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<br/>​</div>It was a day that promised warmth, despite starting out cold.  The sun would rise, casting away the chill of nights moonlit shadows.  Dawn would come and with it a mellow rise in the temperature would permeate throughout the venerable depths of the Stag Woods.  It was a sacred stretch of trees that lay amidst the foothills of the Iron Crag Mountains.  Revered not only for the ancient oaks that claimed dominion over the lush lands, but for a single great beast that walked amongst its winding overgrown trails.  The forest was aptly named, after that magnificent beast that few could ever say they had seen.<br/><br/>A great white stag, its coat as pure as freshly fallen snow that legends said stood as tall as two fully grown men stacked on top of each other.  To see it was to be blessed, to hunt it was folly, although many tried.  The prize was simply to possess a tuft of its glowing white coat, plucked by skill of hand and swiftness of foot along with the nimbleness to not find oneself trampled or gored for their efforts.  The tales of such courageous efforts that actually succeeded were understandably beyond rare.  The last known to have accomplished such a feat was that of Sigric, he who united the tribes and here in the very depths of the Stag Woods was were that union was celebrated with a yearly moot.<br/><br/>Upon Sigric's passing those yearly gatherings diminished in scope before fading into history.  There were still modest affairs that were attended by the more peaceful tribes of the South that had remained loosely aligned in the wake of Sigric's death.  But they rarely amounted to much, nor yielded prosperous fruit towards the future.  These days most of the tribes were more concerned with their own individual needs, few found themselves willing to extend a hand to lessen another's burden.  But this year under the canopy of blossoming spring, things were different.<br/><br/>The smell of succulent boar filled the air while it was roasting away over a fire pit where several woman from a variety of tribes were dutifully attending that mass of meal.  There was beer, ale, and kegs of hardy mead brought on the back of donkey or small wagons that had been sent along with a small contingent of dwarves from the Longstone Clan; a first in the history of the moot, for dwarves rarely left the security of their mountain home.  There was even wine that had arrived, reluctantly to be shared by a handful of elves that had come from the distant west.  The tribes of course made up the vast majority of this surprisingly crowded gathering.  It harkened back to those years when Sigric would lord over the moot, where song, tale, and good food and drink we're shared in abundance.<br/><br/>Despite the joyous mood, the laughter that erupted at the end of an amusing joke, or the playful scrambling of children that darted between pine and oak as they played, there was a somber undertone, a business like demeanor that was most evident upon the elders in attendance.  For as welcome a change as this sight was to behold, it was all because of the fear of a dragon that had levelled a rising city and had come to roost upon those remains to the north, upon the fringes of so many borders.  Behind the closed drapes of a grand tent the wisest of the tribes met in private to discuss this most concerning matter for if that dragon of ebon scales was allowed to rest and prosper in its new home there would be no way of knowing how grave a threat it might present to the vast lands that fell beneath the shadows of its wings.  Warriors, champions we're needed and as such it was agreed upon in that privacy of that counsel that the best man or woman available would be assembled in an effort to slay the young dragon, Mordacious, spawn of Ra'Sheel, the Ebon Queen of the Black Thorn Swamps, before it could gather forces and strengthen its hold within the sunken remains of Running Water.<br/><br/>It would be later that night, when the warmth of the day had begun to fade once again, amidst the flickering dance of bonfire shadows that illuminated the sacred grounds where knotted oaks, twisted locusts, and venerable pines framed the joyous gathering that word would be spread.  The tribes had made their selections, and one by one the most promising of warriors in attendance we're found by their tribal elders.  Whether they were in good standing or not, outcast, or firmly entrenched within the society of their individual tribes they were informed of their fate.  Glory would await those who returned triumphant, while those who made the greatest of sacrifices would be honored in legend.<br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="37107" data-username="@Shiva the Cat" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://bluemoonroleplaying.com/community/members/37107/">@Shiva the Cat</a><br/>A tap of a worn hand that settled with familiar warmth fell upon the shoulder of Eyota.  The wrinkled visage of Shaman Na'took was there to greet her with all of the warmth and kindness that it had always possessed.  There, upon the fringes of the gathering where she lingered with the great lynx that was never found to be far from her side he informed her of the Toko Tribe's choice.  "You have been chosen, Eyota, the old man who speaks to stone, shares wisdom with the trees, and runs with the wolves has convinced the Elders of our tribe to grant you the honor of representing our people.  You have been chosen, Eyota, to join with other warriors to slay the dragon who sits upon Running Waters remains."  He smiled kindly upon the young woman who he had not seen in years until this moment.  "Return, and you will be welcome back amongst the Toko, both of you."  His gaze shifted down towards Alo, who was nestled at her side.<br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="18515" data-username="@BennyQ" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://bluemoonroleplaying.com/community/members/18515/">@BennyQ</a><br/>"Voran!"  The bellowing voice of Tur'nook rose above the chorus of song and dance as the over weight barbarian maneuvered his way through the festive surrounds towards the young warrior who bore that name.  "Voran!  It is I Tur'nook!"  The man who had taken a much more youthful Voran under his wings proclaimed.  It had been nearly ten years since the pair had seen eachother and it was plainly obvious that Tur'nook, while still an imposing presence, had lost a step.  