Chronicle IV of the Pleiade's Daughters

All the valley is hidden by the smoke spreading out from different points where sylvan villages are burning. A morbid silence is the burden of the wing of death hovering in the shape of a menacing gray cloud trapped in between the stones wall mountains.

Once, this valley was a peaceful retreat for the monks, guardians of the Flame of Life. Here was a sure and secluded corner for all pilgrims from the four winds of this northern land. But the Flame of Life has been stolen by invaders.

The night is crawling in through the eastern rocky white teeth crowned by eternal snow. In the center of the forested valley, a small area has been ignored by the dark servants. This area, known as "The Prime Willow Tree". This area is invisible to the evil eye but a beacon of Light to the pure heart. The prime wise tree is the mother of this evolving forest. The Divine Consciousness of the Old Wise Mother Tree is in total communion with her pure children: Sacha the Unicorn, Mirhillia the Fairy, Phoenatus the Knight Guardian (actually a shape shifter also called by his wild friends the Inky Bear).

With their small army of pure hearts and souls, they wait for the call of faith. Laying their back on the enormous trunk, they all harmonise their pulse of life with the one of the Sacred Willow, their Mother Tree, their source of power that will be unleashed in a moment. Like a ring of protection, a large body of water surrounds the willow. Underneath the surface, Osirian the Nymph is busy with all water spirits. They spread their power among the underground life throughout a huge sponge of interconnected tunnels and worm holes, like the inside of a bone. The empathic link in between Mother Tree's roots and Osirian is the main advantage of all these defenders of life. In the twinkling of an eye, an armada of water spirits is created.

The tribe chief of the creatures from the shadows is overexcited by the results of the attack. The victory has been easy, without resistance. He is looking at his warriors showing already a frenetic fever of vanquishers. Time is at hand to celebrate. It is smelling good. All these villages are burning but one thing is missing: The pleasure to see fear in the eyes of the vanquished, since there was nobody to embrace the fury of the shadow warriors. And the chief thinks:"Where are the famous Dryads who would be shared with luxuriance and pleasure in between the legs of my soldiers? Where are these Faeries who could amuse our children with their cut off wings? Where is the queen ambassadress, the nice blond Nymph Osirian saved for my own privacy, chained to my couch receiving my seeds of victory?"

A deep tremble distracts the military chief and he turns back towards the camp, where a thick wall of mist crawls in between the trunks and the giant ferns. Suddenly, screams are heard from the gray fog, with no sound of irons or shields smashing on each other. All these veiled men at arm fall in a last terror scream, defeated by death without honor, alone in the gray realm of lost souls.

The chief lifts high his long sword in front of his forehead with a grin at his face to show his fearless glance, trying to pierce the thickness of mystery surrounding him. The quiet calm becomes unbearable. Pearling down on his forehead and temples, a dew of fear slides down on his dirty lizard skin in steady flow with the rhythm of his heart beat overwhelming all his senses in a storm of fearful squeezing grasp at his throat. He feels the last grain of sand passing behind his dry tongue. His hour glass is emptying and he knows that his devious horned god has abandon him here, to die alone in a mist of silence, with no slave to fear his victory.

The swift attack emerges from underneath and the roots becomes traps holding his ankles. With a blank momentum, the sword hit the air frenetically in a swirl of mist. With a telluric power the Sacred Forest swallows him as quick as a lizard tyrant of the wild. Loosing the grip on his sword, his claws hit deep the green carpet of the sylvan temple. Catching two hands full of useless humus, he feels the cold water reaching at him under the forest floor. Taking a last breath, he knows that water will submerge him soon and WHAM! In the aquatic land he dives in, opening his eyes on the ultimate reward of his conquest: Osirian herself is standing in the weightlessness of the greenly waters with her sensual hairs floating like a dancing murena and welcoming the brave reptilian warrior. A last smile drawn on attracting lips disappears in a cloud of red blood bersting around. The soldier sees well the impact of the lethal ray of Light radiating from the Osirian's chest. Piercing like a lance, the rays open the flesh of his body and he feels well the last bliss of the Light Carrier. Osirian lays a last glance to her enemy mixed with hope and faith. Slowly the reptilian's vision becomes gray and the lightness of his soul is felt again, on this cross over path where your destiny has an appointment with your immortal soul.

An empathic wave comes from the inner forest.

The Prime Willow Tree trembles when a fresh wind caresses her leaves in a sign of a new era. All present souls reunited at the base of her trunk are looking at each other with a real feeling of relief. The enemy has been dealt with. All these thousand of invaders have been embraced by Mother-Earth. The unification of the evil souls with Nature’s Spirits has been successful. The Pilgrims of the Light may come back from the portals of the Pleiade’s Daughters.

Sacha, the Unicorn, approaches Phoenatus the knight. They both lay their flank on the skin of their Mother-Tree and hear back the new rhythm of life surging from the heart of their Source. Unleashed from this new fusion of souls from the shadows, Faeries and Wood Elves are back again in their sylvan domain. Dancing lights announce a lot of changes in the air. Regenerated from an unexpected source, the valley will open her green branches towards the sky. From the summit of the rocky mountains some shape shifters are already on their flight,, gliding on the warm stream of air. These are the prime Druids in a mission of total blessing of the Sacred Forest. The marriage of the evil souls with Nature Spirits has been successful.

Now is a time for celebration in a  recognition of the powers at stake. The Druids shape shifters may repopulate the green realm of the valley. Now the males may lay their seeds in their Sacred Wombs, guided by the new Light of Nature Spirits. A season of peaceful growing may blossom in a deep wave of echoing memories from eons of creation, transformation, alteration, innovation… where nothing is lost and everything is created. The night sky may offer his mantle to the milky way. The bright stars may shine like diamonds. The lady Moon may circle on her path through the night, in a complete blessing, harvesting any signature of any resilient energies left behind. The grid of power may root itself in the core of each Singing Cristal left as seeds, in Mother Cybellia’s Sacred Womb, eons ago.

THE END

Author’s notes :

The story-teller is comfortably sit on the main branch, at the core of the foliage, in the arms of his Mother-Tree. He rolls back his parchment and touches his chest with the palm of his hand and with the wind he disappears since he is as light as any dream. In few moments, this incident of the attack of the shadows is just an other  event of the past where he will come back in full consciousness to tell his tale to the inner children of the future.

Good-bye, loyal reader.