Maideen

Maideen

The Warrior

It was cold. Damn cold. The solitary warrior overlooked the valley from his frozen perch. The wonder of the upcoming night’s events left him nervous and in awe of what was ahead. He was a slender man, small in comparison to the others of his tribe. Sable dark hair and dark eyes set him apart from the golden hair and blue eyes that were hereditary in his clan. Dark eyes clouded as he recalled the taunting as a child and then the barely concealed hostility and rejection that he had endured as he had grown older, as a result of the many differences that set him apart. He had, however, applied himself and had become the supreme archer of his clan and had earned the respect of his leaders and his peers by developing the sharpest eye and softest touch amongst the bowmen of his tribe.

The lithe warrior shivered in the cold, there never seemed to be enough bear skins to warm him up, another significant difference between he and his fellow tribesmen that reveled in the punishing cold using its rigors as proof and test of their endurance and might. The dark archer just shook his head in amusement at his brothers in arms as he tried to rub some sense of warmth into his numbing hands.

Concern clouded his dark eyes. While tonight’s proceeding were an honor never previously awarded to a warrior of the clan, the circumstances surrounding the honor were serious. Neighboring tribes fighting for no other reason that the joys of the fierce warrior and no goal other than the blood and gore of conflict. This was another major difference between the dark warrior and his people. He much preferred the cold precision of an arrow than the reckless bezerk abandon to often displayed by his brutal fellow warriors. Not a great fan of the melee of close quarter combat, where fortune and misfortune could decide one’s fate as much as one’s skills. He instead preferred the surgical precision of the bow and the steady hand and sharp eye of the archer.

The warrior had been sent into the wild to cleanse himself in the frozen purity of the surrounding tundra. The Gods had selected him for a special task, one that remained unknown to the warrior, yet with the typical stoicism and loyalty of a soldier he did not ask questions he merely obeyed. As he sat quietly, the cold of his harsh world penetrating him to the bones, he looked across the valley and sees a fire. The warrior’s willingness to obey without question did not preclude or extinguish his curiosity and he could not help but wonder what was going on.

The Druid

The dark cold night lent its magic to the moment. The peak of the mysterious druid’s life had finally come to pass. The winter solstice had arrived, and with it the culmination of an eventful year’s planning. This solstice without a doubt was different than any other before in the long life of the silent druid. The moment had come for which he had been created, the moment in which the meandering paths of his quiet existence merged into one fulfilling moment in which his reason for being would finally be consummated.

He looked down at the object set before him and meditated on the origins of each priceless treasure and on the command of his goddess that he would finally be permitted, by her divine will, to perform this night. It was a command or a task if you will that no other druid before him had ever done and one that would never be done again.

The objects before him seemed to glow with an aura as though the magic of the night were infusing them with the solemnity of the moment. At the center of the three items was a piece of metal, rough and unshaped. The druid would never forget the night, while on solitary travels, on a dark night a fiery ball had fallen from the sky. Upon investigation he had discovered this piece of metal. As he had watched the flaming metal cool, he sat and considered the significance of the moment. He was not a foolish man given to wild imagination, but in his heart he knew this particular chunk of metal had fallen, for all intents and purposes, right in his lap for a reason, though he could not understand what that reason might be.

As he sat pondering this, a woman of great beauty approached him. In this woman was great power. A feeling not easy to describe came over him. It was a mixture of awe, wonder and dread and he fell to his knees, somehow knowing on a deeper level that he was in the presence of divinity. As she approached he was struck by the intensity of her beauty and her fierce femininity. She was a warrior goddess no doubt, yet in her flaming red hair and piercing green eyes there was no threat that he could discern. A bow, exquisite in its beauty and dark in its appearance was slung over shoulder casually, not in a manner that was lazy or irresponsible, but rather in a confident manner that clearly indicated she was familiar with the weapon and knew exactly how to use it to perfection. As she approached him she spoke in a commanding voice with a penetrating gaze that demanded his obedience. She spoke in a tone that clearly indicated she would not tolerate obstinence or ambiguity and would accept nothing less than his loyalty and obedience and would reject with scorn and disdain anything but his best.

