack-limbed ease enveloped his entire form.
The Knight stepped from the shadows, his powerfully structured face and blue eyes sparkling with fierce determination. "King Alcuin of Dunnagal has staked his claim for the Throne of Gwynvyr and sails here with a mighty force to overtake Prince Kian."
"But why? Kian is heir to the throne!"
A grim smile from the Knight dashed Gryffin's own lightness away. "Kian is the bastard son of King Gwyffd, and Alcuin believes that, as cousin to the D'Ahra clan, he has a better claim."
Gryffin's frown returned. "Then you're going to fight...Do you need me to repair your weapon, sir? Perhaps a new one?"
"I need you to come with me, Gryffin."
"What?" Gryffin froze, looking from the Knight to his Father. Donnor was uncharacteristically silent, and refused to meet his son's eyes.
"You're being conscripted into my service, Gryffin- as the blacksmith to myself and my personal guard. We leave on the morrow for the Unnyn Pass."
"But..."
Aeric sighed. "I'm afraid you must come, Gryffin. Your Kingdom needs you, your Prince needs you, and my men really need you. You're one of the most gifted young blacksmiths in the land. We need your skill if we're going to have a chance."
"Why cannot my father go?"
Donnor spoke now. "You know I'm tied to this Forest, son. I cannot leave it. You have to go. You have no choice. Sir Aeric says you must go, and so you must. Get your things, son. Get your things."
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