Prologue: The Circle
Through the treetops glistened brilliant rays from the moon and the countless stars. On the forest floor scurried a murmuring, shimmering stream filled with clear, cold water. The air was alive with dancing fireflies, playfully lighting up the night-covered forest. The trees themselves were old and wise, trunks wide and immutable and roots deep and strong. Everything here glowed with a special light, a light not beget of the stars or moon, nor wrought of the glowing fireflies. Here, you see, was a place of unmistakable awe, a holy place. For this was the sacred glade of the druids.
Tonight was a special night. It was the Eve of Lehalna, the night when, in this very place, the first druid of Athylor named these the holy grounds of the kingdom. While most in the kingdom Athylor celebrated the Eve of Lehalna with exuberant revelry, the druids observed it with a quiet reverence. For, it was on this night, many years ago, that their order was born. Legend said that children in Athylor born on the Eve were more likely to be of druidic aether, and moreover stronger in the art. Tradition had it also that on this night, students would be officially proclaimed of the druid circle.
“Stretch forth your hands, children,” said Anazar, the archdruid.
The young men and women gingerly held out their soft hands. There were a total of five this night, and they restrained their excitement as the solemn ritual progressed. Anazar lifted in his large hands a silver bowl inlaid with emeralds and sapphires, brimming with the crystalline water drawn from the fresh stream. He stood before the first, a woman, and spoke to her in the druidic tongue, a mix of elvish and unicorn that all druids studied.
“With this water, I wash your hands, as you washed your soul in the sacred Creator Arom-Azara, and his most blessed son, Erare. You devote yourself to the Order of Life, and to the lesser deities who guide your hand in all you do.” Anazar tipped the bowl, and allowed the blessed water to run over her palms and fingers. She flinched from the cold, but did not withdraw her hands. “You have shown your heart pure and good, devoted to the righteous powers, and in this sacrament publicly declare your loyalty to the Circle of Lehalna.”
The archdruid turned, and worked his way through the rest of the ritual, similarly speaking to each of the newly inaugurated druids. Finally, the symbolic hand washing through, Anazar addressed all five together.
“My dear, dear friends, welcome to our kinship. You are now officially druids.” He smiled with deep warmth. “You have made us all so very proud. Rise, greet your peers.”
The other druids rushed in, offering handshakes and congratulations in no small supply. They celebrated the joyous occasion together in that moment, the five new of the order thrilled to have finally achieved what they had worked towards for so long. Yet, they were forced to cut the jubilations short, for the ritual was not yet completed.
The twenty five men and women that now comprised the Circle gathered around the dais, a small earthen platform with tall, burning torch-stakes on either side, throwing wavering shadows through the placid crowd. Here stood now Anazar once more, now with his three watchers seated about him. Watchers are druids on the level just beneath archdruid; indeed, highly respected individuals they were.
Archdruid Anazar lifted his great hands, his warmth still glowing on a handsome, paternal face. “Brothers, sisters, it is good that we have come together this night, to celebrate the holy honors we have had bestowed upon us. Let us give thanks and glory to our Creator, and not forget his great Son, or all the other goodly gods that have been at our sides. Let us now celebrate the beauty of life, the most wonderful of all gifts!
“My friends, our time here is completed. Yet, our exaltation continues as we remember the honor of old and enjoy present day blessings.”
The druids rose, and began their progression out of the sacred glade. Anazar was sure to personally bid each farewell, as they returned to the Druid’s Tower for further, less solemn jubilations. Anazar, however, was not yet to depart. Only one watcher remained at the archdruid’s side as he waited, patient and unmoving there on the flattened soil. Indeed, he had one more duty to perform, a joyous one that he sometimes felt bad for sharing with only one other person. Yet, it was the way of things; or rather, the way they wanted things. Yes, they were particular-minded creatures, as exact in their follow of ritual as they were beautiful.
Anazar waited for a very special meeting. A meeting with the unicorns.
