The Song of the Heath: The Origins and Fall of the House of White Heather

Where does the tale begin? At the moment of my house’s fall, or at the first whisper of the Heath's breath? To tell the story true, you must hear it as it was sung in the old days, when the stars were young, and the earth was but a dream unformed. For my name is Kalo, Evoker of the Heath, last scion of the House of White Heather, and I carry the burden of our tale.

It begins with the Heath, as all things do.

The Heath—endless and eternal. It was not merely a land but a living hymn, its melody carried on the wind that kissed the tall grasses and stirred the prickling thistle. Streams wove silver veins through its heart, and the white heather bloomed like scattered snow under a sun that burned low and golden. The boulders, gray and ancient, stood like the silent sentinels of an age long before memory. This was a world where time stretched long, and the earth itself hummed with the pulse of creation.

But beauty does not mean safety. The Heath was wild, untamed, and cruel in its wisdom. It cradled no one.

In that harsh cradle lived the Tribe of Koops—my ancestors, though they were a shadow of what we became. Nomads they were, small in number, wandering the plains in search of shelter, food, and hope. They were a quiet people, their voices hushed by the howling winds. They were no hunters, no lords of the land. Instead, they were hunted, prey to the great beasts of an age when nature ruled without mercy. Sabertooth terrors and scaled raptors, remnants of an elder time, roamed the Heath. The Tribe of Koops knew only fear and the cold embrace of survival.

And then, the first light of hope bloomed.

Traveris was born. No greater prophecy heralded him, no comet burned in the sky. He was a child of the Heath, like any other, but deep within him stirred something new, something ancient. It was on a day when the wind roared like a beast and the sky split with a storm that he stumbled into the depths of a granite cave, seeking refuge. And there, he found her—Mother Earth.

She was not a woman or a figure of flesh but a presence. The rock thrummed with her voice, the air grew warm with her embrace, and the very earth whispered secrets to the boy who had come unbidden. She gifted him with magic—not the kind that breaks and destroys but the kind that grows, heals, and binds. Nature's magic.

When Traveris returned to his people, he was no longer just a boy. He was a beacon. He taught the Tribe of Koops to shape the earth, to whisper to the winds, to call the strength of the land into their bodies and souls. Fear turned to bravery, and the hunted became the guardians. Thus, the Kooplings were born, and the Heath finally had a people worthy of its wild song.

From Traveris’s line rose the House of White Heather, a family of sages, warriors, and shepherds of the land. We were not rulers, not in the sense of crowns and thrones. We were protectors, bound by blood and promise to the white heather that bloomed in fragile beauty across the Heath. The heather became our symbol, a sign of resilience, purity, and peace.

But the song of the Heath is not only of life. It is also of death, for even the fairest flowers must wither.

I remember when the darkness came. It was not sudden, not a roaring fire but a slow, creeping shadow. It began in whispers—envy, greed, ambition. Some Kooplings turned from the earth, seeking to command it rather than serve it. They dug too deeply, tore too violently, and in their arrogance, they awakened something old and bitter beneath the soil. The dark magic came like a black tide, twisting those it touched into monstrous shapes. They became the dark Kooplings, and their hearts were filled with hunger.

The House of White Heather stood against them, as we always had, but the darkness was relentless. One by one, my kin fell—some slain, some turned. The white heather burned, its petals turning to ash, its roots withering beneath the weight of despair. And when the last flames died, I stood alone, the final thread of a severed line.

Now I wander the Heath, a land both eternal and changed. The heather blooms still, though faintly, as if in mourning. The wind sings the same song, but its notes are heavier, sadder. The House of White Heather is no more, but the Heath endures, as it always has, as it always will.

This is my story, the story of my people. The rise and fall, the light and shadow, the hope and despair. And through it all, the Heath goes on.

Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3