First Rite of the Land

“Go, child of the Tree. Know the land as you know your own breath. Return not with trophies, but with understanding.” - Archdruid Velatha Qihana

Rusco gathered their pack.

A bed roll, a short guide of common edible and medicinal plants, a waterskin, a dagger, and a bow and arrow – these were all the things they were allowed to take with them. They set forth into the woods around Aynnweth shortly after sunrise on the Vernal Equinox.

They walked nervously but steadily forward, tracking landmarks to try and keep their bearings. Eventually, they found a stream to follow.

They walked until the winds shifted as the sun began to set. They found a good spot to set up shelter near the stream, they gathered some berries for a snack and refilled their waterskin.

As they got their fire going on this chilly spring night, they listened to the sounds of the forest.

Their first camp pointed back in the direction of home, they settled in.

One year to go.

The first trial is the gentlest.

It is traditional for the first trial to take place in a familiar environment, and Rusco knew the mood of these woods like the back of their hand.

Even so, this is a big undertaking.

Use of magic is very limited for the first rite. Cantrips and wildshapes only - small magic that is freely gifted from the Wildmother.

Beyond that, only the supplies that can be carried and mended. Only the water and food that can be found, foraged, or hunted.

The only company Rusco would have for the next year would be the forest itself.

Though Rusco was a third-rank Druid — the minimum allowed for this challenge — they were also much younger than most who made the attempt.

Their knowledge and abilities had always been prodigious, placing them a little ahead of their age group. That had become something of a chip on their shoulder, which is why they wanted to take the trial as soon as the Council would allow it.

They wanted to prove — mostly to themself — that they deserved to be so far ahead.

It was Archdruid Qihana who turned the tide, stating that she believed Rusco was ready.

The first month was kind and quiet.

Rusco moved farther upstream to a spot where the water widened into a calm pool. The trees thinned out here, offering a better view of the sky.

They found a sturdy oak with strong branches and built a simple shelter and hammock off the ground. Most of the materials came from fallen branches and dead vines, though they used a touch of druidcraft to add extra security. They also made a rain catch from reeds and clay.

Each day, Rusco observed the wildlife, learning their patterns. Most meals came from foraged berries and fruits, with the occasional small game or fish from the river. They practiced their wildshapes, copying the movements and behaviors of the animals that lived nearby.

The weather stayed mild, warming a little each day. When the first rains came, Rusco patched a few holes in their shelter. For now, this spot would serve them well — at least until winter.

Spring gave way to summer.

The shelter in the trees had been a smart choice. The extra breeze helped in the growing heat. But as midsummer approached, a long dry spell set in, and the stream slowed to a trickle. The water was fine for cooling off, but it grew murky and had to be filtered before drinking.

Rusco’s stored water was running low. They hiked upstream for nearly half a day before finding clearer water and some edible roots. It was enough to carry back a small supply, but not enough to rely on for the long term. Fetching water from that far away each day wouldn’t work.

Balance doesn’t always shift gently.

A week later, the dry spell broke — not with light showers, but with a powerful thunderstorm. The river overflowed its banks. Even the mighty oak swayed in the wind. A large branch cracked off and slammed into the ground just a few feet from Rusco’s shelter. Lightning struck somewhere nearby, and a herd of deer stampeded through the forest moments later.

The storm lasted for hours. Eventually, the wind eased into a breeze, the rain slowed to a drizzle, and stars began to peek through gaps in the clouds.

Rusco’s shelter, though battered, had survived. But the rest of summer would bring more storms like this. It was time to move on.

They took the shelter apart, leaving the spot as untouched as they’d found it, and continued upstream in search of safer ground.

Summer drew to a close.

Rusco found a formation of large stones that could be used for shelter, conveniently not far from one of the springs that feeds the stream. The weather shifted now and then—short dry spells were followed by heavy storms—but for the most part, days brought clear skies and afternoons brought brief rains.

One evening, Rusco was in their nightly meditation. The air was still and crisp, barely a breeze moving through the trees. They had no idea that this quietness was a gift.

They startled awake at the rustle of leaves and the snap of a twig—sounds that would have likely gone unnoticed if not for the calm.

