Once upon a time, there lived a spiteful old man named Isadore. He hated all manner of beasts and men. He dwelled deep within the confines of the Evil Forest. It was called the Evil Forest because all who entered there died, mainly through the efforts of Isadore.

One day, a young prince, well-loved by his subjects, approached the Evil Forest in pursuit of a crafty fox. His retainers were aghast as they saw Prince Richard plunge into the overgrowth surrounding the Evil Forest. They yelled at him to stop, to turn back, but Prince Richard loved the thrill of the hunt, and old wives' tales were not about to stop him from his moment of triumph.

Prince Richard spurred his mount into the woods. The fox, ever the sly one, made a quick turn and scampered out of the Evil Forest. Poor Prince Richard attempted to bring his horse around unsuccessfully. Unfortunately, he managed to spring one of Isadore's fatal traps, and died a horrible death.

Richard's retainers slowly approached the Evil Forest. The stillness of the air was pierced by an inhuman scream as bits and pieces of Prince Richard were disgorged from the Evil Forest. Gripped by an overwhelming sense of loyalty, the retainers were just able to collect Richard's remains before fleeing in utter madness. To this day, no one has yet collected all of Richard's remains for a proper Christian burial.

There came the day in the Great Festivities when Robert set out to find his damsel. The fortnight long Great Festivites is surely the most wonderous of all holidays, and the thirteenth day of that festival is most certainly the best day for the young men and women.

As all know, on that day the young adults go on their Chase. 'Tis a mild affair, rather like hide and seek, where the women do hide and the men do seek. Robert had one special girl in mind, and he was loathe that any other should find her before him. Therefore, on the twelfth day of the Holiday he set out to insure that he would be the first to find sweet Tabitha.

Robert's father was the city Magician, and Robert, as his son, was naturally the magician's apprentince. He was privy to many charms, some useful, others amusing, but not to all. Not the more powerful ones. The one he wanted was the Spell of Attraction, the spell that would irresistably draw a certain person to a desired spot. But the spell requires many things, and the incantation is long. Hence, Robert spent nearly the entire Twelfth Day gathering the neccesities. That night, stealing a peek from the forbidden section of his father's Book of Magic, Robert did cast the spell and made the charm. Then, he set out to place the charm in a remote spot, a place of which only he would know or guess. The next day, if all went well, sweet Tabitha would be drawn by the charm to that spot, and there he would catch her.

But it was a deep night, murky and black as ink, and though Robert knew the surrounding area well, even so he accidentally planted the charm perilously close to the Evil Forest. Exhausted, he went back home to soft bed and sleep.

And yet, not all things sleep at night. Certainly not the Black Squirrels. Indeed, it is at night when they are at their most active. One, a most mischievous and clever squirrel, was fascinated by the charm and took it back to his home, a tree within the Evil Forest.

The next day dawned bright and clear. The very first of the festivities was to be the Chase. The young women set out first, hiding as best they may. Shortly thereafter, the young men set out to find them, full of excitment and anticipation. And none were more exhilarated then Robert, he so full of hope and joy.

Very quickly he set out for his hidden spot, but it was not long before he realized his error, for in the light he knew that he had clearly gone too close to the Evil Forest when setting his charm. Fear spurred his legs to faster speeds, and soon he was running as though the very Hounds of Hell were after him.

But he was too late. For when at last he came to the spot, sweet Tabitha was not to be found. Frantic with fear, he began searching and calling her name, wandering aimlessly. And then he saw the sight which froze his soul and seared his mind. For there, clearly by the edge of the Evil Forest, were some of the tender limbs of sweet Tabitha. In madness he plunged into its depths, and almost immediately sprung one of Isadore's traps. There was a tremendous rending and tearing, too quick for screams, and then deadly silence. Before too long the Evil Forest disgorged the remains of Robert, like vomiting something vile.

'Tis odd how tragedy often binds itself in threes. For as soon as Robert had died, his father, the Magician, knew of it, felt it chill his old bones. In haste and trembling fear he rushed to the spot of his son's demise - only to have the same fate meted to himself.

Three partial sets of bodies littered the edge of the Evil Forest, and finally the good citizens did encounter them; or their bones, rather. And, of course, as is the fate of those who died from the wiles of Isadore, there was not enough of their bodies left for proper Christian burials.

Along the western boundary of the Evil Forest lay a land of abundance ruled by a proud king. Each year, bountiful harvests were gathered and everyone praised the King and his policies. Life was good. During this period of abundance, a daughter of surpassing beauty was born unto the Queen. Yet, the joy of the King was dimmed by the death of his Queen a scant day later. In a fit of rage, he ordered the Queen's midwife thrown into the Evil Forest, and her remains scattered to the four corners of the earth.

The years passed, and the Princess blossomed into womanhood. It amazed the King how much his daughter resembled her mother. The flowing lines of her beauty were still deeply etched within him. Not a day went by that the King was not reminded of the loss of his Queen.

On the occasion of her sixteenth birthday, the King issued a proclamation throughout the land. By Decree of the Ancients, a competition among the eligible male Citizens of the kingdom would be held, with the winner receiving the hand of the Princess for marriage. The terms of the competition would be announced at the next gathering of the Conclave of Citizens, to be held during the time of the next new moon, a fortnight hence.

During this time, the King was lost in thought. He pondered many things: his love for his daughter, his deceased wife, the Decree of the Ancients. He was bound by the Decree to hold the competition. Yet, the King felt he could not live without the Princess, her lilting laugh and sparkling eyes. In a fit of depression, he conceived of an idea so insidious that it would alter the lifes of every man, woman, and child within the kingdom boundaries.

Finally, the Day of the Gathering arrived. The Princess was radiant in a gown of the highest quality. She had never looked more beautiful. A great assembly of eligible Citizens filled the outer and inner courtyards, the excess spilling into the surrounding countryside. The King stepped onto the dais and a great roar rose to greet him.