The seconds slipped away, accumulating into minutes, which slowly spanned to hours. The forest was completely quiet, and the only perceivable movement was that of the bouncing fireflies. An owl hooted ominously in the distance, momentarily breaking the still silence, and then its voice faded away, returning the woods to its former sterility.
The moon climbed steadily higher as the night grew deeper. As the pristine, silvery face reached its apex, Anazar detected movement in the trees just outside the borders of the glade. The archdruid felt an almost childish glee, a feeling no mortal could help but experience when anticipating the meeting of such creatures. Finally, they were here.
Most of the unicorns remained just outside of the glade, their forms just discernable in the shadows of the treetops. Only one stepped into the light.
Her coat was a sparkling white, more pure than the freshest snow. She had a spiraling, pearl colored allicorn, the unicorn’s horn, on her smooth forehead, and similarly hued hooves. The unicorn’s eyes were an endlessly deep blue, within which the vast reaches of immortality could be found. Anazar felt tightness in his chest, and then realized he had stopped breathing. Surely, unicorns are among the most beautiful of all creatures, and to behold them never becomes any less awe-inspiring.
The unicorn, at once delicate and powerful, approached Anazar, but did not leave the soil covered dais upon which she first entered the sacred glade.
“Hello, Anazar,” she spoke gently. How unicorns spoke the druid could never comprehend, yet, they simply did. The voices of unicorns, much as their physical beauty, was a special sound to the mortal ear, carrying an otherworldly melody that held rapt the mind of the listener.
“It is an honor to have your presence, my lady,” said Anazar in a voice just above a whisper.
“My greatest joy is in our meetings, dear druid. Yet, it is the Eve of Lehalna, and tonight we do not meet for recreation. I come to depart to you the tidings abroad, the whisper carried on the trees.”
“Yes,” nodded Anazar. “I understand the sobriety of our meeting tonight. Tell me, what secret and sacred words have you brought to me?”
“Three items of interest, Archdruid Anazar. The first, a terrible travesty has occurred. A unicorn has been . . . slain, most brutishly.” A deep sorrow ran through her tender voice.
Anazar was thunderstruck. A unicorn, murdered. Surely, no Athylorian would commit such wickedness. The unicorns were considered holy by the humans, and they were honored to share territory with the beings, believing themselves blessed by the unicorns’ presence.
“Where has this atrocity been committed?” asked Anazar with mixed sorrow and fury.
“In the Valley of Dur,” responded the unicorn. The Valley of Dur was a place on the south of the kingdom, nigh devoid of human life but filled with unicorn kindred.
“What detestable creature enacted the murder?” questioned the druid, quiet indignation seething ever greater as he contemplated the evil of such a crime.
“We do not know. There is a rumor – only a rumor – that it was a . . .” her voice trembled with an undertone of fear, “a hunter that has done this deed.”
The druid was again taken aback. The unicorn hunters had not walked the world of Afanadar in hundreds of years. Long ago, there had been an order of such men, the Sinuul, yet they had been driven off by the druids. It takes great power to kill a unicorn, and Anazar had no idea where such a being might have come from. He deeply hoped this horrible murder was an isolated incident. If the antagonist was indeed a unicorn hunter, however, then the killing had only just begun.
“My lady,” he said passionately, “I assure you, every action will be taken by the Circle to stop this wicked thing, whatever it may be.”
“It will be taken care of, of that I am confident. This news, however, horrible, is not the last of it. Yet, what I tell you now is of much happier timbre.
“The fallen unicorn was with child,” explained the beautiful creature. “The child was born in the death of its mother, a true gift of our goddess, Sirenlia. The child fled the Valley of Dur, and has stumbled into human lands. It has taken the form of another creature, of what the trees do not say. So, the child is safe for now.
“However, Anazar, this child is Sirenlia’s descendant, heir to the unicorn throne. It must be found before it becomes lost in the creature it became, and forgets what it truly is. Everything must be done to find the child before this happens.”
