In the forest groves deep
The ancient father sleeps
His children fallen at his feet
When the cursewalker roams again
Frenzy her campaign
The final bloodstream flows
And the forest lord screams
Far in the wildwoods atop his bramble throne, the ancient father watched as the children of men tore his home asunder. Branch by branch, log by log, they cut down every tree in their path. No matter what reason they had, he did not care. Many times before had, this process been repeated, and each time he had been patient.
For the first time in many an age, his oaken limbs creaked and pushed his body up, and he stood. “If they will not listen,” the skyscraping lord mumbled, his voice as deep as the mountain streams, rushing forth like a rockslide, “I will make them.”
The Lord stepped forward, each footfall a resounding crash. The animals of the wildwoods joined his steps with a chorus.
The mortals ceased their woodcutting as the very earth beneath them trembled with fury. Around the great being, the spirits of nature gathered, the quake a crescendo of steps. The same trees around the cutters bent and cracked a single word, “FLEEEE.”
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Most did, but those that didn't became compost to grow the forest they wanted to remove.
The sun passed thrice before again the forest lord felt a trespass in his territory. Through the eyes of a raven, he found a baby at the foot of a totem. “Savage mortals,” he bellowed, furious at the supposed sacrifice at the edge of the woods. The forest trembled at his cry, parting a path to the child.
He lumbered across his domain, soon arriving at its edge. The father held the child to his eye, Its undaunted golden irises staring back. Short oaken antlers poked a few centimeters over its autumn hair. “Poor child of Gaea, scorned by your folk. I shall keep you safe, dear one, in your truest of homes.” He gestured his open hand as the trees parted and space warped into a large grove. Nymphs played in ponds while the dryads sang melodies in scattered wildflower patches. In the center, at the base of a great sycamore, sat the bramble throne. The lord's ravens swooped from his shoulders and circled the tree, their caws filled with decades and centuries of wisdom.
“Father, you’ve returned!” A dryad came running from beside the throne, the blossoms in her hair swaying with every step. The lord kneeled and handed the baby to the dryad, “Apple, my daughter, please hold the child.” With a confused bow, apple stepped to the side as the lord took his throne.
“My children! Gather,” he shouted. “From human arrogance, we have gained a new daughter! Born of Gaea, her kind has shunned her natural beauty, casting her to us. She shall grow to be a great protector of the forest.” Reaching out his long hand, the lord pressed a finger into the child’s shoulder. His pointed nails pierced her skin and carved symbol into flesh.
“Welcome, Kaori, to the family.”
“Father, are you sure?”
The Lord turned to face Apple, his eldest among the trees, “no infant deserves to be left to die in my home. She has been turned away for her traits and given to us. We will be for this blessed child, what mortal man could never be. A true family.”