As dawn's first light seeped through the curtains, casting a gentle glow across the room, Abe awoke with a startling sense of rejuvenation. The weariness that had once clung to his limbs like a heavy shroud was gone, replaced by an invigorating, almost uncanny, sense of vitality. His eyes snapped open, not with the grogginess of a typical morning, but with an alertness that was sharp and penetrating.

All he could taste was electric….and lemon, curiously.

Abe sat up, feeling an unfamiliar zeal coursing through him, a fervor that seemed unnatural, almost otherworldly. The night's journey into the lucid dream, with its surreal encounters and ominous warnings, had left an indelible mark on his psyche. It was as if the barriers between his subconscious and waking reality had been eroded, leaving him with a newfound clarity and an unsettling sense of insight.

The world around him seemed more vivid, the colors richer, the sounds clearer. Even the air he breathed felt charged with a strange energy. As he reflected on the night's dreams, Abe realized he had gained something – an Insight, a paradoxical gift that had sharpened his mind but at a cost he couldn't yet fathom.

This Insight had imbued him with a perspective that felt beyond the normal human experience, as though he was seeing the world through a new lens. However, with this enhanced perception came a creeping sense of detachment, as if he was an observer in his own life, watching events unfold with a disconcerting detachment.

The chapters of the book, the voices of the narrators, and the tale of Amun Jarro now pulsed with a deeper meaning. They were no longer just stories on a page; they had become a part of him, intertwined with his own thoughts and experiences. The warnings of the narrators echoed in his mind, a constant reminder of the journey he had embarked upon and the changes it had wrought within him.

As Abe rose from his ashes, he felt a purposeful determination take hold. The day ahead was not just another sequence of hours; it was a canvas upon which the insights gleaned from his dream would be tested and explored. He was no longer just a passive reader; he was an active participant in a narrative that transcended the pages of the book.

*****

A legends at the hearth of House Jarro

Ivad Jarro, seated at the head of the table with a natural, commanding air, twirled a Laconian lei between his fingers. Silent and observant, he absorbed every word spoken by his fellow countrymen, occasionally making mental notes or jotting down thoughts in his breast noter. The humble, lowborne tea before him, rich with the scents of soil, bark, and moss, remained untouched. Ivad respected the tradition of not partaking in food or drink in unfamiliar company, a lesson learned from his father's stern advice during similar gatherings: "Never partake in a stranger's house. Stay alert, sword ready."

This gathering was not one of friendship but of necessity, and Ivad aimed to resolve the matter without resorting to violence. Yet he found the proceedings tedious. A Jarro must always be cautious when called upon, maintaining manners but tolerating no nonsense. So Ivad sat, his demeanor neutral, revealing nothing of his thoughts or biases.

"This mushroom farm has been a staple here for years, contributing regularly to the Arcanuum's research," argued Tomec, a farmer of good standing and hard work, his family's sun-kissed complexions speaking of days spent toiling together. Ivad held no prejudice against them, regardless of their status, but he knew how quickly such meetings could spiral out of control when hard-earned labor was under threat.

The tax collector, Lo’Meister Canso, exuded arrogance and impatience. A man more concerned with climbing the ranks within the Spire than with the grievances of the people he served. Ivad, though curious about the Spire's secrets and its high gardens, knew the importance of remembering one's roots and the hard work of Lacon's citizens. Canso's disdainful tone irked him, "Sir Tomlerc, was it?"

"Tomec," the farmer corrected, a note of irritation in his voice.

"Tomec, of course. It's unfortunate your land can't meet the new demands. Lacon seeks only to protect its people, to keep watch over your family and lands. Such services deserve your best contributions, your 'first fruits,' so to speak," Canso declared, barely concealing his disdain for the humble fare.

The conversation grew heated, with Tomec's patience wearing thin. "The only intruders here are those we invite. Master Ivad, please remove this pompous fool from my property!"

At that moment, Ivad noticed the tension in the room spike. He heard the subtle shift in Tomec's tone, a call to unseen allies. As if on cue, figures entered through the doors. Ivad rapped sharply on the table, a clear signal: "Stay your arms! Let this not be a trap." His words, few but weighty, carried a gravity that demanded attention. It was the Jarro way – direct, authoritative, respected. The room fell into a momentary, tense silence, all eyes turning to Ivad, waiting for his next move.

Ivad Jarro stood up with a fluid grace that belied his advanced years, his gaze shifting methodically between Canso and Tomec, the tension in the room palpable. To Canso, he spoke firmly, "Demanding increased tribute from a man who has faithfully served our land is burdensome enough. Let's extend grace to the Tomec family, based on their sterling reputation. Three cycles hence, we shall reconvene. If the agreement falters then, I shall personally ensure its fulfillment. The Tomecs are honorable folk, yet this day's proceedings stink of greed, as if the Arcanuum has lost touch with the humility of neighborly discourse. Next time, Canso, approach them as friends, bearing gifts, perhaps something educational for their children."

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Turning to Tomec, Ivad's tone shifted, "This meeting was meant for three, yet others have joined uninvited. Why?" He didn't wait for an excuse, his authoritative presence dominating the room, "Let's not indulge in fabrications. This could have spiraled into violence, and that would have been regrettable." His voice carried a resonance that unsettled the room, a warning manifest in a physical sensation that caused unease among those present.

Despite Ivad's warning, the hired ruffians, driven by promises of gold or perhaps personal vendettas, dared to act. One spat at Ivad as another violently attacked Canso. Ivad, while wiping the filth from his face, uttered a powerful Jarro curse, "Gänefongt!" The word vibrated through the room like a seismic wave, knocking everyone but Ivad off their feet, their senses impaired.