'Fellow Citizens. As your King, and by the Decree of the Ancients, I am obliged to offer my daughter, the Princess Elsbeth, in hand to the winner of the competition.'

An even louder roar greeted this announcement. Young men of stout heart looked on with anticipation.

'You all know of the tragedy that accompanied the birth of my daughter into this world. It was a grievous time for the kingdom. And yet there was also great joy. As your King, I proclaim that as it was at her beginning, so shall it also carry into her marriage. Thus, the competion will be as follows: he who first brings forth the hind foot of a Timor rabbit, shall wed my daughter and be heir unto my throne.'

A deadly silence gripped the Citizens. All knew that Timor rabbits lived on Jube leaves. And Jube bushes grew only along a certain stretch of a nameless river which flowed within the confines of the Evil Forest. Going after the hind leg of a Timor rabbit was sheer suicide. Only a fool would attempt such a feat.

Sahib was a fool's fool. As a young boy, he was apprenticed to the Court Magician of the King. But, after several mishaps, and nearly causing the destruction of two of the four Seasons, Sahib was stripped of his apprentice- ship, and his citizenship. He eventually ended up at the local Thieves' Guild, but Sahib never forgot his humiliation at the hands of the Court Magician.

The silence lengthened. The Princess looked upon the mass of cowering Citizens with despair.

'Is there no one who wishes to take up the challenge?', the King said. Inwardly, he smiled. If there were no challengers, there could be no winner. And if there were no winner, he would not lose his daughter. 'No one at all?'

'Aye sir, I will take the challenge,' a strong voice intoned. It was the non-citizen Sahib. 'I make this claim under the aegis of the Decree of the Ancients. The eleventh Scroll, third verse - whereupon non-citizens may enter a competition, but forfeit their life upon failure. Furthermore, ...'

The King abruptly cut Sahib off. 'You do not need to quote scripture to me, non-citizen. I am bound to abide by the Decree. But, I promise you this. Should you fail in your quest, and return alive, I will make sure that you suffer greatly for your insolence. You have a week's time to prepare.' With that the King stormed off.

The news traveled fast. A non-citizen was after the hand of the Princess in marriage! It was unheard of! Fellow Citizens muttered to one another under their breath. An undercurrent of unrest swept through the kingdom.

Sahib the thief ignored all the talk. He spent most of his days drinking ale and taking some good-natured ribbing from what few friends he had.

It was at night that Sahib did his planning. He had heard tales of the Evil Forest. A dark forbidding place. An evil man, some say the devil himself, lives within its confines. The problem was to get in and out as quickly as possible. Then, an idea dawned upon him. He could become heir to the throne and also have his revenge upon the Court Magician!

While still an apprentice to the Court Magician, Sahib had secretly gone through his more powerful spells. One had intrigued him greatly, and he often thought of it as he broke into chambers while plying his current trade. It was a 'Spell of Transport', which removed the caster and any belongings he carried to any desired place. It could take him over great distances, and would even let him travel through walls. If he only had the knowledge of its casting, he could be in and out of the Evil Forest within a blink of an eye. It was then that Sahib formulated his plan. He would break into the chamber of the Court Magician and learn the casting of the 'Spell of Transport'. With such knowledge, he would be sure to accomplish the task which lay before him.

The burglary was accomplished without incident. Sahib could barely make out the spidery writing on the page he had torn from the Court Magician's Book of Spells. One section was particularly hard to make out: it called for either two or three feathers of a female griffin. He wanted to be sure, so he would use three. Sahib mixed together two batches of the spell mixture and hid them in his knapsack. He would teleport to the bank of the river, grab a Timor rabbit, and teleport to the Princess' chamber. All told, probably less than five twitches of a lion's tail.

A crowd followed Sahib to the edge of what was commonly known as Purgatory. Since the boundaries of the Evil Forest were thought to be in a constant state of flux, a group of three of the King's wise men had set up a sort of buffer zone around the Evil Forest. This buffer zone was greatly expanded when the three wise men were dismembered while conducting their final survey.

As soon as Sahib was free from view of the crowd, he used the first of his two 'Spells of Transport'. He appeared along the bank of the river, next to a clump of Jube bushes within easy reach of several Timor rabbits. Almost immediately, the Timor rabbits began to scatter, but it was not due to Sahib's sudden appearance. It was because of the massive, rapidly approaching leather tentacle reaching from deep below the river's surface. Simultaneously, Sahib reached for a Timor rabbit as he activated his second 'Spell of Transport'. It was now or never. The tentacle whipped through the air, and Sahib could here the whistling of its passage. And then...

Sahib heard the soft playing of music. The Timor rabbit squirmed to escape his grasp. With a gentle twist of his other hand, Sahib broke the Timor rabbit's neck and threw its lifeless body onto the bed. He was in the Princess' room, of that he was sure.

His belief was soon confirmed as the Princess walked into her chamber. She saw his unkempt appearance and stared mortified at the lifeless body upon her bed. Sensing this as an opportune moment, Sahib grasped the Princess' hand and pulled her toward him in embrace. What happened next horrified the both of them.

An aside: It is well-known that certain spells must be used with care, even more so when great power is involved. Sahib erred in mixing the formulas for both 'Spells of Transport'. Only two griffin feathers were needed. Thus, there was a buildup of extra magical charge. Normally, this charge would have dissipated without adverse effect. However, since Sahib used the two spells within moments of one another, the charge buildup was geometric in nature. It could be triggered by any external stimulus, which, in this case, was the embrace Sahib gave Princess Elsbeth. Now, back to our story...

Sahib and Princess Elsbeth found themselves standing next to some Jube bushes. Timor rabbits, which had been eating peacefully, began to scatter. Sahib pushed the Princess to the ground and began running toward a grove of trees some yards distant. Princess Elsbeth looked toward the river and screamed just seconds before a brown tentacle smashed her head into a bloody pulp. The tentacle picked up her lifeless body and disappeared under the river's surface.

