The Circle of Faelorn, burrows and hovels near the ancient yew tree that lifted its peak far above the forests, meadows and the riversprings below, was the dwelling of the druids, folk that, if tales had their truth in them, were attuned with the nature around them to such a degree that it listened to their pleas, allowing them to shape it to their needs. The animals which frolicked in the woods near Faelorn and beyond listened to the tongues of these wizards of nature, and lended them a place among them, which the druids repaid in the upkeep and guardianship of the creatures of the wild.

Yet as dark forces came, the folk trembled in their wake. The leaves were rustling, telling them of bad tidings. Some made their way, and some stayed, defending the looming tree until the tree came to be felled. Years passed and the arts of druidry fell into obscurity, only fabled to children in the rhymes of tales, telling of the folk who - with the flick of a wrist, could sprout flowers through the ground, and that could speak to animals - critters and predators alike.

Among the ancestors of worshippers of the fabled tree sprung a sapling, born during the dayspring of the early splendor of autumn, while still the bright leaves cling on to the trees. The small village, or collection of burrows rather, as a homage to how they formerly lived, seemed to have another healthy child among them. The name he came to bear with him through all his life, Humphrey, was a gift given to him by his mother - that and the life of his were the only two gifts she’d be able to give to him for she passed away a year later.

His father, a hoarfrosty descendant of a Faelornishman with the typical neighbourly, homely aura of their kind was to tend to the child akin to what a mother would do. And so he did. He wove the child’s first robe and gave him his first stave of yew, and a thick one at that which has lasted him until his teenage years. Though as a father had his duties outside of raising a son, that has led to the child growing wild; a thriving weed he was, oft seen cavorting amongst his friends within the dense woods, conquering trees, leaping amongst the steep meadows or belly flopping onto the clear blue ponds dotting the propinquity of the quiescent village.

Though as he grew older, he also grew wiser - yet rivaling with that wisdom was a deep, gnawing hunger. A hunger for what’s beyond the cobbled walls, frolicking critters and looming trees. So the boy, a teenager now, grabbed his staff of yew and his robes and headed outwards of the consent of his father, to learn of what wondrous sights there were to be seen. Yet before he set foot to the great beyond, his father gave him his leather satchel - lined with alchemical concoctions, herbs and some bread to help him along the journey.

Travelling far to the west, the lad walked along a beaten, dirt path, eating off of the berries and nuts which the bushes gave him, and drank of the water that flowed in the rivers and lakes. Yet as he knelt down by a river to fill his waterskin under the light of the Moon, a screeching sound of distress pierced through his ears. He sneaked up towards the path and saw a three scoundrels, most likely a few years older than him, teasing a poor dove. They threw it up and down, and lobbed it to each other as the tweets and cries for help went under deaf ears.

Humphrey’s eyes were clouded with fury. The boy crept up from the woods, slamming his staff on to the ground - yet in an unconvincing, cravenly manner befitting of someone of his short stature, telling them to back off from the bird, lest they’d have to face his wrath. A well turgid statement, thought the boy, yet hoping that it’d convince them to let the bird flee. The lads laughed, throwing the bird at the boy, forcing him to drop his stave and stumble back, falling on to his rear.

Cracking knuckles and looming grins came closer, threatening to hurt the boy, but as soon as their grubby hands moved closer to roughen him up, thorny brambles coiled around the ankle of the largest fellow, dragging him into the shadows of the woods. The deafening roar of a horn shook the trees, and undoubtedly the boys, forcing them to run away along the path - leaving the boy and the bird behind. The brambles’ grip loosened, letting the other lad flee up towards the path, hollering for his comrades to slow down.

He looked into the forest, quirking his brow - wondering what the forest had in store for him for the bushes whisked from side to side. A little creature..- no, an old, vertically challenged lady stepped out from the brushery, with a horn in her hand and a gnarled, wooden pipe in the other, grinning at the boy. “Muriel’s my name, descendant of Faelorn. And what be your name?”

“Humphrey, Humphrey Honeydew.”