E
nabran Tain was born of the Sindrene, a devoutly religious race of forest dwellers as elusive as they are colorful. He was slow to develop compared to his peers and, while he did not want for friendly social interaction, he was more inclined to spend his days reciting the Songs of Sindri with his elders or exploring the natural wonders of the Shining Weald alone than sparring or chasing. His lack of ambition vexed his mother, Ilani - a proud yet fragile gloryhound who, despite possessing some admirable qualities, still consistently managed to bloviate her way into a state of general unpopularity with the herd - but such fractious desires only grew more repulsive to him with age. Ilani scolded him constantly, and his father (sympathetic though he was) stood by in silence.Inevitably this private struggle turned grotesquely, traumatically public. Enabran, then a young stallion and long since fed up with his mother's abuse, ran afoul of an acquaintance with more antlers than sense and an axe to grind: he may not have slung the first insults, but he most certainly landed the first blow...
...and almost nothing else.
Enabran paid handsomely for the many lessons he learned that day. After the brief but chaotic clash of antlers, he had suffered a badly broken hind leg that would almost claim his life. Devrim, his father, finally summoned the Priory elders when he lost the ability to stand - against his mother's loud protestations that her son was strong, actually, and other such things that have long since smeared into the red haze of his memory.
Delirious with pain and fever, he could remember little of the healing ritual that followed. He had once ached to watch the elders beseech Sindri directly someday, hungry as he had been to see the forest god's grace in action - but when he awoke hours later, his hind leg miraculously mended and seared white by Sindri's mercy, he screamed for several minutes, then said nothing at all for weeks. He lacked the fortitude to describe what had horrified him so. He feared what they would think. He feared what they might do.
So Enabran did what he could to move on. He was healed, as many in the Weald were swift to point out in joyous tones, and they were far better at congratulating him on his guaranteed acceptance into the Priory than he was at ignoring the way they gawked at the mercy mark that scored his flank like lightning. Even so, he didn't blame them: if the evidence of their god's good work writ large across his flesh had not successfully othered him from the community, then the sudden onset of night terrors certainly would have. Navigating his new reality exhausted him.
When several seasons of suffering saw the deep well of his endurance run dry at last, he confronted his father quietly with the desire to travel beyond the borders of the Shining Weald in search of peace for his troubled spirit. Devrim understood, and in exchange for his silence (for Ilani would undoubtedly rage at her son's flight from the forest, and goodness knows how far she would go to retrieve him) he asked only that Enabran carry a piece of the forest with him in the hope that one day his search might lead him home. Enabran accepted the token - a small copper medallion affixed with thick twine to his antler - and stole away into the wilderness before his resolve could fail him.