The Eastern Woods are home to many newly awakened Aislings who seek to gain power, glory, or merely to fight the ills that ravage the land.  These trees serve as a training ground of sorts.  Most young Aislings learn many lessons in the Eastern Woods.  This tale centers around three such young ones, who were seeking to smite enemies of humanity in these woods, and the lessons they learned.

  These three had agreed to hunt together, to better fend off Sgrios' greedy claws.  There was a simple priestess, a humble peasant, and a young athar mage, who had as much insight as the other two combined.  With the power of the mage, the protection of the priest and the determination of the peasant,  they formed a mighty triad.  They smote many of the giant insects of the woods to safeguard Mileth from infestations.  Indeed, even the dreaded Mantises could not defeat them.

  Things were going along as well as could be, but the Mage developed some.. troubles.. with the priestess.  Perhaps she was not fast enough to heal him.  Perhaps she was too taken with admiring the beauty of the forest to cast enough holy magics for his taste.  Perhaps he just disliked priests.  Whatever his reasoning, he delivered words most unkind to this poor priestess.

  The peasant, being of honorable blood, would not stand to see a lady so dishonoured.  He challenged the mage to an honor duel, though the mage was far more powerful than he.  The mage, his ego swelled with all his recent smiting, laughed at the peasant and accepted his challenge with the words, "You?  Beat me?  Hahah!  Come then, I'll deliver you to your grave!"

  They drew their circle of combat there in the woods.  The mage meditated, focusing his powers, readying himself for the battle.  As he sat chanting just outside the circle, arcane magics could be seen swirling about him.  Sparks of his element occasionally popped off his form.  The grass around where he sat curled up and turned brown, letting off the smell of burning chlorophyll.

  The peasant's preparations were much simpler.  He readied what armor and weapons he had:  His trusty stick, forged from branches he had collected for the local smith and the ragged shirt he had entered his new life as an Aisling in.

  The battle was met when both entered their arena.  The mage merely smiled as he called down his elemental attack, Athar, to fry the insolent peasant where he stood.  Luckily for the peasant, being in the forest, the lightning struck what lightning does... A tree.  The peasant, however, was thrown to the ground by the resulting explosion of wood.  Though uninjured, the peasant was not fully sound.  He felt himself doubting his strength.  He had seen the very heavens themselves split and let loose their fury.  How could a simple stick hope to beat back the very powers of nature itself?

  Laughing with glee, the mage sent down another blast from the heavens.  The peasant, disheartened as he was, did what comes so naturally to peasants.  He fled.  He dove behind a bush with speed even an athar mage would envy, cowering in fear.  As the peasant sat, hidden in the foliage, he peeked through the branches to see where the mage was, and what death he might be preparing for him.

  But his eyes did not see the mage.  They instead fixed upon the young priestess.  She stood there, just outside the circle, smiling and cheering his name.  The peasant looked upon this and found his doubts melting away.  He suddenly remembered, as if waking from a dream, why he had entered the arena.  He was filled with the courage that can only be found in a just cause.  He had a weapon and his purpose was clear.  Let the sky itself try to stop him from delivering justice!  It would fail!

  He gripped his stick with both hands, and exploded from the bushes!  Screaming a cry of war, he made a mad rush towards the athar mage.  The mage was taken by surprise, for he had felt sure the peasant's spirit had been broken.  Quickly rallying his power, the mage sent more magics towards the charging peasant.  The athar spells failed him, however, for he had rushed his cantrips in his panic.

  Dashing past the vapours of failed magic, the peasant closed in upon his target swiftly.  The simple stick came flying down upon the mage's head.  It landed upon its prey with a mighty 'thwack!'.  The young athar mage found his intellect failing him as he fell into unconsciousness.  With but one mighty blow, the peasant satisfied honor's demands and had knocked the wizard out.

  The peasant and priestess left the woods, arm in arm.  The mage was left behind, out cold on the forest floor.   The priestess had found someone willing to defend her at any cost, and a cute defender, at that.   The peasant was filled with love and hope, his lesson well learned:

Strength of purpose can overcome any obstacle.