The druid nodded. “The druid order will put forth its greatest efforts to find the heir of your goddess, this I make a solemn vow to see through.”
Elegantly, the unicorn bowed her head. “Thank you, Anazar. You of the druid’s Circle are noble kindred. There is one last thing which we want you to know. Power has been borne into Athylor. There is speaking of a changeling that has come to our kingdom. We do not know who or where, only that this is an exceptionally powerful one.”
Anazar’s eyes widened. A changeling is a human born with the natural ability to become an animal. What animal depended on the individual’s personality and abilities, yet always it was a wondrous thing to behold. Only in Athylor were such humans born, and then hardly once a century. Druids envied the changeling’s gift, for their ultimate desire was to draw close to the animal kingdom which their Creator had given them; that was the very definition of the druid. Some of their order had learned the art of shapeshifting, yet that was among only their strongest, and even then they could never equal the effortless transformations of the changeling.
Unfortunately, one could not know whether a changeling would be good or evil.
“You have brought staggering news this night, gentle lady. I assure you, the druid’s Circle will tend to this matter scrupulously,” said Anazar to reaffirm thrice fold his promise.
“Thank you, kind druid. Go with the peace of the Creator,” she said with a bow.
“May Sirenlia watch over your steps,” replied Anazar.
With that, the beautiful, equine-like creature turned and disappeared into the woods, along with the rest of her kin.
Anazar rose from his kneeling position, and turned to the watcher that had remained beside him throughout the ritualistic meeting.
“Come, my friend. We have much work to do.”
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Across the kingdom that very same night, the hunter paced voraciously. He lay patiently await in the shadows. Yet, his patience wore thin. After tasting fresh unicorn blood, the hunter grew ravenous for more, his demanding appetite only whetted.
Finally, a group of unicorns passed by the wicked creature. The hunter pursued, yet kept an aloof, safe distance, for he had not yet achieved enough strength to face several of the elegant yet powerful creatures.
Calmly, he waited for one to straggle behind. Once his prey was isolated, he would strike.
As others have said before me, great description, but there's too much of it. Don't get me wrong, you have no problem with wonderful descriptions, I could see this in my head! It's just that you went a little overboard on some. It's completely up to you to find the ones that were stressed, but it was wonderful writing in general. I also would have posted this in two parts, just because it's a little lengthy, no offense. Just a few nitpicky little problems. Other than that, it was great!
On the forest floor scurried a murmuring, shimmering stream filled with clear, cold water.
The twenty five men and women that now comprised the Circle gathered around the dais, a small earthen platform with tall, burning torch-stakes on either side, throwing wavering shadows through the placid crowd.
Hi Scribe.
On the forest floor scurried a murmuring, shimmering stream filled with clear, cold water.
A changeling is a human born with the natural ability to become an animal. What animal depended on the individual’s personality and abilities, yet always it was a wondrous thing to behold. Only in Athylor were such humans born, and then hardly once a century. Druids envied the changeling’s gift, for their ultimate desire was to draw close to the animal kingdom which their Creator had given them; that was the very definition of the druid. Some of their order had learned the art of shapeshifting, yet that was among only their strongest, and even then they could never equal the effortless transformations of the changeling.
Unfortunately, one could not know whether a changeling would be good or evil.
Tonight was a special night. It was the Eve of Lehalna, the night when, in this very place, the first druid of Athylor named these the holy grounds of the kingdom. While most in the kingdom Athylor celebrated the Eve of Lehalna with exuberant revelry, the druids observed it with a quiet reverence. For, it was on this night, many years ago, that their order was born. Legend said that children in Athylor born on the Eve were more likely to be of druidic aether, and moreover stronger in the art. Tradition had it also that on this night, students would be officially proclaimed of the druid circle.
The twenty five men and women that now comprised the Circle gathered around the dais, a small earthen platform with tall, burning torch-stakes on either side, throwing wavering shadows through the placid crowd.