Ivad approached the attacker with a calm yet menacing demeanor, stuffing a kerchief down the man's throat, an effective gag. He dropped a knee savagely upon the man's throat, continuing his thruuming chant in a bifurcated tone that combined contempt and authority.

(Offending whoreson!, daring to raise arms against those with the eldest of bloodlines. I know of the land and

great sea’s foundation for mine were smithed there. My cock has been tested while your’s seems to just wilt away. Will you press me now or will thee just lay there and die. Go now with tucked tale and bowed head. Tell your accursed ancestor’s who took your spine and sundered you low on this DAY).”

The subsonics of his punctuating words caused a vile discharge from the man's orifices, leaving him a broken shell.

As Ivad rose, his thoughts turned towards more peaceful times, a wish abruptly cut short as he was struck from behind, his world reduced to stars and darkness.

Time passes and there is not but the dim.

Canso struggled to drag the hefty Jarro up the road, his mind racing with wild theories about Ivad's connection to the land and its spirits, a revealed connection to it all that must be reported to the Arcanuum. He pondered the possibility of Ivad invoking nature's wrath, a notion that seemed absurd yet eerily plausible given the Jarro family's legendary bond with the earth.

In his reverie, Canso failed to notice the impending danger. Tomec, enraged and seeking revenge, was in hot pursuit with his men. The collision that ensued sent both parties tumbling, a testament to the unforeseen consequences of their violent confrontation. Tomec's plans to pin the blame on a quarrel gone wrong were now complicated by his own miscalculations and the unexpected resilience of the land, seemingly protecting its own.

Ivad's head throbbed with the fury of a tempest, his vision clouded as if by a veil of gritty mist. He felt the harsh scrape of gravel against his skin, a sure sign he was no longer within the safety of walls. The thunderous approach of hooves filled the air. He longed to see the source but was betrayed by his own body, still reeling from the assault. Suddenly, a collision sent him tumbling into the underbrush, jolting his senses back into focus. He saw the chaos unfold – a tangle of men and horses, the animals fleeing the bedlam they'd been unwillingly drawn into.

Canso lay grotesquely twisted, his body a testament to the brutality of their encounter. Ivad, rendered immobile and numb, knew he needed to find refuge but dared not betray his position in the brush.

From the shadows of the dark wood emerged a peculiar child, her eyes reflecting an old soul’s wisdom. Her voice, though soft, carried an authoritative weight, "There's a price for my aid, sir. Can ye pay it?"

"Aye," Ivad rasped, "Whatever it costs."

"I'm Vanessa," she stated, her gaze piercing. "I know you, Ivad Jarro. You've stirred the earth's core with your ancestral tongue. I can save you, but it costs a soul – preferable not yours, dry as it is. Another's."

Ivad weighed his options as the child’s eyes shimmered with the verdant fire of dawn. Her presence was commanding, a force of nature not to be trifled with. The grunts and groans of recovering men hastened his decision. "Why should I bargain with a Laconian witch when death is imminent?" he questioned, a hint of defiance in his tone.

“Hear me well, greyed wrinkle….,” Vanessa replied with a smirk. "I seek not your dim life but a future claim. Your days are numbered regardless, but I'll ensure these brutes don't have the final laugh. Decide now, olde pine.”

In his weakened state, Ivad felt an unfamiliar vulnerability, even moreso he knew in his sack that the childe was his superior in the olde craft. With a resolute gaze, he sliced his palm with his namesake dagger, sealing his dark pact with Vanessa. "I consent. Bind my lineage to your will."

Vanessa's form shifted, revealing her true, formidable nature. The sight of her sent shivers down the spines of the approaching men, silencing their advance.

"Now witness my craft, for it is a fearsome sight," she declared. As she weaved her magic, a symphony of ancient, earthy tones filled the air. Her words spun a tapestry of power, binding Ivad's fate and that of his descendants to her whims.

Her nails, grotesquely elongated, mirrored the wild, untamed growth of her hair. Her limbs stretched beyond the realms of normalcy, creating a silhouette that defied logic and reason. Her eyes, now void of any desire to communicate their ghastly narrative, morphed into agents of unspoken terror. She embodied the living forest, a manifestation of the storm's wrath, an inescapable presence on every path that lay before them.

From the earth she rose, her essence interwoven with the soil and stone – her very foundation. She emerged like a vengeful spirit of the earth, the spiraling force of nature that claimed the dead first, for they had no more battles to wage. She breathed unholy life into their corpses, infusing them with her verdant essence. The dead became her puppets, animated by her will, their flesh pierced and bound by her ensnaring roots.

As these undead abominations, garbed in a grotesque armor of bark and vine, lurched into action, their movements were both disjointed and eerily swift. They were the avatars of her fury, each meaty pop of their disjointed limbs a testament to the unnatural force that drove them. They struck with a brutality that was both swift and merciless, a macabre dance choreographed by the primordial wrath of nature herself.

Their vine-like appendages lashed out with lethal precision, piercing eyes and tearing limbs asunder. These shambling horrors, cloaked in barkskin, moved with a supernatural swiftness, each attack a grotesque display of her dominion over life and death.

This was the ancient law of nature unfurled in its most primal and savage form – a stark reminder that none could stand against the might of a scorned Gaea. When the carnage subsided, silence enveloped the scene, the twisted remnants of her vengeance retreating back to their origin, back to the womb of the earth.

Ivad, victorious yet utterly vanquished, was left in the wake of this devastation. In his moment of profound weakness, all he could do was weep, his tears a testament to the irrevocable price paid and the irreversible path chosen.