Varien is Alive

There was a certain place in Maharazhad, where Elspeth loved to go. It was in the runs of Northeastern Deephaven, in a realm called the Forther Main. The Fortress of Varien stands in ruins, the dark stone overgrown with twisting vines and roots of trees… the same trees that felt the magic of your ancestors touch, the same trees that once were young and innocent. The trees beckoning your gaze with their twisting crowns of branches.
    It was like the whole world forgot about that ruin. No gardener’s shears tended the waving grass or the rambling vines. Skilled hands never tended the flowers, or the smaller trees. Unused, empty, it had just slipped out of memory. Every so often, an old mage or sorcerer would stumble upon it in his daily walk… and he would remember the Great Raid upon Varien, more than a thousand years ago, in a time almost immemorial. He might hear the faint screams of dying men, the crackle of fires, the creak of the powerful trebuchets, or he might hear complete, overwhelming silence, broken only by the vociferous cawing of a stray rook, or the echoing twitters of birds.
    Indeed, the birds and animals there were the only ones who seemed to find Varien every time, or they dwelled there always. Their presence only made Varien seem wilder, yet more comforting. If they had not been there, Varien may have only been the most frightening place, full of vivid memories that strained to let you hear them, see them, taste them.
    The ruin was an effectual help for a flight of the imagination. The scarred trees, mostly oak and beech, stretched branches laden with green laves to the ragged sky. The masses of dark stone lay arbitrary about in the long grass and fronds of slight ferns. Small white flowers sprouted among the stones, their delicate heads swaying. More often than not, the birds would be there, twittering intrepidly about, unaware of the shroud –of what seemed like sacredness— that hung over the ruin. Something there held you silent some times. Other times, you’d feel a euphoric desire to sing and dance. Varien does not have a soul, and is not human. But Varien gives only what you seek. There is an old poem of Varien, written by Ennaran of Ballantyr:

Hidden by shadows, found by the grieving
The greenwood of Varien lies for the lost
Open to wanderers, reaching for seekers
Here is found solace, comfort, restraint

Twisting trees reach above ruins of stone
Grass waving, weaving, chill with the dew
Were once high walls stood, only crumbling stone
Vines overtake and slowly compress
A mysterious beauty, wild and free
The king’s thrones are empty; the people are gone
But here sits the finder, blessed to discover

And the poem was true, describing it as best as with mortal words. Yet, most stumblers who come across Varien are struck speechless as they gaze on the mysterious ruin of the fortress. If they find their voice, out come words they put to paper soon after leaving. These poems and songs have been highly esteemed far and wide, for no one else can match the quality and measure of that finder’s words. Often the finder could not explain how he had written such beauty, so astounding it brought joyous tears to the eyes of the grateful.
    I cannot help but try to describe Varien with all the words I know that ascribe Varien its due glory. There, amongst the trees, was a feeling of calm there in Varien, a feeling of protection. When one would stumble upon it, and when you pushed past your momentary state of unmoving, you’d marvel over its wonder and find its beauty beggaring description. Under duress, one would leave, trailing a hand over the last stone, pressing your face against the smooth bark of a beech tree, bending to caress the pale flowers, and perhaps tentatively taking a few to bring home.
    And you would never find that place again for a long time—if not ever. Some say its location changes after the leaving of another wayfarer. Others say it levitates to rest upon the clouds. Ask Elspeth—she found it many times, but only when she needed solace and comfort in times of demands or folly. Oftentimes, if she brought another with her, Varien would be harder to find. It was mostly because her companion would hold doubt inside, thinking that Elspeth was just going off on to a wild goose chase. Once Varien revealed itself, all doubt would flee, and a childlike wonder would overcome the both of them. Varien is a wild and untamable place, offering a silent solace for wandering, wondering souls. Varien is delicate and embracing. Varien is only a wood to blinded eyes, but to those who see— with more than their eyes, Varien is alive.