One.
Sprouti—
Two, three, four.
Sprouting. Growing.
Five.
Growing. Reaching. Grasping.
Six.
Growing. Reaching. Light.
…
Twenty-four.
Growing. Reaching. Grasping. Light. Life. Water. Loam. Seasons.
A cycle.
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Kurzegast had always been a dreamer. A good for nothing, he’d early on grabbed a [Thief] Class in his caravan. A few years of subterfuge as a more benign Class had left him with the easy life to live, his thefts taking him far, until the kingdom began cracking down on all [Treefolk].
The first attack had been dismissed as a tragedy that inevitably happens.
The second attack had been rationalized as an extension of the first, but nothing serious.
The third attack they were chagrined. Even Kurzegast had understood the frailty of the position the caravan now held and, for better or worse, in the first selfless act of his life, he had given up the [Thief] Class and its concomitant XP in favor of the [Wandering Explorer] Class.
And now he was, a week’s journey ahead of his cara—well, was it even a caravan anymore? The consensus had seemed that their time of travels was now over and they would have to settle down roots.
Anyways, he was a week’s journey ahead of the group, deep in the dark forests here, looking for a safe place to settle, away from the common trade routes of the kingdom.
His [Lost Treasure] Skill kept freaking pinging him though. But it was weird, like that. He’d found a gold coin or two, and a decent blade with it. And all of those were clear in the sense provided by the Skill, a resonant undertone of wealth or force. Now though? The Skill kept giving him a much vaguer feeling: some ancient and inevitable.
He wasn’t sure what’d he find, but another day of this and he’d go mad.
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Twenty-five.
Growing. Reaching. Grasping. Light. Life. Wat—A touch. Connection. Belonging.
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A wave of mana washed over Kurzegast as the sun rose the next day. He wasn’t a [Mage] and not particularly sensitive to begin with. But one didn’t need to be a tree to be washed away by a flood.
He started running in the direction he felt it from. And he ran, and he ran, and he ran, and he’s so darn fast.
Finally, in the undergrowth of the forest he found it.
A [Great Willow], alabaster white. Fifteen meters tall and twice that wide. Branches dropping down low, curtaining off the space. Honeyed dew falling off the leaves, and invigorating everything around it.
Kurzegast fell to his knees and began to lap it up, feeling it invigorate his xylem and lignin. He was in such a europhic phase, that he didn’t even feel the vine wrap itself around his ankle, only noticing when it yoinked him up into the air. As he hung upside down at thrice his own height, he noticed finally the semicircle of vines wrapping itself around the [Great Willow] at a distance, with a few feelers reaching towards and making contact with the tree itself.
A second vine soon began to approach his head, and he gawped in terror as thorns extruded themselves from the approaching vine in a terrible mimicry of a mouth.
“N-n-nice planty,” he cried.
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Forty-two.
Growing. Reaching. Wrapping. Light. Life. Soil. Aquifer. Shaped. Guided. Friend. Friend. Frenagain.
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The [Treefolk] danced and partied tonight on the second anniversary of the founding of their own town. [Mayor] Kurzegast oversaw the celebration, a smile on his face but a dimness in his eye as he stepped through the farce of the occasion.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
Yes, the [Great Willow] and the [Enravelling Vine] blessed and protected the town in turn, and their own [Gardeners] had done a fine job coaxing the two to behave. Timely [Blessings] were important, and a wall with no holes—even if made of vines—were equally important. He had been assured that they were just plants, but he knew the truth.
They were just coy.
They were being played with.
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Forty-nine.
Growing. Reaching. Wrapping. Blessing. Weaving. Guiding. Watching. Waiting.
Fifty.
…
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Several months after the fifth anniversary of Treefin, the [Treefolk] town, the residents experienced an earthquake. The ground began to shake, and many with low DEX or without Skills fell to the ground. [Treefolk] construction was flexible stuff though, and it was mostly people and personal effects that fell.
Then the sun was blotted out and the sky turned red. The wind began to howl through the trees, and humidity fled the atmosphere. The resulting dry gale was uncomfortable to all, and a great many wails were taken up.
It was a mere seven minutes, but for that time, every [Treefolk] in Treefin feared for their lives.
