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The Forest of Gleeb Calum Waite
Calum.Waite@aspen-waite.co.uk
It is a quiet evening; I walk alone through the trees as the birds sing their last tunes of the day. All of the birds from places far and wide have either travelled back to their distant homes or settled down for the night. Rusty the Enchanted Battlemage Hare stumbles down into his burrow after a day of archery, spellcasting, tomfoolery and chiefly mead drinking with his friends the courier raccoons and the magic squirrels. The mysterious and solitary yet ultimately benevolent Gnomes
are starting to stir, awakening from their hiding places ready to stand vigil in the night against any possible threat that could muster on our borders. Never… cross… a gnome. The wizard Schleeb is at the centre of the forest, busy in his shaman’s hut brewing up all manner of potions and concoctions as I finally make it to the edge of the Forest of Gleeb and sit.
I wistfully stare into the horizon as the sun departs slowly into the west past the Plains of Anathor. No harm can befall me for I am sheathed in the carapace of protection spells that are woven seamlessly into the very fabric of these lands. I contemplate my existence, who am I? Ah yes, I am Meeb of course, wizard of the mystic arts and guardian of the Forest and all of its kin. But where did it all begin? I have vague memories of a time not long ago when I was but a