Meanwhile, Sahib was faring little better. He heard Princess Elsbeth scream. The silence that followed spurred him faster than any other screams could possibly do. If he could just reach that grove of trees, he would be safe from the reach of those tentacles.

Sahib never made it.

Several days later, the bloated remains of Princess Elsbeth and Sahib were found washed up along a lake not far from Purgatory. The body of Princess Elsbeth was identified by the ring found on her only remaining limb. Sahib's facial features were still identifiable, the only part of him that appeared even remotely human. Even so, there were not enough remains for proper Christian burials.

The King was crushed by his daughter's death. Feeling that his life was no longer worth living, he stoically walked through Purgatory and into the Evil Forest. His screams were heard from miles around. What little bit of him that was found was insufficient for a proper Christian burial.

By Decree of the Ancients, the Court Magician ruled until a new king could be found. Unto his death, the Court Magician would glance daily at a portrait of his deceased wife hidden within his chamber and smile a wry smile. His wife had been the Queen's midwife.

Once upon a time long ago there existed a small town within sight of the Evil Forest. All the townspeople knew of its horrors, and took great pains to avoid them. All people, that is, except for a few pitiful souls left in the great dungeons. The town was mainly the jail for the neighboring villages, and the great King himself, who ruled many many miles away, even had a few prisoners within its massive walls.

Yet even the unfortunate men and women kept in the dungeon knew about the Evil Forest. Whispers were passed between cells, rumors circulated, and eventually everyone had at one time learned about the Evil Forest and what it contained.

Everyone, except for one young man named Virgil. Virgil was very dangerous. His crimes were so hideous that his cell was kept far from any other, lest he tell anyone what he had done, and thus inspire the terrible yet ingenious crime to be committed by others.

In truth, however, such precaution was uneccessary; Virgil had been in the dungeon so long that he had forgotten why he was there. And he hadn't talked to another person for so long that he had gone quite insane.

One single thought consumed Virgil. It ate at his mind, constantly nagging, never allowing him a moment's peace. The thought was always there, no matter what he did to try to squelch it. When the deaf jailor shoved his daily meal through the crack under the door, the way the gruel that inevitably slopped out of the spittoon and congealed on the cold stone floor reminded him of the thought. The shivering he felt when the temperature dropped below freezing and he was without covering always set him thinking about his plan.

Virgil, you see, was one of the priviledged few who were allowed a view of the outside world. There was a small crack in the side of the cell, through which Virgil would stare for hours, and imagine that he was free and part of the land of the living.

Virgil could see many things from his cell. He could see some small houses, a farm, and behind all a beautiful forest. And for the last ten years Virgil had watched that farm, and had cast his eyes on a young maiden, who under his very gaze had blossomed into a woman. She was not beautiful. Nor was she handsome. In fact, she was quite ugly. But Virgil did not know that. She was the only girl that he saw regularly, and he loved her.

Virgil had watched her playing in the farmyard as a young girl. He had rejoiced when she came within his view, because even then she was the only element in his dull life that gave him pleasure. He had watched as her games went from chasing the pigs through the mud, to riding horseback over the grass, to sitting on the veranda and knitting. And over the years the girl had grown in many places, and in such voluptuous ways that now Virgil's loins would ache when he saw her. He was filled with a passion so great that it gave him inhuman strength and inhuman cunning.

Virgil's thought was to escape from the dungeon, to take the farm girl, and enter the beautiful forest and live there with her. From watching her all those years he knew that was what she desired too. She couldn't possibly know of him, but Virgil knew that she was waiting, waiting for a man such as himself to take her away from her drudgery. And Virgil knew he had to be the one to have her. And lately Virgil had seen another man visiting the farm all too frequently for him to feel safe. He knew that the man was courting the girl, and the thought sent violent pangs through his very bones, and he knew that whatever the cost he must get out and put his plan into effect.

Over the past years Virgil had formed his plan of escape. He had slimmed down to a scant 70 pounds, so he would be able to squeeze through the slot where his food was delivered every day by the deaf jailor. He was almost thin enough to be able to fit. Just a few more days and he would be ready.

Several days later Virgil knew he was ready. He waited till very late at night, when the screams of pain from the torture chamber deep below had died down, and the rats came out and scrabbled for scraps of food. Then he put his legs through the slot. They fit. Then he slid out more, and he had his waist out. Then his arms, and finally all that was left was his head. And horror of horrors, Virgil's head would not fit. All his self inflicted starvation had been for naught; all his hope had been in vain. He would never be able to get out of the dungeon.

Furious, he squeezed the rest of his body back into the cell. Steaming with anger, simmering more and more every minute like a pot about to boil over, Virgil stamped about his cell. In an insane fit, he threw himself at the cell wall, gripping it with his fingers with manic strength. He pounded his body against the stone, clawed the mortar away from between the stones, and smashed the faces of the huge blocks. Finally he came to his senses, and when he looked at what he had done, he was dismayed. For there was no mark, nothing at all to indicate anything had been done to the wall. For, in fact, Virgil was only human and could not pound through a stone wall.

So Virgil sat down and cried. It was the only sound he had made for many years, and it echoed savagely off the walls. He cried for hours and hours. All his hope was gone, nothing but death would release him.

Now, in one of those strange twists of fate, another event had happened that night that seemingly had no connection to Virgil and his situation, yet turned out to be very important to him.

Earlier that evening a large bull elephant had escaped from a passing carnival. It was walking around the country, trying to find its way back home, when it heard a strange noise. It heard a baby elephant crying for help. Instinct took over, and it followed the sounds, and met a dull stone wall. The large elephant put its head down, and rammed the wall. And rammed. And rammed. And nothing was happening. But the cries continued, so the elephant kept ramming the wall. Finally the stones began to shift, and the cement to weaken, and in one final hit the wall collapsed. And behind the wall was Virgil, crying in the darkness. The elephant was quite surprised, and realizing its mistake turned around and left the area and was never seen again.