Having sworn fealty and obedience to the goddess she told him that his presence was no mistake and the piece of metal that had fallen was no ordinary metal. He had been selected for a life long task. She drew a small bag from her belt and handed it to him with the command that he was not to open it under any conditions. To open it would desecrate the magic bound in it, anger the gods and bring a curse more abominable than he could imagine. The day would come when its contents would be revealed its power would be released and its purpose would be realized, but until that day no human eyes were to look upon the contents of the pouch. She then commanded him to take the piece of metal and to protect it for she had a great purpose for it, but the time was not right and the need for it was not yet dire and there was yet one component missing. He was to wait for the next winter solstice and was to gather his brother druids together for an amazing task. He was also to bring two blank parchments, for they were needed for what would transpire. When the moment arrived she would give further instructions.

And with that she was gone. He did as he was commanded and gathered the pouch and the piece of metal. He gathered his brothers on the sacred appointed day with nothing but two blank parchments as the goddess had commanded. They gathered in a circle, the designated runes carved on the floor as they chanted their sincerest prayers to the goddess that had demanded their presence. As their chants of praise and petitions reached a crescendo, a presence filled the room. Though the gathered druids could see nobody, there was no doubt as to the nature of that presence. Their chants simmered down to a whispered awe as symbols began to appear on the parchments. Magic of intense proportions were tied into these runes. As with the other materials, when the day came for the parchments to be used, the druid would know when and how to use them.

As the druids went their respective ways, an unspoken vow of silence was made between them. The events that had transpired were to sacred to be cheapened with idle gossip, useless chatter and mocking embellishments. The parchments were tucked away in a small leather casing for when the time came for them to be used. “And that time has come” whispered the withered druid, as he quietly came out of his meditative reverie. He looked about at the preparations surrounding him. The forge was in place. The hammer, fresh and new having never been used and especially made for this sacred moment, sat silently on the new anvil. The fires of the forge burned hot and ready, lending warmth to the waiting druid. The other participants should be arriving soon. Very soon.

As though conjured by his weighted thoughts, dark figures appeared out of the night and began to gather in a circle around the clearing. Shadowed and silent, cowls drawn low, the brothers appeared as mysterious apparitions, giving the gathering a mysterious aura. It was impossible to distinguish faces, making it impossible to identify individuals, which somehow seemed appropriate to the solemnity of the occasion. As previously agreed, each participant took his place at the circle clearly etched in the snow. No greetings were uttered and no names were offered as none were needed and indeed, at this place and at this time such information would seem unnecessary and vulgar.

At the center of the circle sat the forge and the weapon smith’s anvil and hammer and the materials required for the task at hand. The druid brothers were gathered and waiting in silent meditation all that was missing was the weapons master.

The Weapon Master

“Never forge a weapon that is not worth forging with the fire of your soul and the strength of your heart.” How many times had the weapon master heard these words from his father who had trained him in his chosen profession? He had often reminded him that to a king a weapon is but a means to serve his goals, to a soldier it is but a means of survival but to a weapon’s master it is an art and means of expression.

He sat on his small bed filled with a sense of dread and awe as he considered what was to come to pass this night. It was for moments as these that his father had trained Him. The countless hours spent with his hammer and his anvil under the scrutinizing, critical eye of his dad and mentor were all destined by the goddess to prepare him for this hour.

And it could not have been at a time of more dire need. The clan, surrounded by enemies and faced with the harshness of winter was in desperate need of a hero. His soul sang, his heart thrilled and his blood rushed with the knowledge that his goddess had chosen him to equip that hero.

He sat and thought of everything the tribe’s cleric, a serious, unassuming druid, had told him. A bow and a quiver were to be made was all he knew. This presented a problem in and of itself. He had never forged a bow, and as far as he knew, nobody else ever had. A bow was made of wood, not metal, since metal would be to heavy to wield, at least any metal he was familiar with. Furthermore, he was to forge a single arrow of the same metal. This presented two questions, one of which would be a repetition of the first. Why metal and how would it fly? And why only one arrow? In fact, the more he thought about it the more he feared that the druid, unaccustomed to weapons as he was, must have misunderstood. But the weapons master did not argue to long with the druid, not for lack of trying but simply because the determined holy man had made it abundantly clear that the goddess had commanded it so. The calm trusting way he said it left no room for doubt, or for argument.

