A restless soul finds what she searches for in the silvan serenity of the Skara mainland. It is a healer.. one by the name of Wlby. Acting as if he sees her not, he continues to look about the forest for signs of those who need his aid.

"Wlby, deny me not this chance to save the forest! A wickedness beyond that which you can possibly comprehend does come this way! I have served my time in this sense-deprived abyss of nothingness, and I wish... nay... I DEMAND you help me return to the world!" The spirit spoke with conviction and an adamant tone.

Wlby turns, shakes his head, and mutters to himself about a young girl he once knew... a girl who was far beyond redemption.

"I beg of you, Wlby," the spirit cried out, "I have but only my soul, and I would trade even that to return! Look around you, old man! The few trees that are left- do you not see the withered leaves? Do you not hear the wimpers of the diseased animals as you wander beneath these clouded skies? Something even more vile than the Brits has seized the forest... and I fear this is but a mere sign of things to come! Bring me back, Wlby! I beg of you... BRING ME BACK!!"

"Have you been reading during your stay in the Netherworld, mine Zhelavar?", he asks with a twisted smile upon his face.

"Reading? Nary a book can I hold, let alone turn a page! Please, Wlby, the time is not for jesting. It is time to protect the Skara mainland... it is time to stand against that which taints our forest!"

"These words are being said for the sake of convincing whom, dear Zhelavar? Is it that you wish these words to convince my ears of your intent, or...", Wlby scowls at the banshee, "...or is it your own ears that you wish to deceive with such words?" He draws a circle upon the ground. "A ring's full circle bends its beginnings to its ends, sweet sinful spirit, so I shall make you this promise: I shall ressurect you, but I shall do so only because I know that one of two things will happen. If perchance your words are true, then I am confident you will do all in your power to further that end.... your obsessive nature dictates that. If your pleas are a ploy, and your words naught more than a wiley guise for some other motive, then we both know that you shall become a noose around your own neck, and you shall perish... again, because your nature dictates that." The healer raises his arms and looks the apparition dead on. "Welcome back, sweet Zhelavar."

Wlby, knowing full well what he may possibly be doing, ressurects the woman.

"Zhelavar, you have heard these words before, yet I shall say them again...", the healer says with a most sobering expression upon his face,

"Zhelavar, I shant tell you what you can and cannot do, but I ask one thing of you: remember the game. The day that you begin to enjoy the kill more than the hunt, is the day that you become like those nobles you despise. Hunt not those that do not run or fight. There is no victory in killing a cowering and motionless prey. Fight not those that do not hunt. A logger is oft not a hunter, and would make not for decent game."

Rain begins to fall upon the fields about them. Zhelavar runs her hands up along her arms, into her silver hair, and screams in ecstacy... the hunt begins again.