A young wolf had wandered into this part of the forest, venturing farther than where Rusco had noted the usual boundaries of its territory. The latest dry spell must have driven its prey away, and the pack had likely splintered in search of food.

Through an opening in their shelter, Rusco saw it: the wolf creeping forward, bold and hungry. If Rusco had been in a group, the wolf might have kept its distance—but not tonight. Not with a lone druid in a twig-and-leaf tent.

Rusco’s heart began to race, but they held their ground. This was the wolf’s home, and this wolf was doing what hungry wolves do. They needed to protect themself—but how?

A flash of green crossed their eyes, and in an instant, their form shifted into that of a direwolf. Far too large for the cramped shelter, Rusco burst out with a growl, standing their ground just as the wolf pounced.

Startled, the wild wolf skittered back, then lowered into a defensive stance. This part of the forest was unclaimed—even by wolves.

The wild wolf lunged forward, challenging Rusco. There was a sharp pain as its teeth sank into Rusco’s side. Rusco snarled and shook the wolf off.

They needed to repel the wolf—but without causing serious harm.

After a flurry of pounces, swipes, and bites, Rusco gained the upper hand. They knocked the wolf to the ground, pinned it, and clamped their teeth around its neck. Not enough to kill, but enough to make the point.

Finally, the wild wolf went still beneath Rusco’s grip. Rusco held a moment longer, then released and backed away a pace.

When they were sure the wolf would stay down, Rusco dropped their wildshape and rummaged through their tent for supplies. They approached cautiously, low to the ground, and offered some smoked meat.

The wolf accepted. A first step toward trust.

Rusco checked its wounds. They’d seen worse. They applied a poultice of healing herbs to the worst injuries, then sat nearby, petting the wolf gently to calm it.

The wolf lingered for days. Rusco helped it recover—shifting into a similar wolf form and hunting small prey on its behalf.

Days turned into weeks. The wolf was moving with more ease and its wounds were healing well. It was beginning to hunt small prey of its own.

Each evening, before meditation, Rusco would transform, and the two wolves would run through the forest together. At night, they curled up in Rusco’s shelter. It was becoming clear to them that this bond could run deep with time.

Rusco knew this relationship shouldn’t continue. The wolf needed to rejoin its pack. They broke down camp, and the two headed back in the direction of the pack’s territory.

As Rusco and the lost wolf approached the boundary, a stirring in a nearby stand of trees signaled the pack’s presence—they had clearly been tracking the scent of their missing member.

Now, a new, foreign scent piqued their interest: Rusco.

They formed around in a loose semicircle, either to defend or attack. Rusco’s new companion stepped forward, positioning itself in a firm and protective posture. The tension between the two groups was palpable.

One of the wolves from the pack took a cautious step toward Rusco. The lost wolf moved smoothly and confidently in front of them.

They focused on their breathing to keep their heart calm as they waited to see what the pack would do.

The energy of the group shifted.

The lost wolf circled around Rusco and nuzzled their hand, then laid down at their feet. The gesture was clear, and the energy shifted.

Rusco was safe. Trustworthy and helpful, even.

A wolf from the pack crept forward to inspect Rusco and the lost wolf. The lost wolf remained alert but calm. Finally, the tension broke away completely. The lost wolf rejoined the pack. Some pups came out from behind the adults and played together.

The message was unmistakable: at least for tonight, Rusco was part of the pack.

That night, they ran together.

The pack caught a young elk and feasted, while Rusco dropped their wolf form to enjoy some vegetables from their stores.

As the wolves settled in for the night, Rusco was welcomed to snuggle in with the pack.

They watched up to the skies, surrounded by light snoring and warm fur. They noticed the positions of the constellations and thought about the length of the last few days and nights.

It was the Autumn Equinox. Rusco’s birthday.

They watched the skies for a bit, a contented smile on their face, as they drifted into their meditation.

With the exhaustion of the hunt, the come-down from the adrenaline, and the first taste of kinship they had felt in months, Rusco’s rest was deep. Elves don’t truly sleep, but this was pretty close to it.

When they awoke in the morning, the pack had moved on.

They left behind a small hare as a token of kinship, a hearty breakfast for Rusco to start the first day of Autumn—marking the halfway point of their adventure.

