Draw near, travelers, and warm your paws by the last embers of my fire. The mist‑forest is thick tonight, and the wind carries the icy breath of the wild. Yet here we sit, safe and warm, in our beloved Tavern of Twilight, surrounded by your companions. You sip your fir‑brew and feel secure. But do you know what becomes of those who lose themselves in their own vanity? Those who enter the forest without humility, convinced they can conquer nature with arrogance and drawn blades? Nature does not simply kill them. No, my friends — that would be far too easy…
He who defies the forces of the forest with pride falls into the Echo of the Night:
A dark realm beyond all time, where an endless cycle of dream and pain holds dominion. A place where lost souls wander through their own visions until they are ready to accept their fate. Deep within the heart of the endless mists lies this realm, where no fire burns and souls drift between dream and waking, searching for themselves. And at the center of these dream‑mists, he waits — what a wanderer finds there, between life and death, I cannot say; in our tale, it was a blacksmith. Listen closely, and let my lute tell you the warning of Boraida — a wanderer who had forgotten who he was, and who had to learn to burn his own rags in the fire to escape the Echo of the Night…
“How did this happen? Where am I?” Boraida wondered as he looked around. The last thing he remembered was a jolt, a shove — and now he stood here. But what was here?
He examined his surroundings more closely.
A forest. And no, he did not recognize it. He cursed; a branch must have fallen and struck him. And now he could not remember. Yes, that had to be it! But… what does one do when standing in a dark forest, suddenly unable to recall where one came from or where one was headed? He eventually concluded that he would not solve this riddle now. Better to wait for sunrise. Running off in panic would mean leaving the path — and that would surely be a mistake. So he found a sheltered spot by the roadside and lay down to sleep.
His sleep was brief — and tormented by nightmares.
Shadows descended upon him, someone s
houted, and again and again came that bright crackling, a flash, a blinding sound! And then… blood. So much blood. Boraida jerked awake. Something had stabbed him. In the dream. Such a thing… such a thing did not exist. You do not feel pain in dreams — every child knows that. Instinctively, he reached for the spot — and the wound was there. He drew his knife and looked around. “Who’s there?!” he shouted angrily. “Whoever you are — you won’t leave this place alive, coward!”
No one answered.
But something was wrong. No animals stirred. Only the eerie twilight of early morning and a lifeless forest. Why had he not noticed this before? Shivering, he looked at his blade — fresh drops of blood. “That cannot be…” He stared at t
he knife in disbelief, a cold shiver running down his spine. He sat there for what felt like endless hours, unable to sleep again. What had happened to bring him to this cursed place? Suddenly, panic rose within him. He had to flee. Anywhere — just away from here.
Later — he did not know when — mist rolled in, and the first rays of sunlight crept through the branches. He looked around and spotted a small path winding through the forest. Boraida breathed a sigh of relief. A path. Where there is a path, there is a house. Some soul who could show him the way out of this forest. He sighed again and set off, determined to end this nightmare.
Hours passed.
The path wound like a serpent through gentle hills and valleys; time and again, the same tree seemed to stand by the roadside, just as it had in the previous valley. Not a single animal could be heard — not even the hum of a fly.
Only that ghostly silence. And the mist, clinging to the trees, forming strange shapes…
“Damn it, it’s just a forest like any ot
her — pull yourself together!” Boraida scolded himself. “Just a forest, nothing more! You’ve walked through plenty before.” His voice cut through the mist‑laden air like a razor, drifting outward — only to be swallowed whole. The silence seemed to rebuke him, punishing him for disturbing its peace. Silent and alone, Boraida walked on, hearing nothing but his own footsteps. Behind him, the sun painted the sky purple — and vanished. The second night in this surreal wilderness began. He followed the path deep into the night until he could go no farther. He ate his last piece of bread and drank the last drop of water. “To you, Death,” he declared into the air, “I wager you’ve found me.” Then he lay down to sleep and decided to wait for Death.
