For so long now you've wandered; over fields and glens, into swamps and coves, across deserts and steppes, through endless forests and arched mountains you've journeyed tirelessly. The beds of rivers, the roots of hills, even the starry sky has been sifted by your probing eye. All the while you gather your seeds, whichever you can find, and whichever may grow. Ironwood, willow, queen of the night, elk grass, dandelion, death cap, wolf's bane, you gather them all for your garden. It's a safe place, possibly the last.

Have you ever wondered why the lands beyond are a waste of nettles and thorns? Or do you simply tend to your garden, content to let the world around you choke on the spreading weeds? You water your seedlings with your own sweat, and your lifeblood treats the soil. On and on you dig and you till, bury and water, nip and prune.

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While consulting the Lords of Night, I chanced a glimpse at the broad wastes beyond. Those empty lands are filled with graves, each adorned with wreaths of dried laurels. As I watch your seedlings flowering about you, I wonder; are you building a place to live, or a place to die?

Starseed, from The Ember Song in the Book of Tides