Virgil came out of his stupor, and saw the wall destroyed, and not knowing how it was done he thought it was the gods aiding him in his plot. He took that as a sign that his plan was approved of, so he jumped up, walked out of the cell, and headed for the farm house.

He found the house immediately in the darkness, smashed through the door, headed for the girl's room, and found her sleeping. He picked her up and ran outside, and ran all the way to the beautiful forest.

The girl didn't even wake up until they were within about 100 feet of the forest, and then she awoke violently, screaming in terror. For, as you probably guessed, the forest was The Evil Forest, and she knew what it was even in her sleep. She could feel the evil and it woke her up. She tried to break out of Virgil's grip, but he would not let his prize go. She tried to explain to him what The Forest was, but he had quite forgotten how to speak and understand words. He just kept plodding towards what to him was a nice, inviting green forest.

The girl's father eventually got up to give chase. He had heard the whole thing and hadn't really cared to get up because he didn't like her anyway. In fact, she wasn't even his daughter. He had purchased her many years ago from the slave traders, and lately she hadn't been doing such a good job slaving, and he had been thinking of killing her. But this was different, here was a man stealing his property, so he must fight for what was his own.

He got the dogs out, and gave chase. The dogs knew the scent they were after, and followed it unerringly to the Evil Forest, where Virgil and the girl had entered its depths. And they didn't find Virgil. They found the girl, or at least several very large parts of her. And since the old man had forgotten to feed them, they were quite hungry, and they started to eat.

The old man arrived just in time to see the contented faces of the dogs. They were gorged to repletion, and when the old man saw what they had been eating, he began wretching violently.

After the old man calmed down, he had a moment for reflection. It was then that he realized that for once the Evil Forest had disgorged enough remains for a proper Christian burial, but then the dogs had eaten just enough so that what was left was insufficient. And of Virgil there wasn't enough to begin with, so once again there were not enough remains for proper Christian burials.

One more item is worth noting. Remember the elephant, the one that released Virgil, and how it was never seen again? Well, it stumbled into the Evil Forest many miles north of the village, and immediately sprung one of Isadore's traps, and was killed instantly. For Isadore had been very careful with his traps, and any living creature larger than a Timor rabbit setting foot into the Evil Forest would be killed and ripped limb from limb.

There came a time when euphoria was in the land, for a resplendent host of radiant warriors had gathered at the edge of the Evil Forest to force Isadore to suffer for his atrocities.

'Twas a peculiarity of that time that even the ugliest of the Good was fair for the eye to behold, and that the most wonderous of Good were often the most glorious to see. Therefore, amongst the simple minded or those who would judge a book by its cover, it was said that the most beautiful things were also the most virtuous. And, in truth, this was often the case. Consider, for example, the mountains and valleys of Asgarth. Rising in purple and grey majesty, eternally crowned in snow, the Asgarth mountains lord over valleys so green and lush and fair that the soul weeps at their viewing. And truly the people of this valley are the most fair mannered and peacful, living together in great harmony.

Or consider the Elves, creatures of magic whose quintesential element is Good, and they are the fairest of the living to set eye upon. They are the most glorious in deeds, and the most deadly foes of Evil, and all who are good and see them love them.

And if, then, Good is the light that shines in the darkness of Evil, then surely the most radiant of Good should pierce the darkest of Evil.

So it came to pass that a host of the most noble Elvish warriors stood before the boundaries of the Evil Forest and threatened its doom. Beings of magic, wise beyond human understanding, they stood proud and unafraid before Isadore's domain, for they knew that he was but a single mortal.

They were gloriously clad in the most radiant of armor, intricately wrought of exotic metals impervious to mundane assault. Tall and fair they were, gazing forth with proud eyes. And though the sun was bright, it seemed to the onlookers that the Elves outshone even it. And it was said that their scouts and trackers were so subtle, that, if even an insect should be able to pass through a place unharmed, then so, too, could they, and thereby ensure safe passage for those who followed.

A great gathering of humans had come to see the small host off. They stood about cheering and toasting the brave warriors, basking in their glory. Even a small music band had assembled. It had but two drummers, four pipers, three brass horns and a single tuba player; but they played with heart and gusto, and it was a merry affair.

At last the time came, and the splendid host set forth into the Evil Forest. As they started their march they began singing a beautiful song of honor and glory. The lusty musicians burst in with a rousing marching tune, and the two songs blended and meld with each other into a miraculous song, greater than its parts. The well-wishing crowd roared in exhuberance, and all there knew with a certainty that Isadore's days were short.

When the Elves entered the forest, swallowed by the tangled greenery, it was as though a cloud had passed across the sun. A hush fell over the humans. But the sweet singing of the host could still be heard, and delight burst back into the crowd. All held their breaths with excitement, and listened to the slowly fading music. And when at last the strains could no longer be heard, the humans broke into a fantastic cheer, for they knew that the Elves had gone deeply into the Evil Forest and were unharmed.

It was shortly after this that the rain of Elvish body parts fell into the crowd. Euphoria turned to horror, and the miserable humans fled to escape the hideous deluge. One limb, a gloriously clad leg, came over on a particularly high trajectory. It struck the poor tuba player, the invulnerable armor easily crushing his head.

It's a historical peculiarity that this tuba player was the only known human killed by a direct action of the Evil Forest, and yet had sufficient remains for a proper Christian burial. It was particularly ironic, then, that he was an athiest.

Of the Elves, little is known. Shortly thereafter their kindred came to collect the remains. And though none would say so directly, it was whispered that there were not enough remains for even one proper Elvish burial. Which is peculiar, as the Elves will bury almost anything "properly". One can only speculate as to the state of the remains inside their glorious armor.

Summer had passed away, and then fall, then winter, and finally spring arrived bringing its sunny days and joyous gatherings. The people of Festor were well to do, happy and content. And on one fine day the King of Festor took a fancy for a certain almost mythical fruit, the wolbor.