Nightmares shook him…
Thunder again, someone screaming, a flas
h of lightning — and a burning pain in his leg. He bolted upright in panic. He checked — only an old scar he did not remember. Yet the burning pain lingered. He dared not sleep. Instead, he pondered. Why was he having such dreams? So he sat by a tree all night, watching the morning mist herald the sun.
CLANG… CLANG… CLANG‑CLANG… Hiss…
Boraida looked up and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. It sounded like the familiar hammering of a smithy. But here? In the middle of the wilderness? Perhaps he was dreaming — pain meant nothing in this place anyway. The sound came from the left, deeper in the forest. Boraida wondered whether he should leave the path. Hunger and thirst made the decision for him. He plunged into the bushes and ran toward the sound. Clang… Clang… The mist closed around him like an impenetrable, shimmering wall. The hammering grew louder. “Hello? Is anyone there?” Boraida called, forcing his way through the stubborn undergrowth. “Please — I’m only a lost traveler!” The hammering ceased, and a voice replied: “Aren’t we all?” Boraida stepped closer and looked around. No path led to the smithy; it stood solitary and abandoned in the heart of the forest, surrounded by a wall of mist that seemed alive. “Please,” he said, “where is the nearest village?” The blacksmith regarded him. “You’ve only just arrived. Why the hurry?” With these words, he struck his workpiece again. Clang… Clang… “I don’t mean to intrude, but—” Boraida began. “I’m at a critical stage,” the blacksmith interrupted. He hammered in silence for a while, then sprinkled oil over his creation and held it up proudly. “Well? What do you think?” Boraida searched for a word. The object looked like a crumpled scrap of metal, or a withered leaf — certainly not the work of a master. “Exactly,” said the blacksmith. “It is all you need.” He set down his hammer and walked toward his hut. “Good man,” Boraida began, “I don’t mean to be rude, but where is the nearest village? I urgently need to—” The blacksmith spun around, his gaze icy. “Need to? Last night you had no plans at all, and now suddenly you must leave?” Anger rose in Boraida. “Listen, old man, I don’t know who you are, but you will tell me where the nearest village is, or—” “Or what?” the blacksmith asked, expectant.
He turned away again and muttered, “I know what I’m doing now. I’m getting something to eat. I’m starving.” Boraida lunged at him from behind, knife in hand, screaming: “You damned cur — I’ll show you what happens when you meddle with me! You were the one watching me — all this time! I knew it!”
With words full of hatred, he drove the blade into the blacksmith’s body. The blacksmith tore himself free — knife and all. Instinctively, Boraida seized the heavy smithing hammer and struck him on the head with furious force.
A crack — Endless seconds passed before the blacksmith slowly and silently slumped to the ground, whispering something faint and unintelligible. A ghostly silence settled over the scene, palpable yet elusive. Boraida shivered. Somehow, it all felt familiar. Had he lived this before? Of course — in a dream. A stab, a crack, flashes of light, and…
The thought chilled him to the bone.
He searched the hut in haste, grabbed the food, and fled into the mist, back toward the path. Just away — away from this cursed place. After a short while, he found the old path again and continued his march. He did not look back once. “Boraida… what have you done?” Only the eerie silence answered.
He rationed his supplies carefully, but after endless days of marching, even they dwindled. The path seemed endless. Time dragged on. He had long since stopped counting how long he had been traveling. His water and bread had run out days ago, and the desolate forest path stretched on and on. By day, the palpable silence reigned; by night, cruel nightmares tormented him. For a while, he pondered who he truly was, and what he had forgotten when he first awoke in the forest — so many days and nights ago. But now, it no longer mattered.
“I offer you my greetings for a moment, my friends; a bard must wet his throat a little, too, so that he may continue to spin tales for you! But take heart, for we shall resume shortly!”
He bowed humbly before his applauding audience and set aside his lute. “What a lovely evening…” he murmured softly to himself as he walked toward the bar.
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