Serenity

"I have seen worse traits in better warriors." —Ain Serenity's greatest flaw was that she trusted too easily, and spoke too soon. Forest guardians were not mere watchmen. They were riders of the old wood, bound to the roots that nourished them and the trails that carried them unseen beneath the canopy. When strangers emerged uninvited, the guardians rode out on their stags, and their arrows carried warnings. Serenity had been raised for this duty, despite her own convictions. A broken cartwheel, a crying child, a hunter too frightened to speak—these were all clear signs of danger, yet Serenity only saw lost souls where others saw trespassers. More than once, she helped guide outsiders back to safety, where others would have driven them away. For many, this amounted to outright disobedience, ill-befitting of one who had yet to earn their stag. Among the council, only one elder vouched for her, commenting that Serenity did not trust blindly, but rather inquired before casting doubt. It was a lukewarm appraisal at best. Unbeknownst to Serenity, she would be given one more chance—a trial of sorts. It began when a small caravan entered the woods after dusk. Rain spoiled their map, their horses were tired, and their cloaks were torn. Their youngest traveler could barely keep his eyes open, yet still, the guardian's code would have them turned away. Serenity rode toward them instead. She led them through fern gullies and deep into the forest, traversing past the sentinel outposts which guarded the sanctuary. By dawn, the travelers were beyond the trees. By noon, Serenity found the first mark: A notch cut low into the bark. Several paces away, another. Someone in the caravan had marked their trail as she was leading them to safety. Serenity first felt betrayal, then shame. It wasn't long before the guardians discovered what happened, and dread took hold of her. Her naivete might yet cost her people dearly, and so she gathered with the other guardians, ready to run down whoever the markings had been left for. Serenity rode ahead of the pack, following the marked trees to a stream crossing where human raiders crouched with muted torches and axes wrapped in cloth. She issued her warning, which was first met with recognition, then laughter. For the first time, Serenity released an arrow. The others soon arrived, and no raider was spared. By nightfall, the marks were effaced and the trail had vanished beneath leaf and root once more. Though valiant, her deeds could not undo what was already done, and so Serenity was immediately placed on trial. The council concluded that her actions endangered all of Silversong, and she was to be relieved of all duties, until proven capable. The following winter was especially harsh, as she trained under watchful eyes. Trust became a luxury that she dared not squander, and although she hardened herself to the world beyond the trees, she was met with unexpected warmth from her own. The following spring, a ceremony was held for Serenity, whereupon she was granted her first set of reins. She drew herself upright for the oath, her bearing proud, yet with a trace of sorrow in her eyes. Today, she rides where the old trees thin and the roads begin, no passerby left unseen.