Chapter I - Children Of The Forest

Spiteful wickedness roamed the Métierhome valley, but it was not known to the people, for they were trapped blissfully in a cage of untouched magic. Untainted were they to the changes of the outside world they were blessed to know nothing of plague, famine, war, and death was greeted with beloved acceptance. Changing little for mankind was the desire to sire a life to continue one's legacy and name. A man named Sage de Sang was such a man, he was a master engineer of all things mechanical, and was unworldly with his ability to work with wood.

Clocks, toys, merry-go-rounds, and other such fantastical machines bore his name, painted on so anyone who used them would know it was quality made with love. Sadly Sage was getting older, and he had never fallen in love, women saw him as too kind to be romantic with, and thus he was widowed before his time, surviving only by his wife's inspiration; inspiration for his creations. Grimly, inspiration had not bore him a girl or boy, and he was left to grow old and grey, without an heir. During the season of spring he roamed in the forest, walking as if led along by an invisible hand, lulled by daydreams of picnics with the children he'll never have.

So entranced in his imagined life he walked into a tree, it was firm, smooth, and grew not too much taller than him, but was five times as wide. Feeling it, he felt its age, it was in its prime, and would make good wood for his workshop. Marking the tree with his pocketknife he wrote his family name, de Sang, to mark to lay his claim on it, in case someone else would come along and realize it's worth. Leaving for home he returned drenched in sweat and breathing hard, way before he began chopping. Well I don't need to write that Sage was tired, but he chopped down the tree to a small stump, with the eagerness of a crazed beaver.

Felling the tree in less than six swings, he tied the tree to a rope and, lacking a donkey or cart, pulled it away all by himself. Upon seeing that tree he became incensed by some intangible spirit that gave him new the strength of a bull, the stamina of a stallion, and with that he pulled the tree home by sunset.

Worn, he passed out for the night, and bright early next morning he awoke to find the tree had mystically transformed, it was no longer the appearance of a tree. Instead it had the look of a pillar of bronze marble. Cautiously he tried to see it, and found it was still wood; he cut the tree down to many usable blocks of wood. Given direction by the whims of inspiration he decided to craft a son, a boy he never had, and a girl, why not? Life was passing him by, and if he was bound not to have children of his blood in the traditional sense, he would have them of his sweat and blood.

Days he worked tirelessly, so much so his customers were worried about his obsession with his work, and even dark rumors didn't deter him from his epiphany. Though his ears did hear stories of strangers to the valley, wearing cloaks soaked red with blood, he pushed them to the back of his mind. Finishing his children became his chief concern, at the edge of the forest, not far from the town of Estrung an exclamation shattered the peaceful illusion of a quiet night.

"I'm a father! I'm a father!" echoed through the darkness, silencing the hooting owls, and chirping crickets. Even the roar of the mighty river seemed hushed by Sage crying out his joy. Holding in his arms two children, puppets, made from that miraculous wood. One was darker due to being hardened by the furnace fires, he seemed unkind but had the alluring eyes of a newborn babe. Kindness was the puppets spirit, kindness and love, as his long arms held onto his pappa's arms, cradling himself in those fatherly arms. The other was sweeter, looking like a princess with beautiful snow white skin, rosy blush, and hair made of flowing white gold.

"To you my son, my eldest, I name you Chêne, my family name is on your chest, therefore you shall be my heir, so you may continue my work and look after your baby sister." settling Chêne on a comfy chair he held forth his daughter for his son to admire. "Doux De Sang, is her name, my beloved little girl. One day I shall give her to a man who'll-" reality hit Sage like reality usually does, as a rock to the heart. Placing her next to her brother, the depressed aged man went to his workbench and rested his head on his arms, and wept.

Tears of love never to be given, he knew they weren't real, he allowed fanciful thinking to delude his lonely mind. Sadness was Chêne's second emotion, first was love, second was a harmful contrast. Unsure why his father was sad, the wooden newborn climbed from the chair, his limbs gently clanking as he came to his father and hugged him. Shocked and horrified, the lonely man spun around, nearly knocking Chêne off his feet. Eyes dazzled with impossible wonder, Sage looked upon his wooden son, and saw he was alive. Walking, and eyes glistened with moist sap from the wood he was carved from, again the wooden boy went to his father and hugged him tightly.