WD:
Sometimes, I just sort of rant. Doesn't necessarily mean I was insulted or being defensive. I just talk too much half of the time, lol. I didn't feel infringed by your review. I was just letting you know my thoughts as per your comments . . . And honestly, I do take every review I read to heart, especially the more critical ones. That I've replied extensively, as I said, means just that, that I've done some hard thinking about what you've posited. And even if I don't say, "I completely agree and change everything you've asked me to," which I probably won't, no offense, I will still "file it away," as it were, and keep in mind your suggestions as I write in the future. I guess the fact is I just like to debate, (when it's constructive), when I should realize not all reviewers want that. So I apologize if I came off that way.
Hello, Eccentric Scribe. 
You have some good points, and I do respect your style, and I am sorry if I came across as if I did not. I admire descriptive writers like Hawthorne and Dickens as well; I love adjectives and description, and I understand what you mean by the words feeling right. I would just urge you to choose your words carefully. One thing that I have noticed in the descriptive writers you mention is that they choose specific adjectives, adjectives that paint a clear picture. I believed I mentioned above that I thought the adjectives were generic, and I felt they could be more specific. Using less generic and more specific adjectives makes a piece descriptive and makes it less cluttered, not less descriptive or patient. But, as you say, it is a stylistic preference. And, in a sense, all critiquing is subjective. By critiquing, I am simply giving you my feedback on your work - I do not endeavor to change your style by any means. I am simply stating how I think you can improve.
I understand you may be confident in your style, yet I would still urge you to take feedback to heart and consider the things that have been said, not because you need to change your style, but because often a pair of fresh eyes is valuable.
Thank you for giving me the opportunity to read your piece.
ShadowTwit, and by extension, Writersdomain:
I apologize if my reply came off as obstinate or single-minded, or even dismissive of your reviews. That was not at all my intention. It's just that, my attitude towards this whole reviewing bit isn't just about saying what you think needs to be fixed, end of the story. I think it should be something of a dialogue. Say I point out something I don't like about something you wrote. If it is something that is deeply affixated to your writing style or something with a great deal of thought behind it, I would expect you to defend yourself, so to speak, because writing is a very opinionated business, as it were, and it's best to be clear about our opinions so we can help each other. If you say, "Use less adjectives," and I say, "But I like using lots of adjectives," I'm not insulting or demeaning your advice. Instead, you should realize that I took the time to seriously consider your thoughts and judge them against my own feelings about writing. In otherwords, if I argue with your argument, take that as a compliment, not an insult.
Certainly WD made good points, and I didn't say, "WD, your points are bad or wrong" or whatever. All I did was explain my particular ideas on the matter. Yes, WD knows what she's doing, but she's not the only one.
As to your closing comment, about taking criticism, I can only really reiterate what I've already said. "Taking" implies a passivity. Trying to become a better writer isn't just passively obeying everything this or that reviewer says about their writing. Instead, it should be an active, engaging thing. I didn't disregard her comments, I don't feel they were undue or out of line. I merely have different writerly tastes, and expressed as much in what I felt was a civil manner (if it wasn't, I apologize for that). Like I said, you take my reply as perhaps angry or defensive, when actually I feel it would be a dishonor to her review by not saying anything in reply.
I'm sorry if my attitude towards reviewing is abraisive. That is certainly not my aim. As for reviewing in return, I plan on doing so when I have the time.
Great job on your descriptions, I couldn't stop reading. You have a fan! Yay! I don't have any negative comments now, so keep up the good work.
Sheesh... 
You do a bloke a favour, and they say they don't need your help, thank you very much, and really I can tell myself how I can improve without *your* efforts.
You just reviewed my review. Thanks for nothing.
Your point about Dickens and stuff, yeah, I getcha, but with writers like that, I skim over half the description that takes ages to read.
