Asilion of The Arbor- the Director's Cut- Wood Elf Leader
As Anasion slumped to the floor, Asilion knew it was his turn. He hesitantly walked into the centre of the clearing, leaves crunching under his bare feet, even as Anasion’s limp body was lifted and spirited away into the crowds. Under  globes of faelight that floated high amongst the ancient branches, Asilion reached the ancient carved stump in the centre. Whilst he reached down to pick up the wooden cup floating in the liquid in the hollow, he cast his eyes nervously around the circle at the assembled throng. He saw the different orders of warriors, both male and female, each sect gathered beneath their totemic standards. Most were in their battledress, kilts, lightweight togas and short cloaks that allowed for swift and dextrous movement. Tooled leather armour plates ornately sculpted with organic symbols.  He saw the shaman, staring fixedly at him through his headdress of tangled roots and flowers, and next to him his father, clad in the owlbear cloak and antler crown that marked him as the King of the Arbor. His face betrayed nothing.
  With a scoop, Asilion filled the cup, and the drums began. As he lifted the cup to his lips, the flutes added their mellifluous melodies, and Asilion drained the bitter draught.
Even before he set the cup back down, the drums were inside his head, inside his chest, his joints. He felt his head move side to side to the beat, as his knees lifted up in time. Now his head went back as far as his neck would allow, as the flutes charmed his arms from his side as if they were snakes. When his head moved back to something like a normal position, he observed that his legs were moving him in a tight circle, his arms twisting in all directions as they moved up and down. He was sweating, and felt both hot and cold at the same time. His spins became wider, and even though he couldn’t focus he was aware of the surrounding crowd, if only because of the crash of bronze sickles and spears against wicker shields. As his circles continued to grow, his movement faster, Asilion swore that he could feel the heat of the faelights close to his skin. His mouth was foaming now, as the spins grew tighter once more, his arms moved more furiously, and he was falling, falling, waiting to hit the earth.
Asilion woke to the sound of the harp, the tune that marked the beginning of the day. By the piece being played, he identified that it must be two days since his dance of passage began. He opened his eyes to see the shaman looking at him with the same stare he remembered from the night of the dance. The shaman’s mouth curled up just slightly at the edges, as he spoke in his unusually high pitched voice.
‘Prince Asilion. Your dance was most enlightening. It showed me that your allegiance belongs to the order of the feather, which is not uncommon on both your mother and father’s side.
But your totem…”
The shaman pulled down Asilion’s sheets to his midriff, revealing a fresh tattoo across his left breast: a raven.
“Your totem is the raven. A mark not seen in the royal bloodline for many thousands of years.”
The Ravens. The most subtle of the feather sects. Masters of subterfuge, reconnaissance, and the silent kill. Archers and spies. Ravens were expected to roam far and wide, identifying enemies before they threatened the Arbor. Perhaps this was why they were so rare amongst his family, because royalty rarely ventured beyond the forest.
As the shaman lifted the cover back up to Asilion’s shoulder, another figure came into the prince’s view. Asurlyon the Cursed, famed captain of the Ravens. Cursed because it was said that he still saw nightmarish visions of the chaos wasteland, where his right eye gazed lidlessly, ever since it was sucked from its socket by some foul beast. Asurlyon the Ugly, as some called him.
‘My prince, welcome to the Ravens, it shall be my greatest honour to show you the way of our sect, and serve as your champion. My first duty unfortunately is to ask that you arise swiftly and prepare to leave, for a band of goblins have been seen at the mouth of the valley and we must move urgently lest they come to despoil our lands.’ With that he turned and left, and Asilion climbed out of bed, thus beginning the heroic journey described by later bards in the ‘Lay of the Raven Prince.’