The seasons shifted.

The first month of autumn carried a lingering heat from summer, but the nights cooled quickly as they grew longer and longer.

The boulders near the mouth of the stream had proven to be a reliable home, so Rusco returned to them.

The leaves began to change and fall. The creatures in the forest started collecting their winter stores. Rusco did the same, gathering fallen nuts and tending to a patch of root vegetables in a clearing near the stream.

These months weren’t without stumbles – a close call with a bear, a mishap while collecting honey, a misidentification of a berry and an upset stomach.

Rusco wasn’t deterred. All-in-all, they were learning the whims of the forest. These were just growing pains.

With autumn only just beginning, they knew that they needed to start preparing for warm clothing now.

Rusco ventured back into the wolves’ territory, though wary of disrupting the pack’s dynamic again.

They kept downwind and moved quietly, collecting pelts from their captured prey to tan. They eventually collected enough to make a winter cloak—crude, but effective.

They also recovered the antlers from a fallen stag. It was tradition in Aynnweth for those who completed their trial to return with antlers, crafting them into a ceremonial headpiece to mark their success. Rusco hoped they’d be able to use these.

Back at camp, Rusco began burrowing into the hillside for extra protection and insulation. They carved a rudimentary cave using the Mold Earth cantrip. They dug a root cellar into the floor to store their harvest.

Next came a hearth, which was the easy part. After a few smoky false starts, they also managed to shape a functional chimney.

They gathered fallen branches for firewood and leaves to soften the floor.

Small comforts. Just in time, too, as the first snow began to fall.

The longest night came and went.

Just in time, too, as the isolation in the forest was becoming difficult. A few days of blizzard conditions blurred together as Rusco remained in their shelter. They even caught themself speaking aloud just to hear the sound of something living.

They busied some of their days by tracking the movements and patterns of small animals through the woods. Rusco occasionally wildshaped into their forms to observe them more closely. Not quite kinship, but a welcome break in the monotony of a sleeping forest.

To help pass the long nights, Rusco spent time carving a fallen branch. Their knife-work was crude, but persistence led to little improvements with each passing moon.

They practiced moving quietly in the snow, first in various wildshape forms to experiment with how to place footfalls without creating sound in the crunchy snow. Then they practiced in their natural, elvish form. Eventually, they were able to track a herd of deer for a mile without even perking their ears.

What began as practicing a skill became a meditation. It was a way to feel present in a forest that had fallen mostly silent.

On a crisp, clear night after a fresh snowfall, Rusco climbed into the tallest tree they could and looked out over the glittering canopy.

They listened to the wind itself as it moved through an otherwise silent forest. It almost sounded like a whispered song – an ancient lullaby that had been floating on the wind for thousands of years.

They spotted plumes of smoke to the south, soft grey in the moon’s light.

Aynnweth. Home.

They spotted other plumes of smoke in farther reaches of the forest to the north and west. Nomadic clans, probably, heading to or from Aynnweth to trade or resupply.

A snowy owl swooped past a few branches down, probably spotting a meal on the ground. A wolf howled somewhere in the woods. Then another.

The forest. Home.

The days grew longer and warmer.

The constellations shifted. The old snow began to melt faster than the new snow fell. By now, Rusco was swift to find food, and they were stealthy to avoid danger.

After a full winter season’s work, the branch Rusco began carving months ago became a finely-carved staff. It was rich with druidic symbols, and the meditative crafting of it imbued it with enough energy to serve as a spellcasting focus - the first one Rusco had ever created themself.

They knew the patterns the animals of the forest followed, both on the ground and through the network of branches between the trees. They knew how to take only what they need, and to leave a place as untouched as when they found it.

They felt like they were a welcome part of the rhythms of the living forest.

The final snow fell, then shifted to the first rain. Rusco knew their journey was approaching its conclusion as the first flowers opened and the first bees began searching for nectar. The forest was waking up.

They tracked the lengths of the days by measuring the shadow cast by the staff they carved. They measured the nights by the movements of the stars and positions of the constellations. One more month. Two more weeks. A few more days.

It was time to start heading toward Aynnweth. From one home to another.