Leaning his weight upon a stout walking stick, he limped on a leg that had gone bad towards the young man who he had shared the secrets of the spear with.  "Just look at you!  You have grown boy!"  His hand slapped down across the sculpted shoulder as he grinned towards the slayer of the mountain lion.  "It is good to see you!  I had heard you we're here.  The old man of the forest spoke highly of you.  Are you up for slaying a dragon my old friend?"<br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="18963" data-username="@TheCorsair" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://bluemoonroleplaying.com/community/members/18963/">@TheCorsair</a><br/>It was a strangely welcoming affair with a stranger that drew Gall the Far-Seeing to the moot beneath the limbs of the Stag Woods.  In his wanderings he had stumbled upon an older man who bore the years of his father.  There upon a winding trail that curled through a forest laden valley between the receding slopes and cliffs of the Iron Crag Mountains they spoke at a pleasant length.  The old man who simply introduced himself as Knotty, kindly offered to show Gall to the sight of the rumored moot that his boundless curiosity had been drawing him to seek out.  With ease, he escorted Gall through the brambles and foliage of the dense forest floor until his ears were embraced with the sound of laughter, celebration, and song.  By the time he would turn around to thank the man who had led him to fringes of the bonfires light, he was gone.  It was only hours later, after Gall had ample time to stuff his belly and quench both his thirst for drink and knowledge that a grizzled face fully framed by a bushy beard of deep grey tinted brown that his personal endeavors would be interrupted with the briefest of statements.  "You are Gall the Far-Seeing, you are here to slay a dragon, yes?"<br/><br/>It wasn't long after that those who had been chosen were led away from the festivities of the night.  The din of the moot was a muffled and distant buzz by the time they arrived in a small moon lit clearing where the tent where the elders convened had been erected.  Fallen logs and suitable rocks waited in offering of seating beneath the dim blue light of the moon.  Several were already claimed by elders from the various tribes both large and small that were in attendance.  Others who bore the appearance of youthful warriors waited within the clearing.  Their voices murmuring amongst themselves, only pausing to regard every new entrant that was led into the small opening of the grove.  Separated, but not by much a trio of dwarves hung clustered together before a folded up blanket of leather that bulged from the contents hidden beneath that canvas.  In the shadows that circled the fringes, lingering amidst the fence line of the trees the lithe and svelte figures of three elves remained as separated from the core of it all as possible, while still making it clearly obvious that they were indeed present.<br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="41251" data-username="@BlooBlanket" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://bluemoonroleplaying.com/community/members/41251/">@BlooBlanket</a><br/>There was a subtle look given from elf to dwarf that ceded the floor to those mountain dwellers and the thick beards that rolled down their barrel sized chests.  Gorth, third eldest of the Long Stone family stepped forward, his bulk leaning forward as rough fingers that were creased with age swept the blanket open.  "We bring these gifts from the depths of our mountains, forged by our own hands."  The moon shone down upon metal most rare in the form of blades, spear, axe, and razor sharp arrows by the dozen.  "Our lord and king, my eldest brother, has deemed this a cause worthy of our concern and with these weapons we bring our own champion to join the effort."  Gorth stepped back and turned to glance over his shoulder towards a fresher faced dwarf who was for his size, imposing in stature.  "Gostîm Shieldbearer, a famed warrior amongst our people.  His hammer and shield shall be by your side."  A round of subdued grunts sounded in approval as eyes were drawn towards the promise of the steel that gleamed beneath the glow of the moon.<br/><br/><a class="username" data-user-id="20459" data-username="@LeaT" data-xf-init="member-tooltip" href="https://bluemoonroleplaying.com/community/members/20459/">@LeaT</a><br/>Lythandriel of the elves stepped forward from hiding as Gorth receded.  There was an air of pompous self importance in the tone of his voice as the slender figure that was clad in sleek leathers that were stained in a myriad of green hues folded his arms across his chest.  "We have traveled far from our homes to be here this night.  A gift given to the lord of Falling Water upon his wedding day lies in the thieving clutches of Mordacious."  He pivoted, posture shifting like a curtain to reveal the slender and exquisite form of an elven maiden who lurked in the shadows.  "Our finest scout, Iseldra, has been tasked with reclaiming that which has been stolen as well as lending her aid for if left unperturbed such a beast could cast its shadow far and wide over these lands and reach even our own in time."  Gracefully, Lythandriel bowed back into the fringes of the grove from whence he came, allowing Iseldra the opportunity to present herself is she so desired.<br/><br/>All told, after the introductions had been made of those who had been chosen to represent this newly forged pact of man, dwarf, and elf a total of six men and women stood under the traces of moonlight that bathed across their figures.  The only one to have not been introduced as of yet went by the name of<a class="link link--external" href="https://i.pinimg.com/736x/e8/ac/a5/e8aca54366c8ad5461287a4470bdc289.jpg" rel="nofollow ugc noopener" target="_blank">Mo'toya</a>.  She was a young woman that had risen to prominence amongst her people as the youngest of shamans in the history of the Moko.  Bones and pelts were littered across her pale flesh, while a pair of eyes that contrasted blue versus green stared out from beneath a head piece of horns and feathers.  She remained quiet through the whole affair, sipping from a mug of clay whose contents left her lips stained a dull shade of blue from the potent leaves of the Sannish plant that steeped within the heated waters of her tea.