The moment had arrived. He arose and stepped out into the cold. He was well rested, as the druid had commanded, indeed had almost magically slept all day, something he had never been able to do and even now he felt more rested than he had been in a long time, longer than he could remember. He made his way quietly to the appointed place. He felt unprepared, as he went, bearing no tools, as he had been instructed that the necessary tools would be waiting for him. This of course was just one more unusual requirement, and one he was not to happy with. He much preferred to use his own trusty and time proven tools.

As he neared the appointed place he was struck with a sense of duty and awe as he pushed away his doubts, his inward grumbling and his misgivings and set his mind and heart tot he task at hand. So what if he thought this bow to be impractical? If his goddess wanted a bow, she would get the loveliest and best made impractical bow his skilled hands and creative eye could forge. The druid had told him that the circle of brothers would not interfere with his work and that the design would be his own. The druid did, however, warn him that the will of the goddess would guide his hands and he was to follow her direction since in the end, the bow was hers.

As he neared the clearing he could see the familiar fires of a forge. He approached quietly, seeing the circle of dark figures as he drew closer. The silence was deafening as he quietly crossed the circle etched into the snow. Immediately the silence was broken by a whispered chant, as the circle of brothers began the ceremony without warning yet in uncanny perfect unison. As the druid warned him, there were no greetings, no introduction and no instructions. All that needed to be said, had been said. The time for words had passed, the time for action had come. He solemnly made his way to the forge. He stirred the fires and used the blowing tool to intensify the heat of the glow. He removed his bear skin cloak and turned to the job at hand.

The Forging

The druid’s chant continued in the background. At first the presence of the brothers and their chant was disconcerting and even a little distracting. The weapons master looked at the piece of metal he had been presented. It was rough and in one single large piece. It was dark, an attribute he had never seen in a metal. As he reached to pick it up he braced himself for the weight of the metal and was surprised by how light it was. For the first time he began to think that this might actually work.

Placing the metal in the hot flames of the forge he watched it engulfed by the fire. As the chants of the surrounding circle of brothers continued around him, he maintained his eye on the metal at the center of the burning forge. He watched in awe and amazement as it appeared the flames had no affect on the metal. The weapons master moved to the side of the forge to blow more air into the flames to intensify the heat. As the scalding fires reached such levels as he had rarely used he watched as the chunk of metal began to succumb to the power of the heat and grow red from the penetrating blaze. The weapons smith just shook his head in amazement. What kind of metal had the druid given him to work with? Where had he found it? And most importantly, could he get more? Any other metal he had worked with would have been melted to liquid by now, yet this dark metal was just reaching the point of being malleable.

As the dark metal began to turn white from the heat the weapons master lifted it from the flames he quickly divided it into three pieces; two larger and one smaller. Returning the smaller piece and one of the larger ones to the forge he began to hammer at the remaining piece. The distraction of the druid’s chant no longer was disturbing him as he found a rhythm in their words and swung with his heart. The weapon master’s sinewy muscles moving fluidly as he formed three rods from the chunk of metal, returning them to the hot flames as needed. Having carved them, he returned them to the flames and battered away at them as he joined the three rods as one into a solid rod about six feet long. He was amazed, and finally understood the words of the druid. He knew nothing of forging a bow, yet step by unknowing step a bow was taking form in his hands. He also now understood the size of the forge as he set the long rod into the flames once again awed by its lightweight and its resistance to the heat of the flames. The weapons smith then removed it from the flames and began to hammer the dark metal into a graceful form as the metal was repeatedly pounded and returned to the flames. Hours of tedious and tiring work went by in, seemingly, minutes as the weapons master’s strong arm beat out a rhythm in perfect harmony with the chants of the circling brotherhood of druids. Beautiful in its simplicity, the bow’s bent form stood approximately four feet tall with no marking and no etchings on it as the druid had instructed him. He shook his head in awe and confusion as he held the bow, for it was lightweight and perfectly balanced, dark and deadly. It was hard to believe that he had never made a bow before.