The wolbor, legend had it, would bestow life everlasting, youth and vigor to he who partook of its luscious meat. The King, getting on in years, began to wish that the wolbor actually existed, and he began researches as to its history. Interviews were conducted with many of the old ones of the village, and most would say little but a wistful look would come into their eyes. Then one old, old woman said she knew all about the wolbor, and where to get them.

The King was notified immediately, and he ordered her brought before him. Because he was the King and was so lofty, she couldn't help feeling quite embarassed to be in such royal presence. But the King said a few words to put her at her ease, and then questioned about the wolbor.

The old woman began her story at first haltingly, then she spoke with greater speed. Towards the end she became very emotional, and when she spoke the final words of the tale, she gasped, and then died. The King, however, was lost in thought, after hearing the amazing story of the wolbor and those who had died to posess it.

The Old Woman's Story

I am 147 years old. I was born long before your father's father was born, in the days before Festor was founded, in the days when war still reigned over the land. In those days the Evil Forest was not evil. It was a nice place, and often I used to play there with my friends. And we used to chase the Timor Rabbits, and bathe in the river that has no name, and in general we had a lot of fun. The forest was not the hellish place it is now, a deathtrap for all who enter.

You know of Isadore, and you know that he lives in the Evil Forest still, weaving his treacherous traps. Well, back when I was a little girl, Isadore was just a young man, and I knew him. He used to tease us girls, and we would follow him around. He always had good stories to tell, and he would buy us candy from any market we happened to be near.

Isadore fell in love with my sister. I was jealous of that love, for I truly loved Isadore with all my heart. So I would tell Isadore lies about my sister, about her not being a virgin, about how he should have a better woman for his wife. But Isadore knew I was lying, and told me so. Finally, out of desperation, I told him how I felt, that he was the object of my dreams, that I loved him as much as any creature could love another.

And Isadore laughed. He said I was just a child, and I didn't know what I was saying. He said I should run along and play.

And I was bitterly hurt. I was sick with the sense of loss. In the darkness of my grief, I got an idea. At first it was a small, mild idea. Then it became a whole plot, then it became a masterpiece of deception and tragedy.

I decided that if I couldn't have Isadore, no one could, least of all my sister. So I put my plan into action.

It started small at first. I snuck into the village archives, and found an old blank scroll, and wrote on it, just as the ancients had, about some stuff called wolbor, which could be found in the Great Forest. In those days the Evil Forest was called the Great Forest. I wrote that wolbor was a magical essence that existed in small quantities in everything, and most of all in certain fruits which grew in the Forest. And when a human being ate the fruit, the magical power of the wolbor would give him great things, like eternal life, youth, and vigor. And those who were bound by love and who ate the fruit would be united for all time in absolute love, living in happiness forever.

You see, Isadore was the steward of the Archives, and one of his tasks was to recopy the old scrolls onto new parchment, that their knowledge would pass on to our children. And I knew that he would find the scroll, read it, and would take my sister into the forest in search of the magical fruit.

And that is just what happened. I could tell that he had found the scroll by the change in my sister. She began to have a faraway look in her eyes, and she seemed so happy. When I asked her what she was thinking, she would laugh and tell me to run along and play. Outwardly I laughed too, but inside I thought what a fool she was.

I knew the time was correct for the second part of my plot. I went into the Great Forest, and found the fruit tree I had known of, and began to paint. I painted all the fruit a beautiful white. I was very careful not to spill any of the paint, lest my trick be discovered.

And on each fruit I rubbed a cloth soaked in DragonsBane, which was a poison so strong that even the tiniest drop placed in the mouth would cause instant death.

Then one day my sister disappeared. And Isadore was nowhere to be found. So I thought that they had found the fruit, had eaten it, and had died. But curiosity always got the better of me, and I had to know for certain. So I went out into the forest.

And when I came to the fruit tree, I found many horrible things. I saw a dead deer, with white froth on its lips. I saw a dead bear. Many dead birds and Timor Rabbits lay on the ground. But my sister and Isadore were nowhere near, nor was there any sign that a human had picked any of the fruit.

In total wonder, I raced back to the town, and entered the archives. And I found my scroll, just where I had left it, untouched. Isadore had never found it.

The mystery was unveiled when word came from the neighboring village that my sister had been killed by a cattle stampede. Isadore and my sister had eloped, and she had been killed by accident. The villagers said that they saw Isadore bending over my sister's crushed and torn body, or what was left of it. For after the stampede, the jackals came and fed off her dead form, carrying off most of her, so that what was left wasn't sufficient for a proper Christian burial.

The villagers had pulled Isadore away from the gory scene, and then he had turned upon them, and issued his curse. That for all eternity he would make the world pay for the tragedy he had endured, and that all would share the same fate as his beloved. Then he broke away and with a fiendish laugh ran into the Great Forest, and ever since then it has been known as the Evil Forest.

So you see, it wasn't even my fault. He never saw my scroll. She died accidentally...I'm sorry...

And then the old woman died.

When the world was young, there existed a great settlement of dwarves within the Hinterland mountains, which bordered the northern edge of the Evil Forest. The dwarves were a fearless people, valorous of heart. Some say they were hewn from the very earth itself. Leader of them all was a wizened old dwarf who went by the name of Ungle High. Dear sweet Ungle. An old croney of the Nether school of iron and coke blast furnaces, he could never see the potential of Aluminum. Hence were sown the seeds of his inevitable financial downfall.

It came to pass that, one day, a very rich vein of pure aluminum was discovered. The vein was in an old mine, previously abandoned, and was found by a group of Dwarvish children - who had been, incidentally, looking for either cobalt or Kobolds, I'm not terribly sure which. In any case, tripsying about in this forgotten shaft they stumbled upon that rich line of ore, glittering silver in the beam of their illuminecent swamp gas lamp.

Of course, the rest is history, and we all know what happened. How that vein was shaped into swords and plow shares, then light horse drawn carriages and fighter aircraft. Noble iron, aye, and even steel, were to pale in comparison to this finer metal, second only to mighty Titanium in strength and lightness - but far easier in the shaping.

