There once was a man, few remember even fewer still now lament. In early life the hopes and dreams of the village rested upon his shoulders. He was to be their leader, once their father had gone the way of the ancients. He was as strong and wise as his father ever was, however he had one weakness, love.
Many were the days when he would steal away only to be found with a neighbors daughter in some secluded hay field. As he grew, so did his passions. And grow they did until a fateful day when out with his love of the moment they were to cross the rushing river for home before dark fell. Not one to ask for help, and more the one to give it he crossed upon an old tree who had fallen years before. Not to be bested his love clamored after, the tree creaked, and broke hurling her into the waters. In a moment she was sped from him and he could naught but look on in terror.
That was the day his love, both for women, and life were doused by the cold rushing waters.
Years past, and as he had grown in wisdom and strength when young, now he withered with each passing day, not content to work or play, to jest or study. He was a mighty tree with root rotten, a cask of the dream. To harden what was left of his heart further, many in the town took his current state as an affront to their future, their security. So the ridicule began to rot from outside, what the hole or grief ate away from within. This continued on until another fateful day when he vanished without word or trace. Some talk about caves in the local hills where a thing, hard to call a man, roams and roosts. Others speak of a mysterious bridge being build across the river, with no builder to be seen.
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