The Marsh King's bride.

Episode 1:

In a time long past, before humanity distanced itself from the enchantments that permeated our world, there existed an era steeped in wonder. The rivers ran thick with it. It gathered in the crowns of ancient oaks and dripped from their branches after rain. It lived in the spaces between heartbeats, in the soft rot of fallen wood, in the blue hour just before dawn when the sky could not decide what it was.

In a parallel realm, spirits traversed the boundaries between worlds. These guardians of magic were tasked with safeguarding the mystical forces that gave life to all that back before. It was the magical essence that flowed through the fractures of the earth, whispering secrets to those attuned to its presence.

Gods and beasts moved through the world as one, bound together by the invisible filaments of magic that laced the earth beneath their feet and the sky above their heads.

The spirits who wandered between realms did not merely witness this—they were woven into it, each one a knot in the great net that kept the extraordinary from spilling away into nothing. In those days, wonder was not something you sought out. It was simply what the world was made of.

Let's go back together to a pivotal moment when magic was not just a distant dream, or words on paper, but a place that pulsed with it.

Chapter 1:

Rori

Rori held a profound discontent for her village, a place that seemed to embody the very essence of monotony. Nestled far from the bustling Capitol, it felt almost forgotten by the outside world, with no travelers or distant wizards daring to venture into its somber embrace. To Rori, the village presented nothing but a parade of uninspired sights: unremarkable straw houses huddling together in a disheveled manner around a longhouse that had fallen into a dire state of disrepair. She often wondered if the local Chief, whose penchant for gambling siphoned away precious resources, could redirect even a fraction of his funds towards the restoration of their communal space. Surely, with some investment, they could transform this lackluster environment into something of beauty. The inhabitants of Eriu lived out their lives from the unforgiving stone that surrounded them, carving out a rhythm of survival amidst the bleak landscape. Yet, Rori felt that their resilience could be better served in a place that flourished rather than one that merely existed.

Yet she would remain silent on such matters, for to disclose to a villager that their existence was squandered would be silly. Thus, she uttered not a word. If a villager greeted her with “good morrow,” she responded with silence. If a suitor endeavored to win her heart, her lips remained sealed. For Roni had been rendered mute.

It was not long after the leaves underwent their vibrant transformation, three winters past, that Rori had completed her training alongside her parents, preparing to take up the family trade of an Apothecary by the tender age of twenty-five. She was bold enough, on occasions when her father ventured forth to gather herbs from the edge of the woods, she confidently took the reins of their modest shop.

At that time, the village itself was a bustling tapestry of life, a vibrant haven brimming with energy and camaraderie. The air was filled with the lively chatter of the townsfolk; women exchanged jovial greetings as they procured eggs and freshly baked bread to nourish their beloved children, while men gathered in the great hall, warmed by the crackling fire, boasting of their latest hunts and the exploits that had brought them honor.

Rori found herself content with this life, though there lingered a certain restlessness within her spirit—an unquenchable yearning for adventure. Her mother often remarked that her daughter possessed wandering feet, destined to roam the world beyond the familiar paths of their small village.

It was solely for the love she harbored for her parents that Rori chose to remain tethered to this place, her heart anchored like roots of a great oak.

The year was marked by the relentless grip of the plague, which claimed an astonishing number of lives, reducing the once-vibrant village to a desolate shadow of its former self. Over two-thirds of the inhabitants fell victim to the merciless disease, leaving behind an expanse of empty homes and an all-too-full graveyard. With every great tragedy comes a thirst for blame, and the surviving villagers, turned their ire upon Rori and her parents, holding them accountable for their inability to save their loved ones from the clutches of death.

In truth, the scenario was ironic, for Rori’s small family had long existed on the fringes of the community, regarded as outcasts due to their fearless expeditions close to the foreboding depths of the Great Wood, which sprawled up the rugged mountains. Rori often found herself pondering the reasons her father had chosen this village as the foundation for their life together.

Yet, as she delved into her thoughts, she recognized that it was her mother, steadfast and immovable, who had rooted them here. Her mother’s unwavering spirit and gentle heart had drawn them into the embrace of this village, for she believed in the beauty of community and the bonds that entwined its people. Her mother’s and fathers absence fell heavily upon Rori, a constant reminder of the love that had once flourished within their home, now transformed into a wellspring of sorrow that threatened to drown her in silence.

After three arduous years marked by loss, very few souls dared to venture into Rori’s humble shop. The bustling life that once thrived within her apothecary had waned to a mere whisper, leaving her largely alone with her thoughts, surrounded by shelves laden with herbs and elixirs that gathered dust. Her vibrant world had now been replaced by a heavy silence that seemed to seep into the very fabric of her existence.

The shop had been silent for hours when Rori pulled her cloak from its hook and stepped outside. She kept to the paths that skirted the woods, not quite entering, not quite leaving. Somewhere above her, birds called back and forth in the high branches—the first of them returning, their voices thin and tentative in the cold air. The trees gave nothing back yet. Every branch was stripped bare, a dark tangle reaching into a sky that was still the flat gray of a winter that had only just loosened its grip.

Thistle was what she told herself—there were patches to be found at the wood's edge, and that was true enough. She had been walking this border since she was small, close enough to catch the cold air that breathed out from between the trunks, the smell of something older than the village, older than its laws. The trees did not thin at their edges so much as they simply stopped letting light through. People who went in, the stories said, were rarely seen again. Rori had always understood this as a reason to stay out. She was no longer certain it was.

She had her father's voice for company, at least. It rose up the way it always did when she drew too close to the tree line—low and certain, the way he spoke when he meant to be remembered. “There are spirits in that forest, little one. Ones you should not anger.” She had been small enough then to take it simply as fact. She was not certain what she took it as now.

The council's decree had stood longer than anyone could remember: no villager was to enter the woods. What remained of the council held little sway over much else, but this law they kept. The elders had made certain it was understood early, passed from parent to child. To break it and return was to find yourself without a home. The village would not take back someone who had walked among those trees. Whatever they had touched in there, whatever had touched them, was reason enough.

No one looked directly at the forest for long. It sat at the edge of everything, dense and lightless past the first row of trunks, and the village had grown up with its back to it the way you turn from something you'd rather not catch looking at you. There were songs about what lived inside—spirits that had been there before the first stone of Eriu was laid, that did not distinguish between a deliberate trespass and an unlucky one. The Great Protector was the name given to whatever presided over the rest of it, though name was perhaps too small a word. You felt it, people said, before you understood what you were feeling.

Should one provoke this mighty spirit, furious retribution would not be long in coming. Stories abounded of those who had crossed the boundaries, only to suffer a fate far worse than death. It was said that the spirit would unleash its ferocity upon any soul whose actions went against the sanctity of its domain; storms would rise, mountains would fall, as nature itself turned against them, and dark forces would be summoned to exact justice upon the intruder. The thought of incurring such wrath sent shivers down the spines of even the most daring souls, and thus the villagers continued to cower at the edge of the great forest.

A sudden rustling among the verdant trees drew Rori from the depths of her silent turning, her thoughts momentarily scattered like leaves. Emerging from the shadowed embrace of the woods was a magnificent stag. The creature’s rich, chestnut brown coat shimmered as it shook off the remnants of winter, shedding the last vestiges of its heavy winter pelt. The velvety antlers, still adorned with new growth, soaking the fleeting rays of sunlight. The beast stood no more than twenty paces from her, a vision of beauty that took her breath away.