Setting the bow aside he reached for the other large piece of the metal and set it back in the flames of the forge. As the metal finally began to turn white from the flames the weapons master was once again struck by the metal’s natural resistance to the flames. Placing the heated metal on his anvil the weapons smith begins to hammer the dark ore into a flat sheet. Working steadily he forms a quarter inch thick sheet he burnishes it and makes it smooth and flat. After hours of hammering he barely notices that the sun has begun to rise. The weapons master takes the sheet of metal and returns it to the flames of the forge. As the heat makes it more pliable he takes it out and bends the sheet into perfect cylinder about ten inches in diameter. Setting the cylinder back into the forge’s heated blaze he watches the edges turn white from the inferno as they become pliable. He then puts the horn of the anvil through the quiver that is forming. He quickly clamps the two edges together and beats the gap closed, merging the two sides of the cylinder into a seamless joining. After cooling the seam and burnishing it to perfection he put the bottom end of the cylinder back in the flames and watches it succumb to the heat, the weapon smith then makes a quarter inch lip all the way around it. Setting aside the dark quiver, the weapons smith examines it with a critical eye. Dark and simple the completed quiver was an unmarked cylinder two and half feet tall and ten inches in diameter.

Taking the final piece of the amazing ore he places it into the flames. Once it reaches the point of pliability he removes it from the forge and placing it on his anvil he further separates it into two pieces and sets one aside. Taking the first piece he places it once again in the flames. After softening it he takes up his hammer again and begins to form a circular plate to fit the bottom of the quiver, using the tools of his trade he fashions it to perfection and then cools it. Moving to the dark quiver he slides it in and finds much to his pleasant surprise that it is a snug and therefore a perfect fit.

He pauses a moment to look over the bow and quiver both dark and lightweight. Indeed the goddess had guided his hands. He held no delusions in regards to the work he had done tonight or today as he corrected himself as he looks and sees the night once again approaching. He would never be able to duplicate this deadly work of art. Any doubts he had held before were gone as he saw the work set before him. While he felt a deep sense of pride at his work, he was held breathless and in awe that he ad been given this task and the skill to fulfill it by his goddess. He could only hope that she would accept what was beyond doubt the culmination of his skills. His very soul was tied up in this weapon, this piece of art.

Taking up the final piece of the mysterious metal the weapons smith heated it once again and moved to his anvil. From this last piece he forged a single arrow, two feet long from the tip of the blade to the tail. He took the finer tools of his art and cut three grooves into the tail of the arrow. Taking the arrow to the grinding stone he sharpened the blade of the arrow to a fine edge.

The darkness of night had returned as the work of the weapons smith wound down to its final sonata. As the magic of the moment began to wane, exhaustion commenced to settle on the wepons smith as the realization struck him that he had worked all night and all day at the forge. The chants of the druids surrounding him began to seep into his consciousness and sleep began to pervade his thoughts. From some distant thought it occurred to him that his part of this saga was completed and he was not to be a witness of what was to follow. As he sat quietly, feebly attempting to fight off sleep in a futile effort to maintain consciousness. The last sight he saw before sleep over took him was the weapon he had made and the last thought he had was “Well done!” Then a aura of peace and serenity washed over him as he drifted off to sleep.

The Magic

The brotherhood continued their chant, but the pitch and attitude subtly changed as the weapon master drifted off into a magically induced sleep, his part in the unfolding drama completed. As the weapon master slumped peacefully beside the smoldering forge the druid approached the table on which the exquisite bow rested alongside the quiver and the single arrow. He breathlessly arranged the weapon, taking the sacred parchments and laid them on the table in the center of the consecrated objects, stepping back he bowed, once again joining his brothers in the sacred chant.

As the unified prayers of the brotherhood crescendo in a fervent melodic plea to the goddess, a power once again was manifested not as a person but rather as a presence. The only visible proof of this presence was a light, peaceful and mesmerizing, as it settled on the tight circle of chanting druids. As the haunting harmony of the brotherhood simmered to a chant, soft and hushed in awe, the symbols on the parchments, glowing a soft red, began to rise off the scrolls, as though they were a physical, animate magical entity. As they rose in a soft dance on the dark cold enchanted breeze of the winter solstice’s magical night. The runes circled over the ilemite weapon, dark and deadly, as though searching for the right place to rest and the right moment to inscribe themselves on the bow and quiver.