And of Ungle High, well, as I said, he stuck persistently with iron, dubious and suspicious of even steel, he loathed the new Aluminum. As time progressed, he became further behind, one who whould not run, nor even walk, to keep up. Towards the end he was nothing but a shadowed and dusty wraith; a hermit who would see no one, mad in his isolation and gently caressing with great fondness the 1/50 scale model of a coke fueled blast furnace.

I don't know what this has to do with the Evil Forest. Indeed, I do not know if this story is even remotely true. It was simply something I heard at an Inn from a weary traveler who blew in with a cold winter storm. He told this tale while we sat around the warming glow of the fire, sipping ale. He had recently come from a town near the Evil Forest and his dog, a faithful companion, had tragically been killed by one of Isadore's traps. He had been a soft spoken man, and sorrow was lightly about him. I guess that's why I thought of this tale, with the mentioning of the Evil Forest.

Quite some time ago, on a crystalline blue spring day, if you had happened to be near the eastern edge of the Evil Forest, you would have seen a most peculiar sight. Running with a litheness of foot, but great exhaustion, was a man. Lightly clad in the supplest of leather, young faced and fine limbed, he clutched a small deer skin pouch with white fisted determination. Hard behind him, perhaps one hundred yards or so, a screaming band of infuriated villagers gave pursuit, waving knives and pitchforks in a highly threatening manner.

And justifiably so. For the man they were chasing was a most industrious and clever thief. The bag which he gripped with such grim effort contained jewels of surpassing beauty, fashioned by the elves themselves 'twas said. They had been the possesions of a princess both gentle and fair, gifts from a noble lord. Now she lay weeping with a broken heart, and he, the womanizer, had fled with her love and her gems. But that, in itself, is yet another tale altogether.

Of he, the calm manoeuvere, somehow he was tripped. Perhaps it was the act of an enraged god, or the cumulative steadiness of odds, but his plan was betrayed and he fled moments before the bursting storm, but not without the objects of his lust. Now his life was forfeit.

This was not unusual for him. Though his face was twisted with the suffering of fatigue, his pace was steady and his hunters were flagging. Beneath his mask of pain was enjoyment for the game he truely played: The careful moves of the setup, the nervous excitement of execution and the glee of success. Or the thrill of the chase. He had never met severe failure, he was an artist of his trade. Learning it as a street urchin in a distant city, he had perfected it as a man. A wanderer, fleeing from many people in many places; he had cheated his way from several deaths and his was, he thought, the fullest life that any could have.

He had come from the north, a high land of mountains, dales and crisp air. Before that he had been farther east, places of palm, burning sand and fiery eyed women. And though he was unfamiliar with this land, the situation was common. This was how it usually ended. A forced expulsion, he thought of it, as he generally would not leave a place until all of his bridges were irrepairably burnt.

It was a cool day with a warming sun, the grass soft and fragrant underfoot. With the calmness of experience, the man did not bother to check on the progress of his pursuers. He relied, instead, on his ears and some other peculiar sense of his to inform him. He knew that his distance from them was lengthening, and that it would not be long before he was safely free.

Before him the gently rolling plains were abruptly broken by a long line of dense forest. This was his life guard and escape route, and seeing it so close brought forth a resurgence of hope and joy. Though a street boy by nature, he had the natural forest stealth of a deer, honed by his many experiences, and was nearly untrackable.

With a whoop of victory he crashed into the undergrowth and was quickly lost from sight.

Quite a few minutes later the blood-thirsty posse strolled up to the spot into which the thief had disappeared, remaining a cautious arm's length away from the tangle of trees and shrubs. They had stopped their chase when they saw him vanish into the greenery, knowing then that they had lost him. Some curses were muttered, and a few backtracked, hoping that the villain had dropped the leather pouch, but returned emptyhanded. Shrugs and long winded epithets were thrown about, as well as some good natured ribbing of the few stragglers which panted up. But finally a waiting silence descended, full of expectation: What would the Evil Forest toss back? Would, hope beyond hope, a decapitated arm, still clutching a precious bag, be thrown out? There was no way to know, and only the twitterings of birds and the gentle rustling of grass broke the silence of the quiet men.

When the Evil Forest did regurgitate the thief, it did so silently but with great velocity - and a fairly good aim. The villagers, which had fled before the onslaught of body pieces, returned, and began poking about the gruesome mess with great hope. They were quickly disappointed, for no gems were to be found. They milled about for a while in contempt and disgust, kicking about the pitifully few remains, and then finally turned to home. There was certainly no desire to give the felon a proper Christian burial, and, in any case, even if one had wanted to, it would have been sadly impossible.

Usually, that would have been the end of the sorry tale. But this was a special case. There was a great deal of bounty left unaccounted for, and soon stories began to fly, stories of great wealth just within reach. It is not now generally known, but at that time what people lacked in technology they made up for in odd ways. There were, for example, people who could determine the location of precious stones, the Gem Seekers; they had what was called, "a nose for gems", what we might today call a "sixth sense". The princess' jewels, with their fine quality and nearly magical craftsmanship, were a magnet for those with this ability. They would flock to the edge of the Evil Forest, staring intently into its depths and muttering to themselves. They would pace, like caged tigers, shaking their heads, or sympathizing with each other in small groups. Quick ideas were hatched, and then just as quickly abandoned; for all were locals and knew that the Evil Forest was Death's closest brother. At last, discouraged, they would return home, exclaiming mournfully in small pubs and inns how close the riches were to the Evil Forest's edge.

Before very many days had gone by, a peculiar phenomena began to appear. A shadowy gloom descended on the nearby communities, similar to the quiet desperation of the poor who live within sight of the wealthy. There was more than the usual amount of quiet introspection, less than the normal amount of laughter. Soon, not only the Gem Seekers were to be found at the Evil Forest's edge. A scattering of farm boys were also there; some with piratical eyes, others haunted. It did not require a "nose" to feel the call of those jewels, but merely a dream for the better life and the money which could buy it. And it wasn't long before the grieving wail of parents rose in village and countryside as they went to bury the few remains of their treasure hunting sons.