If I pick up a book that overflows in description like this, then I'm sorry, but I'd put it down again. You don't like the way of "getting to the point" nowadays, but the point is what you're writing about. If you take ages getting to the point, then the reader's going to loose patience with you and stop reading your story entirely.
I know I'm just one reader, but it goes without saying that people want to be hooked, and if - as you say - that today, people get hooked by getting to the point, then it might be best for you to get to the point if you want anyone to read your stuff.
I'm not trying to be destructive to your work here; I'm just saying that WD made some very good points there, and you should take notice as she knows what she's talking about. Read some of her stuff, and you'll see what I mean.
You need to take critiscm or you'll never improve.
I appreciate the comments on this story. I would like to make a few replies.
I am aware of the work of Peter S. Beagle. I am of the opinion that my unicorns don't resemble his in the slightest. I don't think you've read enough of my story to make a judgement like that anyway . . . And besides, I feel that there have been many other writers who have had just as much influence on the traditional unicorn, such as Bruce Coville, the writer of Diadem, and several collaborative fantasy series. How do unicorns talk? This question reminds me of a book where a character was talking to a vampire who told him that there were such things as werewolves. The character balked with, "Werewolves?! That's ridiculous! How could there be werewolves?!"
. . . Do you see my point? I think the fact that there is a unicorn is much more astonishing than the fact that the unicorn can talk, do you agree?
"Overdescription." This is a term which will have to be resigned to opinion, in my, well, in my opinion. Personally, I read overdescriptive writers, including in the ranks Hawthorne, MacDonald, Tolkien, Henry Fielding, Charles Dickens, and many others. Our world has become one of instant gratification, of get-to-the-pointedness that, quite frankly, I detest. I am not interested in the point. I am interested in writing prose, for those who will enjoy it, if it is well-crafted enough for them to do so. I enjoy the language. I don't try to emulate archaic or modern linguistics, generally speaking. I use the words which feel right to me. I read an article once which argued that the best sort of teacher was one who was "slow and inefficient," because this sort of teacher doesn't cram the facts into their students, but slowly lets the knowledge, something other than the facts, mind you, stew in them, boil, and slowly cook into their minds. I take a similar approach to writing. Many do not agree with this, and that is fine. As it stands, it is a stylistic preference.
Think of this. You may ask me to cut from the chapter all that is unnecesary. Well, I could start with the first word, and then delete every word after until the end of the page. For, you see, no book, no poem, no piece of literature or artwork whatever, is "necessary." Asking whether anything in art is "necessary" is usually, if not the wrong question, one of lesser importance. Ask what it is doing there. Ask why it is there. Not to me, though. To yourself. Wonder why the writer writes this, when he or she very well could have written that. Indeed, I use a lot of adjectives and adverbs. One could assume this as a writerly weakness, if one is of the opinion that writing should be "necessary," say, or assumes that it is the product of sloppy thinking, etc., etc. I think often people focus a little too much on what is there, or what isn't there, and don't think enough about better questions, like, why is it there, or why isn't it there. When you have asked these questions, not only about my writing, but about anyone elses, then, if you still feel such words and phrases to be excessive, make your recommendations.
"Show, don't tell." I won't get into a long, argumentative dissertation on the topic, but let me tell you, I hate the phrase. I'm tired of it, really. It's almost as cliche of a piece of advice as "Avoid cliches." No offense, honestly, it's generally good advice. But logically it's got a bit of a flaw, when you think on it: Writers use words. Words are for telling. If you want to show, pick up a paintbrush. Are words paintlike, can they have a "showy" flair to them, make the reader forget that these are words and not pictures? Sure, they can, if the writer is good enough, and if that's what he wants to do. But maybe he doesn't. Again, this statement reflects a writing philosophy, a good one I admit, but not the only one, and not necessarily the best. It is yet another stylistic preference. Perhaps it is possible to write a good narrative with more telling than showing? I'm not saying I've accomplished that here necessarily. But what I am saying is that, perhaps, it could be done. Perhaps it can't.