For one suspended moment the runes hung there, suspended in time and space, as a thundering voice echoed in the mind of the druid, “NOW!” it commanded sharply, silent to all except him. Quickly opening the pouch he had protected for so many years he emptied it contents into his palm and held out his hand, as he trembled in at the magic he felt coursing through his being from the contents he presented to his goddess. In his hand he held a finely ground handful of rubies, a stone sacred to his fiery goddess. In sheer terror he realized that he could sense her power rushing through him, and for a moment he feared he would burst.

Then came a soft breeze, like a tender kiss from nature, as though the very elements were assisting in the consecration of this mighty tool of the goddess. The breeze lifted the granules of the sacred stone and carried it to dance amongst the suspended runes that still glowed with power, pulsating from the intensity of the moment. The brotherhood fell on their faces the cold of the gathered snow not even registering as the sheer presence of divinity, felt yet unseen, permeated the circle. The gathered druids raise their voices in passion and fervor as the climax of the moment arrived. A blinding light erupted around them like sheets of brilliant lightening, hiding from view the sacred granules full of magic, the suspended runes and the chosen weapon, made especially for this sacred moment, as the goddess completed her will shut off from the view of the circling spectators.

And then it was gone. The blinding light, the warmth of the presence and the heat of the moment was all gone, leaving only the satisfaction of a life long mission completed and the emptiness of knowing one had stood in a presence that he would never again feel so strongly as this moment. The druid stood up, solemnly approaching the table with measured steps. The sight before him took his breath away. The weapon was already exquisite from the skills of the weapons master’s hands. But words could not describe it now. Black and dark, runes of immense magic etched into both bow and quiver. The single arrow now rested in the quiver, placed there by the goddess. Both bow and quiver shimmered and sparkled red. Lifting the quiver the druid withdrew the single arrow admiring its deadly beauty. As he reached to return it to the quiver he was shocked to see another arrow resting in the quiver. As he placed the arrow back into the quiver he was unnerved to realize that to his utter amazement there was still only one arrow. Looking at the weapon he held a soft word breathed through his mind, Maideen. “That is its name, Maideen” he whispered softly. As he watched it shimmer in the darkness he says softly, “Your name will be known far and wide, and your fame will be tied with your name, StarFire.”

Looking up he knew the young warrior had seen the awaited blinding light and would be returning to camp soon. The weapon master began to stir. Looking up he saw the completed weapon and sat in awe of its beauty. Rising slowly the weapons master quietly slipped away to his tent. The druid looked around to realize he was alone. The brotherhood had crept away as silently as they had arrived. Turning away he too left this place of magic, bow and quiver in hand and headed to his place of rest as exhaustion began to take over.

The Bow

Name: Maideen, a Celtic name that means Dark Beautiful Flame. The bow with time became known as StarFire.

Material: Ilemite. A dark, lightweight metal that is a variation of titanium naturally found in the mountains of Russia and also on the moon. This metal is resistant to fire.

Size: Bow stands 4 feet tall. The quiver is two and half feet tall and ten inches in diameter. It holds one single arrow.

The sparkle is from rubies, crushed to small grains and magically ingrained in the metal.
The runes

On the quiver there is a rune for unending supply by the goddess. It allows the quiver to never be empty. Always one arrow, not to many and not to few.

On the bow is a rune for Power. The bow, once strung requires no more effort from one person than is needed for another. It throws its arrows with equal might and unequaled power.

There is a rune for Memory: The bow stores in itself the memories of its history passed and is only revealed to its wielder in dreams.

There is a rune for Will: the bow chooses the one that will wield it. If its power is abused the bow will desert the user. The bow is not strung the arrow is not feathered. It is the responsibility of the user to do so. The string cannot break unless the bow rejects its owner.

The Weaknesses

Bloodlust: It can draw the user into a desire to kill. Though built by a goddess its purpose is death. The power in it is dark and the wielder must be careful not to lose himself or herself in its perfection to kill.

Skills of the user: It does not aim for the user. It does not have any additional precision. The user’s skill must make it work efficiently. In a way the user must prove his or her worthiness to wield the bow.