And as the great cacophony of this disaster reached a crescendo, suddenly all signs of the cataclysm vanished. The dearth of sound in the aftermath held all the residents in a trance as they slowly picked themselves up and put themselves back together.
Everything seemed back to normal, except of course the [Patmos Treow] and the [Vitis Sentinel].
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Eighty-five.
Growing. Condensing. Conserving. Wreathing. Aiding. Waxing. Interweaving. Coaxing. Observing. Passing. Gracing.
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It’d been one hundred years since the founding of Treenfan, the first [Treefolk] city. The party this time was far more reserved. But the rituals were observed, and the thanks were given. Speeches rambling on for hours. The nobility and leaders of the [Treefolk]. Special guests from nations all over the continent.
There were guides available to visit the [Patmos Treow]. After its tier up, the tree both could be seen at a distance, but you could not walk to it directly. Instead, the plant was seemingly surrounded by an invisible maze of the mind, and only certain paths would allow you to talk there. And so the guests could easily marvel at the beautiful tree, fifty meters tall now, but getting up close to it required a special act.
The guests though were kept far from the wall. The [Vitis Sentinel] had woven its charcoal grey vines into a thick wall, as impenetrable as any of stone. Indeed, only the two highest level [Gardeners] were even able to cut any of it, and then only an inch at a time. Layered in thorns from 2 to 100 cm, many dripping in various paralytic, soporific or mere damage-dealing poisons, the wall was a formidable obstacle. And, unfortunately for diplomatic relations, the wandering vines sometimes had a habit of snacking on non-[Treefolks] who wandered too close.
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One hundred.
Growing. Consolidating. Conserving. Wreathing. Fading. Interweaving. Coaxing. Waning. Observing. Passing. Gracing.
One hundred and one.
…
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A dozen years shy of Treinfin’s fourth century, a great crack, louder than any thunder, reverberated throughout the city. As the echoes faded from the [Treefolk’s] ear drums, all were terrified to find that there was no sound. No voice could be made, nor sound created, and all the whispers of the forest had been silenced. [Priests] tried to heal, but there was no damage to the ears. [Mages] experimented, trying to find the cause, but their mana sputtered. And the [Philosophers] noted that the vocal cords were indeed engaging and vibrating: There simply could not be any sound in the atmosphere.
For half an hour this continued. Until,
BRRRRRRRAAAAAWWWWRWRRRMRMRMMRMRMMMMM
And as the brassy echoes faded, the hiss of reality and all its sounds rejoined the ears of the natives. And a great bonfire roared into place before the [Patmos Treow]. The flames licked sixty, seventy meters high. And the people were afraid as the scent of smoke reached their nostrils.
And then the ground lurched again. And the [Treefolk] fell to their knees weeping, as the skies opened up: ten thousand lightning strikes all around the ringwall formed by the [Vitis Sentinel]. The concomitant clash of thunder silenced all yet again.
And after an hour, the lightning finally stopped, but the sky was not done. Red hail began to fall in pea, pebble, and fist-sized chunks. And where the hail fell, the undergrowth of the forest caught alight. And there was great wailing and gnashing.
Another hour passed, and there was a great roar to the north, but fortunately for the people, there was naught to see deep in the forest.
Another hour passed, and, seemingly for the people of the forest, there was naught to see, but now a great roar came from the south and some still feared.
And then the fourth hour passed, and the sky grew dark again, even though it was early afternoon.
And then the fifth hour passed, and it became like night as a great cloud of soot arose from the earth to the west.
And then the sixth hour passed and a great yellow fog fell unto the forest. And within the stinking, sulfurous atmosphere—
And then the seventh hour passed and all the world fell silent once more. And in the wake of that silence, a voice in seven harmonies spoke out to all the people of Treinfin. And those who heard the words were in awe of them, for they were spoken with Truth. And one [Treefolk] tried to write down the words, but the voice then addressed her and told her not to do so.
And with that final word, so the cataclysms faded into nothingness. The damage was restored. Or perhaps it had never been there to begin with. And there was naught but the memories of those who had witnessed it.
Everything seemed back to normal, except of course the [Jack Word of Dweorem] and the [Leon Keeper of Wohn’yom].
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One-hundred three.
Consolidating. Conserving. Wreathing. Fading. Undoing. Coaxing. Waning. Observing. Passing. Gracing.
Dying.
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