Brammelwurz and the Light Essence of Anendar

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Deep beneath the stone umbrella of the Rootland, where stalactite flutes hung from the ceiling in slow melody and the floor breathed the rhythm of forgotten times, Brammelwurz stood alone. The cave was ancient, vaulted like a thought never spoken. Its walls were crisscrossed with threadlike veins of light—delicate as spiderwebs, yet alive. The air was still, almost reverent, as if listening to the moment. In his left hand, he held a lantern. The light within was still. No trembling, no flickering. It shone like something very aware of its purpose. In his right, he carried a small goatskin rune pouch filled with shards of concentrated silence, harvested from the silence of a temple ruin in the Misty Mountains. Each shard was a moment no one spoke. He stepped closer to the stone table. Moss grew in the cracks, tiny mushrooms glowed at the rim. On the table: a bowl of galsite—a translucent, forgotten stone—in the center of which floated a drop of light. Not flame, not fire. It was liquid memory. It was the light essence of Anendar. "So you came," spoke a voice—quiet, but encompassing. Not loud, yet it touched every part of the cave. Brammelwurz turned—slowly, unafraid. Behind him stood a figure of light. Tall, white, opaque, yet not solid. Her hair was mist, her gaze a distant mirror. A being not born, but remembered. The room seemed to bend around her, not with power, but with respect. "I am Anendar," she said. "Guardian of the essence. Her breath. Her echo." Brammelwurz nodded, pulled back her hood, and looked the being directly in the eyes. "I am Brammelroot. Keeper of things no one seeks anymore. I bear no right, but I bring intention." "Intention is not enough," Anendar replied. "He who bears the light also bears the whisper of what was never said." He was silent. Then he reached into his pouch and pulled out a small vial—black glass, sealed with gold wax. "I have a drop of time from the Hour Well of Finndal. It is imbued with patience, gathered in the shadows of the silent elm. Its surface knows no tremor." Anendar leaned. Her form didn't bend, but something in the air changed—as if she were listening. A silent vibration pervaded the floor, and fine threads of light traveled across the walls, like veins of memory. "The deal is accepted."