The Gathering Shadows of Namaraga

There are many obscure and strange stories, ones that provoke our deepest imaginations or make us face our darkest fears. Tales are told across time and throughout the earth's history, and such is the nature also of the Gnomes. Now, the Gnomes in the next series of stories are part of a collection of "Gnomish Folklore of the Second Age", and are not the ones you might think of. They are not the miniscule people who hide in gardens and cause mischief (though they do tend to cause quite a ruckus now and again). These sort of people are what you may call a mix, or a half-breed, of Dwarves and halflings. Thick grey beards sprout from the men as a distinguishable feature and bright, rosy red cheeks blush in the fair skin of the women. They are a cheery people, despite their horrible past and their tragedies; yet they prefer to live in the moment rather than dwell on the pain of the past. And how does one forget such tragedies? Many answers may apply to that, but for this purpose, it is the telling of stories; ones that make all Gnomes gather around the campfires to share and listen under the stars or to pass in traditions during special holidays and comfortable family occasions.

The tale I am about to tell is a common one that many children remember to this day, found from an old tome in the Hills of Availin, the Gnomish Kingdom. The writer of these tales was never identified, and was never found, even after he left his writings for ecstatic adventurers to discover. Perhaps his mysterious disappearance and discard of his notes was his of his own purpose, but none can know for certain. But what he certainly left behind was the Folklore of which the Gnomes, the Hill People, tell, including the terrors of old, for the fear of Namaraga the Witch was implanted firmly in the depths of their minds, where fear stays and never leaves. This First Entry was the earliest of the author's notes:

Entry #1: The Gathering Shadows of Namaraga, the lonely Witch born of a Hag

The earth is still new, the soil is still fresh, or so the beings tell me; I am doubtful of it, though. I cannot tell what exactly to call them, really; odd traits sprout from their bodies, mainly their faces and heads. Tall, pointed ears with notches and holes in them belong the ones who slender, very cross at all times, and nearly double my height. The ones who stand barely above me are considered stout, chubby, and have enormous nostrils, flaring in anger, and when they go into a raging fit, their giant round ears turn a blistering red. I've done enough doing 'being-investigating' and going about with careless and boring conversations; I realize I am better off alone, to study the unexplainable. I've been writing and gathering my own entries to attempt to make sense of this land, one that crosses the bounds of reality and, well, the unknown. Magic, I would hear some others speak it as, but the word hasn't come across my vocabulary until then. Strange.

One day, while I was trekking rather somberly through a thick set of woods, I came upon a broken shed, its rough roof scattered in loose shingles and its wooden beams splitting to the point of giving in. Windows shattered with cobwebs and spindly spiders make their new homes there. A dented metal chimney sprung out from the broken roof, though no smoke came from it, and probably hadn't for some time. Layers of dust lay upon the splintered floors, a lone circular table in the center was empty save a doused candle upon a rather exquisite candelabra, its wax melted nearly completely. By then, it was nearing nightfall, and I saw that the clouds were murkier than usual; the constellations were barely seen, but enough to guide my way back to the village. Odd happenings to begin with.

Coming into the shed, I saw first that a large gaping hole was on the other side of the table, a faint orange and red light flickering from beneath. Before I went to investigate, I noticed peculiar drawings on the table: lines connecting together in circular and triangular patterns; magic, I thought to myself. I never saw patterns like that, and I never want to again. And now, I am rather strange, for what I saw next I could only recall in tune, in poem, for my memory serves best when it is repeated in a silly tune when I am confronted with a mighty fright.

'Dull and bleak, the stars aligned

Under a blanket thin of enchanted mist

The woods are creaking

Limping, speaking, shrieking

Roots of poisoned soil

The ground now turned to black

Beneath the splintered floor, a secret lay there

Hidden from sight, hidden from light

Leathered skin growing on bones of old

Tattered cloth with a layer mold

A dark Whisper from a cursed lip

Tracing whites lines on a hare's hip

"Be it from blood, of sacrifice of the flesh

"Let fumes gather over fire

"Knowledge of lore, time that is dire

"The ground toiled, the cauldron boiled

"Resurrected, the Gathering Shadows

"Let it be that it come into I."

'Ashes dance, the flame is gathered

A mist once lost in the Void

Now behind all that is good

A poisoned earth, blackened

The shadows of evil, rooted.'

Though I managed to tumble over broken bottles and scraped my legs on a splintered piece of wood, I escaped back to the village under heavy breathing. But I will not forget the stare of the Witch as she stood unmoving under the shed. The stars would not shine its light upon her, no detail besides her waving hair and two piercing eyes, a dim shine from a figure as evil as the Void itself. I only then found her name in the village that night: Namaraga, meaning 'lonely witch' in an ancient tongue. She placed a curse on me, or so the villagers say, and they do not speak to me anymore. No words, only gestures, and I fear they may be right. I see her eyes in my room in the inns, silver and unblinking. They are present even in the day, when I close my own eyes for just a moment; what if they are hers now? I cannot say. What evil might have resided there has now left. What else is there to do but wait? The Gathering Shadows is spreading.