Nettleurgy

Rut this year had been… quiet. Very quiet. Not in the sense of frequency, of course. Stags both of low and high blood still fought with each other and claimed their does as they did every single rut since the formation of the Isles, and one might say that they did so more than they had the year before. But what Mungo had noticed, in his season where he stepped away from the battles directly to act as observer, more stags fought with honor. This was good news to the pale stag. His horns were starting to get heavy for his head, and he did not wish to waste his energy breaking up fights that grew bloody or needlessly violent. He was on his own this afternoon; the cadets he would assist in training were released to rest up. Winter, even in this kingdom painted in green from the magic fostered within it, was still difficult for those without a glade to rest in. Earrann’s Rest became a place where stags of all ages and backgrounds enjoyed each other’s warm company, and Mungo was grateful

There were times where Mungo appreciated the vastness of the kingdom he served. As a young buck, perhaps he might have loathed the idea of being sent out to some far-flung corner of the island on patrol. It would mean that he was parted from the safety of the main herd for days at a time, and leave his joints aching for just as long. He would grit his teeth and bear it; when he swore his life to the Crown, he was giving up his body and comfort to it as well as his loyalty. But now, as an older stag? Mungo found himself enjoying the lonely walk through the woods. The pale stag kept at a leisurely pace; anything worth noticing would dart as soon as they heard the massive stag crashing through the brush. No, he instead plodded along at an easy pace, hardly using any energy in excess. He hummed along to the birdsong overhead and kept his head low. All that he truly missed when he was gone were the fawnlings he considered his family. The lovely Mikaia who continued to stay faithful at

In the dead of winter, everything seemed to slow down. Snow blanketed every surface, from the pine boughs to the stoic boulders that littered the mountain slopes. Predators, who were eternally persistent, seemed to be more careful in how they menaced their prey. Ice clung to all that vital water ran through; creeks, pine bark, and the sweat slicked along the sides of fawns just doing their job. In this country, your only directive was to survive. By Uir’s favor, Guto’r managed to survive to stare another winter in the face. The bull had been directed to the mountains along their border to Silverthorne. Glenmore’s recent political upheaval, while flaring tensions between the kingdoms, had started to simmer down. Their new king had other matters to attend to other than to invade their chilly neighbor. With rumors of spies along the eastern border, his muscle was deemed to be more of use there. There were no hot springs to occupy his time here, but there were stumps to ram his

Rigel’s life had been a whirlwind these past few seasons; between being chosen as a gardener in a kind noble’s glade, to taking an promise of committment with her bear of a sweetheart… someone sunsplotched like her would be lucky to accomplish half of what she managed. The Gods, though cruel in her early life, must have found approval in her dutiful nature and pluckish perserverence. But the little doe’s work was never finished. Ariel prefered that she keep the glade lavish in appearance, and that meant the careful cultivation of blooms. After all, even a ‘wild’ appearance must be managed and curated. If anything it meant more work for the doe. Thank Oganach she did not mind it all. She would prune back roses with her teeth, grow flushes of lavender and primose along walkways, avenues shaded with creeping vines. Each doe would have her requests that she would fill; all sorts of colors, textures, how they attracted bees over butterflies… By mid-morning, the frail doe was exhausted.