Short Stories of the Aevar Realms

Mossghost

Once on a dark and rainy day, a young human lad stumbled along the road to the manor of the wood lord. The tap tap tap of his boots echoed off the cobblestones, mixing with the falling of the rain.
He hobbled, drenched through his cloak, to the ancient wooden door. The lad raised the knocker and slammed it into the wood, the sound of metal ringing hollow against it.
     It creaked open only a slit, a thin bar of orange light casting out over half of the lad's thin frame. His pale face and one of his brown eyes were caught in the warm glow as he looked up pleadingly to the grizzled lord behind the door.
   "Sir, I beseech thee, may I stay but one night in thine manor?" Begged the poor lad. The lord glared down at him condescendingly.
   "Leave, silly boy. No peasants may rest here" He grumbled, and before the lad could protest, the heavy door was shut with a metallic squeal.
     The lad's face fell, and he turned from the manor let down and cold. He ran off at the sound of a dog's bark to yonder dark wood.
     The lad pressed on despite having no shelter, heading wherever the forest would lead him. Perhaps he was fanciful and reckoned the walking would stave off the shadow and the chill. His hair caught on a low hanging branch as he walked, yanking him off his path. He struggled with it, finally tugging himself free, tendrils of his blond hair turned dark and snarled by the rain. He ambled back on his way, boots sloshing in the mud.
     No light of the pale moon would pierce the canopy this fearful night. The dark heavens loomed somewhere above the endless leaves, roaring with rain and thunder. Perhaps the gods were angry, this time, for his incompetence. The lad couldn't seem to hold any job for more than a week.
     He roamed among the thick trunks of trees with patches of flat mushrooms garlanding their ranks. Suddenly, something caught his eye. A patch of lush moss lie draped around the foot of a hollow tree, the low branches and deep leaves so thick and sturdy that even Vilvalyr's fierce winds couldn't shake them. It was so cozy and quaint a sight in the cold that the lad lost all his worry, and thought, If anything, moss makes a better bed than mud.
Wearily, he stumbled through the undergrowth and collapsed upon the green undergrowth. The absence of the rain and wind made the cold less troubling. He was so tired, and would've been unhappy, but the idea of falling asleep comfortably is a pleasant touch of home in any wild place.
White plumes of steam illustrated his breath as he lie, eyes half closed, drifting into sleep. The white was suddenly drawn out of his attention as something else came forth. A deeper, greyer fog crawled past, drifting along the ground from all directions.
That's funny, he thought, mildly concerned. Where has this mist come from?

Straight into a grove with the tallest trees the lad had been looking as he thought. Yet as he watched more closely, he caught sight of what looked like a barn owl's wing- only it was large enough to belong to a human. Was he imagining it? He must truly be tired.
Then he saw a figure, half obscured and unnaturally tall, standing in the trees. It wore a dark green cloak, dark armor, and an eerily white mask with no mouth and angular slits for eyes. On the visible side of its cloaked head, a long antler protruded. It was looking directly at him.
What is that? Thought the lad.
As if in response, the creature's head tilted partially to the side like a curious dog.
"W-who are you?" He called out, his voice trembling.
The sound of rustling leaves filled the air, unnaturally resonant, and in the midst of it a very deep and rough voice answered;
"An deireadh"
The creature stared at him, and he gazed back, afraid. A moment of long, harrowing silence passed.
"...What are you?" The lad's voice was barely loud enough for him to hear it. Nothing happened.
Then the creature's head abruptly turned entirely sideways with a deep, horrible snap.

Nobody knows what happened next. Legend has it, a ghost made of moss and mist roams the wood after dark. No wonder they call it Mossghost, eh?