The Sleeping Thorn

Once, quite a while ago, or so the tales do tell, there was a hunter. The hunter was a master of brightness and light and constantly sought to fight the shadows of the forest. And we all know how wise that is.   Now one day, deep in the middle of the wet season the hunter was seeking a shadow from the well when the hunter came across a growth of moss clutch blocking their journey. "No further this way, you must go." Came a voice from the trees, as shadows peered eyes at the the hunter, the sounds of a rustling cloak filling the hunter's ears. Unflinching, undaunted the hunter threw a blast of damaging light at the clutch and the trees, seeking to throw their predicament into past tense. All was white.   When the light cleared the clutch was gone and so was all but a scrap of leafen cloak. "Begone stain-faced" The hunter called, dipping fingers into a pouch of circuit paint to reapply their mark. And still they walked deeper into the dark forest, bringing the bright places it is not supposed to go.   Eventually the hunter reached the deep woods, eyes watching them as they persued the shadow from beyond the realms. Beams of tactically flawed light issued from the 'righteous' being, demanding on the wilds of the forest an order foreign to its very core as charred and scorched nature soon surrounded the hunter.   The forest had no judgement for the shadow, but for their destruction, the forest had judgement for the light; appearing once more as the cloaked figure. "Leave this place light-bearer, your quarry is vanquished and have this gift from the forest as thanks."   The cloaked figure offered a grey and cracked hand holding a crimson-red rose upon a bed of pale white thorns, woven into the clasp for a cloak. "Place this to hold your cloak and it will never open without your will."   The hunter left with victor's joy, returning to their city home with the cloak clasp ready to gift it to their lady love. Tragedy struck when the gift was lovingly given and the curse set upon the clasp sent the lady love into an endless slumber.

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The clasp is a pretty thing, eternal in its manufacture but natural in is apparent materials. From all accounts it is the closing of the clasp that sends its wearer into eternal sleep - only death opens the clasp again.   It passes hands between boneturners and archaeologists, the curious and the damned, taking lives when lack of caution or excess of ignorance takes root. And still forevermore it searches for the light that burnt the forest and the ego that matched it.