Rusco followed the stream back towards the south and west. Past the Oak where they spent their first months cradled in its branches, then past the spot where they spent their first night.

Then it got tricky — the only path to follow was a mental map of landmarks last seen a year ago.

*That birch seems familiar. *

A little further.

Oh yes, two elms twisting together.

They walked a half day. Their surroundings became increasingly unfamiliar. They saw a rabbit’s burrow they hadn’t noticed last time next to the…

Oh, that’s not the same rock.

They climbed up to the canopy and scanned the horizon. Glinting in the sun, beyond the edge of the forest, they saw the top of the Council of Tides’ tower.

They adjusted their heading and continued on.

Ah, there’s that rock.

Another day’s trek and Rusco would be back to Aynnweth.

The final part of the trial was to read the seasons and the stars correctly. The Vernal Equinox would mark the official end of the trial.

There would be no penalty for returning a day or two late. Sometimes, the journey home takes longer than expected. Being right on time would simply be an added honor.

Returning early would mean failure, and Rusco would have to try again.

They hoped they read the signs correctly. They watched the stars. They measured the height of the sun and the length of the day. The right flowers were in bloom.

They ended their meditation shortly before dawn. They climbed to the top of a tree to compare the rising sun to the setting constellation. The first rays shot over the horizon right when Rusco expected them to.

They felt confident they had it right.

They packed up camp and headed out on the final stretch.

Most of a day’s journey was all it took.

It was an uneventful walk to the edge of the woods. More and more of their surroundings started to look recognizable. Finally, in the distance, the light grew brighter and there were glints of the afternoon sun reflecting off of glass from homes near the edge of the wood.

Rusco paused and took a breath. Then another. They contemplated the year behind them. They smiled.

A rustle behind them. A twig snapped. Familiar sounds.

They turned, and from the shadows crept a wolf — Rusco’s companion from months ago. Then another, and another, and a couple of slightly grown pups. The pack had followed them here.

The wolves must have been tracking them for days, following their scent through their territory and into unfamiliar terrain. They came to make sure Rusco didn’t get lost. They came to see their friend off.

The pack stayed mostly within the bush, but their companion wolf continued approaching. Rusco stepped forward to meet it, and knelt down to run their fingers through its fur. After a quick couple of licks to their hand and a gentle whine, and the wolf turned back to rejoin the pack. One by one, the wolves disappeared into the bush.

Rusco stood and took a breath of resolve. They turned and walked the final stretch back to the village.

They stepped out of the forest and into the sun. Blinded for a moment, their eyes adjusted.

Rusco saw Archdruid Qihana, waiting just beyond the final trees. Behind her stood Rusco’s family, friends, and the Council of Tides. Further behind, an anxious but quiet mass of people from Aynnweth eager to welcome them back.

A welcome like this could only mean one thing: Rusco had timed the day perfectly.

Archdruid Qihana approached them, presenting a crown of flowers. She asked, “What did you learn in the forest?” Rusco reflected for a moment. The crowd seemed to hold their breath.

Rusco replied, “The forest taught me that to be connected to the world is to have a home wherever I go.”

Archdruid Qihana smiled warmly. She placed the flowers on Rusco’s head and rested their chin in her hands. As she turned, she lifted their hand into the air.

The crowd erupted into cheers. Druidcrafted flowers caught the wind and blew around from all directions.

Regardless of success or failure, it was tradition for the master craftsperson to step forward next and ask if any antlers were collected. The crowd quieted a bit as a woman named Anariel stepped forward and asked if Rusco had found any.

They pulled the set from their bag and handed them to her. The crowd erupted in cheers again. She invited Rusco to her workshop tomorrow to begin designing the headpiece and stepped away with a bow.

With the formalities over, Rusco ran to embrace their parents, their brother and sister, and their two best childhood friends.

A toast of fine wine was passed out to all in attendance. They told the stories of their adventure long into the night to all who would listen.

Rusco’s home had just grown by hundreds of miles — and their family had just grown by an entire forest full of life.

At the end of the night, Rusco settled in to begin their first evening meditation back in Aynnweth.

Deep in the woods, a pack of wolves howled. Carried on the wind, Rusco could swear that the howl was a cheer.