By general consensus guards were posted to drive away the foolishly greedy. This was abandoned when the remains of the desperate were simply found at greater distances, and a guard was found dismembered - all in states unfit for proper Christian burials; all directly murdered through the malice of Isadore and indirectly by avarice.

And then an event came to pass that put the entire affair to rest, dashing the hopes of dreamers but restoring normality to the simple farming community.

People at that time were as people today; they were not so unique or heroic as some would believe. And even today as the rule of supply and demand determines market prices, so too did the same rule apply in those times. If there should be a famine, then the price of food invariably went up. Likewise, if there should be abundance, then the prices would drop. As with food, so with other goods, such as precious gems.

It was a peculiarity of those times that the very most valuable stones were quartz and garnet; more precious than ruby, more elusive than diamond they were. They were sought and searched for high and wide, from the highlands in the North to the plains in the South. And yet, despite the Gem Seekers delicate senses, vast quantites of these stone were simply under their noses.

Far to the north, the sturdy Dwarves had sunk yet another shaft. It was done without enthusiasm, a mine for no other reason then because one had never been dug in that particular mountain. Ennui quickly turned to incredulous excitement, then shock and finally nonplussed realization. For they had struck a mountain of garnet. And further searching in nearby areas yielded yet more garnet and even quartz. A secret of such vast proportions could not be kept, and the word rushed out like wildfire. Two crystals, previously thought invaluable, were now worthless. Quartz became little more valuable than copper ore, garnet as worthless as sand.

People screamed foul, that vast conspiracies had deliberately made valueless gems precious. Nobody could understand why the Gem Seekers had been unable to locate such a vast find, not even the Gem Seekers themselves. The most popular explaination was that a find of such vast proportions had simply overwhelmed their delicate senses. Some hinted darkly of a sinister trinity, of the Dwarves, Elves and Gem Seekers Guild, all working together in a hidious plot of financial domination. Currencies collapsed, people threw themselves from parapets. Anarchists hoped that mountains of gold and silver, as well as other gem stones, would be found. Almost immediately, the precious metals and gems markets lost confidence, and the prices in all such commodities plummeted.

And simply over night, what had once been a bag worth dying for was now merely worthless.

Once upon a time a small kingdom grew up on the southern limits of the Evil Forest. The Kingdom prospered because of the rich soil in the area, and there was never any hunger or want. The kingdom resided in a small valley surrounded on the south, west and east by high cliffs, and on the north stretched the Evil Forest.

One day the king sat on this throne and brooded over a problem. The population of his kingdom was growing, and within the valley it was becoming overcrouded. On three sides the ekingdom could not grow because of the impassable cliffs. But on the north, all that stood in the way was the Evil Forest. The King knew all the stories of its nature, and also there were frequent reports of people and animals being lost in it. Actually nothing was ever lost in the forest. Some part of whatever person or animal was always found, but the amount was never sufficient for a proper Christian burial.

So the king summoned his three counselors and asked for their advice. The first said, "Sire, I know you desire to expand the kingdom into the North, but this must not be attempted. Some disaster will come of the attempt." The king listened, and nodded. Then he signaled for the second counselor to speak. "Sire," the second began, "I am certain that the forest can be tamed, as long as it is done carefully. I advise that we gather the men and attack the forest with axes, and soon we will carve it up to matchsticks." The king nodded, then signaled for the third and wisest counselor to speak. "Sire," he said, "I see that my two brothers differ on opinion. While the advice of the first is prudent, it is unacceptable because the kingdom must expand. The advice of the second is wise, however I am certain that the men will revolt rather than approach and enter the Evil Forest." The king then asked, "What, then, do you advise?" and the third counselor responded, "Sire, we must let flame do our work for us. We will burn the forest, and on its ashes we will claim new land. We will use the purifying flame to solve our dilemma."

Now the king remarked to himself, "Isn't it strange that my three counselors never agree, and I always accept the advice of the last one. Perhaps I should dismiss the other two, and save time. But then, maybe the third would become lazy, and his advice would suffer. No, I will keep all three as advisors."

The king then announced that that very day they would burn the forest. Within the hour, a group of courageous men had been gathered, and they went to the forest to set it ablaze. They had brought oils in case the wood was difficult to light.

Indeed, something about the wood proved it did not burn well. Despite many attempts, the fires seemed to stop. So they used the oil, spreading it among the trees on the outskirts. One naive worker strayed a bit too far in with his barrel, and accidently sprung a trap, and portions of his dismembered body were flung at the men outside the forest. This caused the men great consternation and anger, so they redoubled their efforts, but from a safe distance.

Eventually all the oil had been spread, and flame was applied. The forest burned quite well, and the men backed off to escape the heat. As the fire worked inward, however, it touched some strange substance that released a strange, heavy gas, which the men smelled. All that breathed it fell into a swoon, as if dead, but they lived, their hearts continuing to beat, and they were aware but unable to move. The gas flowed down the hill and filled up the kingdom, and eventually all were overcome and struck immobile.

After an hour or so the oil had been consumed and the fire gradually burned itself out. The next day the ground had cooled, and all seemed well, except all the people were still frozen, to their horror. Not a single person was spared. The gas had been blown away but its effects still lingered.

Then, in the night, great rats from the forest crept out. Each was the size and weight of a Timor rabbit. Timidly they crept down into the city, and discovering all the people they thought were dead, they began to feast. How horrible an end, being eaten alive slowly by rats, completely aware of it yet unable to move. Yet just such a fate happened to all in the kingdom.

Months later voyagers came upon the kingdom and found all the remains. Searching far and wide, they were still unable to find enough remains of any single individual for a proper Christian burial.