No words came from his clicking mouth, but if he could speak he would've said loudly.

'I love you daddy, I love you.'

Horror at the supernatural melted into a warmth of being blessed, tightly he hugged his son, and lifted him in the air. "My boy, my Chêne," the father cried. Till morning he danced and played with his son, and eagerly tried to get his daughter to join, but saw no life was within her wooden body. Despite that both Sage and Chêne de Sang treated her as if she were alive. Together they went to town and Doux picked out a whole wardrobe of wonderful dresses for her to wear. Sage also picked out a dapper jacket of dark blue and trousers for Chêne, as they shopped for clothes the town's people were mortified and amazed at what they saw.

With their own eyes they saw a living puppet at the side of the old craftsman, with a lifeless girl puppet at their side, that they treated as if she were alive as the boy. Joyously Sage introduced his new children to the town, and he received a mix of polite courtesy masking discomfort, to those that fled pretending to be too busy to make introductions. Unafraid of the town's superstition they returned home, and spent many joyous weeks, playing, pinicing, and enjoying the wonders of the valley. All was good and happy in Sage's life, and so was Chêne's life. With each day since his birth he was filled more with love for his family, and took in the miracle of life, and if the story ended there it would be the happiest of stories indeed, but it doesn't, and it isn't.

One night a great storm came, wind blew so strong it bent the trees, rain caused the river to overflow and cover the ground in two feet of icy cold water. Despite the dense black, cloudy sky, the moon was out, and it shone a horrific crimson that was as dark as blood. Scared, Chêne hugged his father tightly, as he was rocked into a gentle sleep next to the fire. Unfortunately he was disturbed when there was a thunderous knock at the door, that was so forceful it shook the heavy oak door, nearly pushing it off its hinges. Placing his son next to his sister, Sage went to the door and opened it, the wind flung it wide open, and the rage of the storm winds dimmed the fire at the fireplace, and blew out the candles.

In a flash of lighting and glow of the red moon Sage saw standing there four men, each of them wearing red cloaks, that seemed to melt in the rain. One of them, the largest one, was affixed on the old craftsman, his pale, moonlight eyes glowed in the darkness under his hood. Without asking he came inside, grabbing Sage by his neck; soon followed the other men who slammed and bolted the door shut behind. Unable to speak due to fear, and a firm grasp on his neck, Sage coughed and shook as he squirmed in the strangling clutch of the large man.

"I'll ask yee once old fool," sneered the large man in the red cloak "how did you bring your puppet to life? What sorcery do you possess?" Breathlessly Sage collapsed to the ground, freed from the large man's grip, panting loudly, trembling from the terrible grip he was freed from. Without hesitation Chêne ran to his father's side, but a slim, towering figure snatched the wooden boy, and held him off the ground.

"This is the one, my god! Look at him, he can move, and I see now, this is no costume fellas." the words came from the tall man as if he were describing a gruesome murder. Terror filled his eyes, he had never bore witness to such deviltry, and he considered it the work of Satan himself. Making himscared and envious that he had no such power, hoping that night he and his accomplices would extort the power from Sage.

"Aye for certain it is magic at work here, tell me old craftsman, what deity did you pray to, what offering did you make to perform to bring life to wood?" Rubbing his neck, the old craftsman wasn't sure if he should lie, knowing they wouldn't accept the truth. Defeated, seeing no other options, he told the men of the tree he found, and the spark of ingenuity that made him create his children. Cruelly the men laughed, finding humor in the old man's pitiful desperation for fatherhood.

"I hear no lies." said the bigman, "indeed he is no wizard, no witchcraft has brought this to life. Perhaps some sprite granted his wish, in a twisted way, but no I do believe there is no unholy rite to be learned here." Sounding as disappointed as a child who was passed over by father Christmas, the large man seemed to be ready to leave. If only he did, if only those men in the red cloaks left, leaving the new family alone, to live in peace and love. This is not such a tale, and nothing so sadistically violent should have been witnessed by young Chêne.

