“The Circles of Story and Stone”

An Eventide of Albion Story, Summer of 1551

In the long light of midsummer, four friends left Ashford with stardust in their eyes and fairy fire in their hearts.

They were changelings, born of dream and blood, raised on stories whispered in the corners of the Moody Badger Tavern by old Sidhe and wizened Boggan, by redcap wanderers and satyrs with wine-heavy tongues. The ancient places of Albion—Stonehenge, Wayland's Smithy, the White Horse, the Tor at Glastonbury—were names that sang in their souls like notes of half-forgotten lullabies. Each site, they were told, still pulsed with the First Magic, and in visiting them, a changeling might awaken echoes of the Dreaming that once danced across England like a second sky.

So, on the first morning of Lammas month in the year 1551, they slipped away from Ashford as the mist clung low and the dew glittered like crushed glass on the fields.

The Four:

Merrin Ashwood, a lean, elfin Eshu girl with hair like wild barley and eyes the color of lightning on water. Born of wanderers and storytellers, she carried a harp slung across her back and could speak truths in riddles.

Tomlin “Tom” Barrow, a red-cheeked Nocker boy with oil-stained fingers, a bag full of tools, and a voice like clanking gears. Though often grumbling, he was loyal and brilliant, especially when it came to unlocking ancient places sealed in iron.

Anwyn Fairbrook, a child of the Sidhe, regal and melancholy, with snow-pale skin and raven-dark hair. Her dreams were full of forgotten crowns and broken vows, but her heart burned with a longing to heal what had been lost.

Ned Thornhollow, a puckish Satyr who laughed like the brook over stones and danced like the wind in trees. With goat legs, a silver pipe, and more charm than sense, he claimed he could smell magic, and often did.

Their quest was not simple. It had no scroll or seal, no command from court nor vow of geas. It was born of longing—a desire to know the land that had shaped them, to walk the paths trodden by their kind before the world had grown so heavy with iron and forgetting.

I. The Whispering Stones of Avebury

First came Avebury. The great ring of ancient stones loomed under a full moon, casting shadows like silent sentinels. Merrin sang the stones awake with an old tune her grandmother taught her—a melody of round things: circles, seasons, stories, the moon.

As the last note died, the stones shuddered. A thin, shivering wind rose, carrying whispers in ancient tongues. Anwyn stepped forward, hand to heart, and spoke a greeting in the High Tongue of Arcadia.

The grass within the circle rippled, and for a moment the veil thinned. They glimpsed dancers of silver and smoke, trooping fae with lantern-eyes and leaves for skin. The stones remembered. The stones blessed them.

II. Wayland’s Smithy

Hidden in the Vale of the White Horse, they found the barrow of Wayland, the mythic smith. The stone slab stood cold and solemn. Tomlin, respectful despite his usual sarcasm, took out a twisted, broken dagger of fae silver—a relic he’d found years ago in a stream.

“I offer this for remaking,” he said, placing it on the stone.

Night fell swiftly. Fireflies gathered. Then came the sound: clang... hiss... hammer... hush.

By morning, the dagger had become a beautiful blade, etched with patterns of the First Forge. Tomlin wept when he saw it. “He answered,” he said simply.

III. The Tor of Glastonbury

They arrived under storm clouds. The hill was steep, and the wind howled like a thing alive. Ned climbed first, his hooves slipping in the mud, but he laughed and played his pipe all the way to the summit.

There, at the ruined tower, Anwyn knelt and closed her eyes. The rain fell in sheets. But she heard a voice in the storm, deep and sorrowful—the voice of a once-king, buried beneath the hill, dreaming still.

She sang no song. She only listened. And in that silence, something within her awoke—an old memory, perhaps not hers. A vow to return. A promise of hope.

When she rose, her crown of flowers was gone, replaced by a circlet of woven brambles and mist.

IV. The Final Circle: Stonehenge

At last they came to the crown of Albion—the henge of stone and starlight. Here, all stories converged. Here, time frayed.

It was dusk. The sun dipped low, threading gold through trilithons. Merrin led them into the center. They held hands. They did not speak.

Then, with all the power of a tale told in full, Merrin began:

“Once upon a time, four children of dream wandered the bones of a sleeping land, to find its pulse again…”

As she spoke, the stones hummed. The Dreaming surged. The spirits stirred. And around them, faerie lights rose, swirled, and crowned them each with a halo of memory and magic.

Their quest was not over. It had only begun.

But in that moment, under stone and sky, they were Albion’s own.

And somewhere, in the Moody Badger Tavern, an old Eshu smiled into his mug.

“Well now,” he said to no one in particular, “they’ve started their own tale at last.”

And the fire crackled with laughter, and the story rolled on.