Once there was a traveller from lands far away who had never heard of the Evil Forest, and without knowing it came dangerously close. Just before he reached the outer stand of trees, he heard a voice calling to him.

"You there, are you foolish enough to venture into the Evil Forest without proper protection?"

He turned about toward the direction from which the voice came, and beheld a horrible sight. There before him stood a salesman, complete with tacky clothes and greasy smile. Behind the salesman stood a booth with a sign proclaiming "Jasper's Wondrous Talismans of Protection--Just 50 Pieces of Gold." In horror the traveller turned away, ready to gallop into the forest to get away from this monstrosity.

"Wait, wait! Don't be a fool," Jasper cried. "Have you not heard of the Evil Forest? None has entered its clutches and lived, at least not without one of my magical talismans about his neck!"

"Talisman? What talisman?"

"Not just a talisman, a magic talisman my friend!"

"How do I know it will work?" asked the traveller.

"I have never had any complaints, my friend!"

He decided it was better to be safe than sorry, so he bought one. He then rode merrily into the Evil Forest, safe in the knowledge that the talisman would protect him. The salesman waved him away, counting his coins lustily. After but a few brief moments a terrible scream erupted, and the traveller's body parts came flying out, most of them landing less than fifty yards from Jasper's booth.

While there were not enough remains for a proper Christian burial, Jasper did manage to collect his talisman from the bloody remnants of the traveller's torso. "Perfect timing," he thought, as another unwitting traveller approached his booth. Time and time again Jasper had been able to use the same Talisman, merely wiping it clean after each use. He had considered making more, but the need had never arisen, and he was lazy by nature.

This event repeated itself numerous times, Jasper making an enviable income. His success was considerably enhanced by the fact that this was a pure profit venture. Soon his wealth would reach a point where he could retire. This suited him, because pangs of guilt had been haunting him of late.

Finally the guilt became more than he could bear, so he decided that his next unfortunate customer would be his last. Sure enough, another unwitting traveller happened along. Jasper fooled him in the usual manner, and the Evil Forest ripped his body limb from limb. As he was waiting for the forest to eject the grizly remains, he felt a strong sense of relief, and was pondering what his next occupation would be.

For some strange reason the Evil Forest was taking an unusually long time to process this latest victim. Finally when Jasper was about to give up and begin packing, the carnage fell to the ground. Jasper caught a glint of shiny material, and knew it had to be the talisman. He debated with his conscience--should he reclaim the talisman or just leave it behind? He decided to take it, thinking to keep it as a token of how he acquired his wealth, and also to make of it an heirloom to pass on to his offspring.

Carefully he approached the remains, which were of course insufficient for a proper Christian burial. He bent to extract the talisman from the mess, when suddenly there was a violent motion. Ironically the remains had fallen quite close to the forest, in fact so close that they were actually within the danger zone, and Jasper had foolishly triggered one of Isadore's traps.

Jasper was killed instantly, and most of his remains were swallowed by the forest. What was left was insufficient for a proper Christian burial. The Talisman was never recovered. Evidently the Evil Forest had decided to keep it as a token of Jasper's numerous contributions to the body count.

Hundreds of fortune seekers descended on the nearby village, hoping to be the first to lay claim to the mountain treasure. Tales of death and destruction swayed neither the determined nor the foolish. Many had tried to enter the Forest, only to die gruesome and painful deaths - many of the unfortunate were not even afforded the dignity of a proper Christian burial.

A bright young inventor named Mort Wright happened upon the village. He saw the golden arches and was immediately enthralled at the sight. "Imagine what all that gold can get", he thought to himself. He listened intently to the stories of terror that had befallen those before him, how they were seen entering the forest one minute, and leaving the forest in different directions the next, having sprung one of evil Isadore's many traps. As the tales grew more and more horrific, he became less and less convinced that going for the gold was such a good idea.

One day, staring wistfully at the mountain top, he spotted a lone raven. It flew from a nearby tree, circled Mort, and headed straight for Thagaard. After a while, it disappeared, but Mort could clearly see that there were birds flying between the clouds. It immediately hit him - he'll fly to the top and avoid the Evil Forest altogether! Being of bright mind, he immediately set upon a plan to construct a flying machine, patterned after the ravens and eagles indigenous to the area, and of some rough sketches he picked up from an Italian named Leonardo.

Slowly but surely, the mechanical bird began to take shape. Long, slender pieces of pine and balsa wood, feathers and down to create a smooth lifting surface, cloth, and string to keep the whole thing together. Mort even devised a method to convert rotational motion to a nonlinear, flapping motion that remains a mystery to this day. Within a month, Mort was testing his machine in the village meadow. First 10, then 50, then 100, then 500 feet flights became possible through Mort's brilliant mind and experimental ability. What wonder - to fly higher than the raven, to be equal to the eagle! Yes, he suffered a broken rib, but that wouldn't stop him from making progress in the name of mankind, not to mention getting filthy rich.

Finally, the great day arrived. Dressed in a woolen outfit, with a cork helmet and leather boots, Mort looked magnificent in his flying machine. With the village people prodding him on, he took off from a small hill. Taking advantage of updrafts from the town below, Mort flapped in rhythm, climbing higher and higher, and eventually flew on to Thagaard. He was climbing 2000 feet above the Evil Forest, and he mocked Isadore under his breath, as the golden arches beckoned him to untold riches.

He was about to pick out a landing spot when he heard a slight thump. He only had enough time to notice the ice buildup near his wing's leading edge before it tore out half of the surface area, sending Mort on a spiraling, uncontrolled dive towards the north side of Thagaard.

The area that Mort hit was composed of granite overhangs. He was instantly beheaded and his lifeless body tumbled down the rocky slope, getting diced and sliced by the fierce wind and sharp rocks. After the birds had their fill, not enough of Mort was left for a proper Christian burial.

The townspeople looked at the entire scene in horror. They soon dispersed, vowing to build flying machines nevermore. The clouds around Thagaard enveloped the site of Mort's last flight, as the Evil Forest claims another victim.

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