Held tightly by strong hands he watched as the large man thrashed his father, beating him till his head was drenched with blood and his left eye fell out of his socket. Still alive, the other men grabbed his tools and toys and began dismantling his father, as if they were children taking apart a toy. Tearing his arms from the sockets, ripping out finger and toe nails, and prying open his bellybutton with a vice to remove his still throbbing organs. Decorating the small house with Sage's entrails as if they were celebrating a winter holiday, the cloaked men laughed at the torture of the old craftsman. Still clinging to life Sage begged his son, Chêne with blood tears streaming from his one good eye.

"Look away son, don't let them ruin your good heart." Pleading his son to not witness his suffering, but Chêne couldn't. Clicking his wordless mouth begged for his father's release, hoping for some salvation, but there would be none. One last blow ended Sage's life, a large mallet used to insert heavy cogs was smashed into his skull. Cracking open his forehead, and sending the insides of the skull flying all over the house, staining both his puppet children's clothes in brains and blood.

Tears flowed from Chêne's eyes, as he furtively reached out to hold his beloved father, mouthing in his clicking mouth, 'pappa, pappa.' all the while. Satisfied with their carnage the cloaked men removed their hoods to better revel in their sin.

"You upset little wooden boy?" the tall man teased. "How about I give you something to be really upset about." Then with one hard throw, hurled Chêne into the fireplace. That was when the little puppet learned another sensation, one that was literally burned into his wooden flesh, the searing pain of being burned alive. Satisfied with their carnage the men put on their hoods, and their faces became smoldered into Chêne's mind, which had begun to feel a new emotion. Hate, burning hate, as his loving life was set aflame by the cloaked men, who broke a lantern on the floor, spilling its oil, then setting it aflame.

Leaving as the cabin began to burn, the tall man looked at Chêne whose body had charred in the fire, who he saw was reaching out for his sister. A lion's grin came over his face as he snatched lifeless Doux and left the cabin, the dead body of Sage, and the writhing Chêne to burn.

***

Morning came to the peaceful valley, it came with a yawn and a flutter of eyelids, as the town of Estrung awoke in the gentle morning dew of a dreadful storm. Peaceful breakfasts, and prechore stretches were interrupted by a cry for help.

"Help, murder, its a massacre, get the sherriff." Swiftly the sheriff Heradon rushed out of his house, barely managing to buckle his belt, before rushing to answer the alarm. Quickly he questioned the woodcutter who told Heradon what he witnessed as he returned from early sawing in the woods. Apparently the house Sage de Sang lived in was burned down, and his burnt remains were all that survived the blackened ruins.

Rushing out with all his deputies, the sheriff came to Sage's home to find indeed the old craftsman was dead, and his wooden children were nowhere to be seen. At first he suspected his wooden son may have killed him, but another witness came forth, an old druid who lives in a hut within the hoods. She told the sheriff she saw the horrible deed as she was trying to get home safely after picking midnight mushrooms. Through the windows she saw the rumored men in red cloaks, brutally murder Sage, and burn his son in the fire, she left before they spotted her, and she headed home to wait out the storm.

Everyone in town was saddened to hear of the death of their beloved craftsman, his skills built the clocktower in town square, and many other beloved attractions all over the valley. Even the baron's clockwork castle he helped build, having drawn up the plans himself, the silver bells in the castle bear his name on their side. The funeral was held later that week, as everyone of notoriety in the valley came to pay respects to Sage de Sang, and his wooden children. Despite some being skeptical about the stories of them being alive or not, they put their names on his gravestone.

For months the town was depressed, they all dressed in black, and the craftsman grave was perpetually buried in bouquets of flowers from mourners. And a rumor soon spread that late at night, someone could see a lone figure, standing as tall as a child, with a body as black as pitch, standing over the old man's grave. Years passed and people learned to live with the grief till it hurt less, and even the humor of the nighttime visitor to the Sage's grave faded, as all things in the passage of time.

Sheriff Heradon, or any other enforcer of the law found the killers, and with years it became a burden to him as a cripples, lame leg.