Palindor smiled at that. "We elves have lived for generations in woods such as these. But you are right; these woods are an oppressive, mysterious place, even to us. These trees are the oldest, more aged even than those of the Great Forest. Of all the forests, no-one has ever dared to lay an axe to a single tree of the Black Wood. It is said that, hidden amongst these evergreen giants is an occasional black oak, from which the Wizard's staffs are made. Only a Wizard will dare to take
the wood from those trees, and it is said they give of themselves willingly.
"The Black Wood is a place of great power, and it is alive in a way we do not understand. Even now it is watchful."
"There is a similar place in the Red Hills, from whence we mine rare metals," said Grol, his dwarvish features ruddy in the firelight. "Our kings of old, alone, could take that ore, and fashion things scarce to be believed. Objects of power. Swords, talismans, rings. Until Morlock betrayed them, and they were slain."
"I have heard of such objects," said Palindor. "Does not Anest possess such a talisman?"
"He did," Grol told him, a note of sadness in his voice, "and it was the last. Upon Anest's ascension to becoming a wizard, it passed from this world." He paused to reflect a moment, cast his gaze momentarily at a high shelf containing old books and bric-a-brac, turned his attention to a small, round, leaded-glass window beside, through which nothing could be seen but black night, and shook his head. "What an elusive thing of mystery is the power of magic. Like this forest, at