The sun hung low and golden over the hills of Enedwaith, casting a warm glow across the red rocks that jutted from the earth like the bones of some ancient creature. I was far from the familiar woods of my youth, drawn instead to the rugged terrain near Maur Tulhau by whispers of a hidden place—a fishing-hole so secretive that even the locals would only speak of it with a knowing smirk and a shake of the head.
The tale had reached me in the corner of an inn over a cup of cider, carried on the breath of a grizzled dwarf who claimed the best trout in all Enedwaith could only be caught where the water touched the sky. I pressed for more, but he only laughed and muttered, “Only the mountain will show you, if you’ve the legs and the stubbornness.”
I had both.
For three days I climbed the winding trails of the red rock hills, my pack heavy with provisions and my treasured elvish fishing rod strapped across my back. The terrain was cruel—loose stones gave way beneath my boots, thorned shrubs snagged my cloak, and on the second night, a sudden storm pinned me beneath a stone outcrop, rain soaking through to the bone.
But I did not turn back.
At dawn on the fourth day, I crested a narrow ridge and found myself staring down into a hidden hollow carved between three tall hills. A small, glassy lake shimmered below, its surface perfectly still save for the occasional ripple of a rising fish. There was no trail down, only a steep descent of stone and stubborn roots—but I made my way carefully, heart pounding.
When I reached the water’s edge, I understood why the locals had guarded this place so jealously. It was not just beautiful—it was sacred. The surrounding stones were worn smooth by time and weather, and the silence was complete, broken only by the quiet lap of water and the faint call of distant birds.
I cast my line and waited. Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. The sun rose high and burned against my back, but I remained still, patient.
And then, a pull.
The trout that rose from those depths fought like no other. Its scales flashed silver and blue in the light, and when I finally drew it in, even I had to laugh with joy and disbelief. It was magnificent.
I caught three that day, each one a worthy prize, and released two back into the water, keeping one only to offer thanks to the land and sky for their gift. I marked the location on my map with no name, only a star.
When I returned to Maur Tulhau with the trout in hand, the townsfolk gathered round in awe. The grizzled dwarf grunted in approval and muttered, “She’s the Fisher-queen now, like as not.”
And so the name stuck.
It was not magic or strength that earned me the title. It was persistence, the kind that holds through sore feet, empty stomachs, and the certainty that something worth finding waits just ahead.
Even now, when I pass through Enedwaith, the hills seem to nod as if in recognition. And sometimes, just sometimes, I return to that secret hollow where the water touches the sky.