I think sometimes what writers who review must remeber is this: When reading someone who has another artistic style, making their style better might not entail saying "Write in my style." I am not saying anyone has done that here, but I feel that perhaps if one recognizes that the writer is not necessarily out to do what the reader expects or wants, then the piece of literature is more likely to be approached as the writer intended it to be.
Then again, I could be very wrong about that, but I don't think so.
PM me if you'd like to discuss this further or ask me any questions.
Tis interesting. It seems you have a nicely developed fantasy world to work with, and you have some fascinating ideas, but I must admit I was bothered by the way it was presented. So, I am going to go through a few things I think you can do to improve this, okay?
I. Description
It is not bad to describe. In fact, it is very good. It sets a mood, paints a scene for the reader and often draws the reader into a story. It has been mentioned that this has too much description, and to an extent, I agree; however, I think the main issue here is the lack of tactful description. What do I mean by this? I mean the description was written in a way that did not interest or pull me in. Why?
1. Adjectives. There were too many. I know that adjectives are fun and a few are great, but in this there were too many. Also, the adjectives used were generic adjectives, and often times I felt a single, more specific adjective could have achieved more than the two or three used. So, it is time to pull out your shotgun and kill some adjectives.
2. Adverbs. It is very much the same thing here. There were too many generic adverbs that did not contribute much to the verb or story itself. Kill them.
The amount of adjectives and adverbs in this story make it hard to read, clutters and strangles otherwise interesting verbs, overwhelms the reader, and stunts your ability to characterize your new cast. It's bad. Yes, description is good for a story. Yes, adjectives are beautiful words. But using too many is bad.
So, how can you fix this? First, I am going to suggest the most painful thing for an adjective-happy writer to do. Cut. Cut all the adjectives and adverbs out of your story and see what you have. Second, take a look at your verbs. Are they generic? Powerful? Can they be changed to achieve a greater effect? Third, take a look at your nouns. Are they specific enough? Fourth, take a look at your presentation. Were you relying on adjectives to describe the setting or tell? If so, start using more specific description and less telling.
To apply this method, I'm going to do something Snoink did for me a long time ago, and cut out all your adjectives and adverbs for you.
Through the treetops glistened rays from the moon and the stars. On the forest floor scurried a stream filled with water. The air was alive with fireflies, lighting up the forest. The trees themselves were old and wise, trunks wide and immutable and roots deep and strong. Everything here glowed with a light, a light not beget of the stars or moon, nor wrought of the fireflies. Here, you see, was a place of awe, a place. For this was the glade of the druids.
The young men and women gingerly held out their soft hands. There were a total of five this night, and they restrained their excitement as the solemn ritual progressed. Anazar lifted in his large hands a silver bowl inlaid with emeralds and sapphires, brimming with the crystalline water drawn from the fresh stream. He stood before the first, a woman, and spoke to her in the druidic tongue, a mix of elvish and unicorn that all druids studied.
The men and women held out their hands. There were a total of five this night, and they restrained their excitement as th ritual progressed. Anazar lifted in his hands a bowl inlaid with emeralds and sapphires, brimming with the water drawn from the stream. He stood before the first, a woman, and spoke to her in the tongue, a mix of elvish and unicorn that all druids studied.
Keep on writing and nice beginning here. PM me if you have any quesions.I see you started a new story! XD I will critique it...but not today. *Sigh* Why do they all have to be so long? Lol. I suppose I owe you though! 007
Interesting. If you're dealing with unicorns, though, you always have to be careful not to copy Peter Beagle. This was grammatically sound, and I didn't see any errors, so mae carnen on that. 
A word of warning though. At times you did tend to slip into archaic language, and I REALLY don't like that.
Scribe wrote:Everything here glowed with a special light, a light not beget of the stars or moon, nor wrought of the glowing fireflies.
All in all the story was good, but you put a little excess description. And how do unicorns talk?? I get the elf part but that just annoyed me.
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