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Valeran stepped aside, his attempt at politeness clashing with his inherently gruff demeanor. The heavy door of the lodge groaned open as Morrigan made his entrance, Valeran and his offspring trailing behind him. The room he entered unfurled into a spacious chamber, cloaked in shadows and the scent of smoldering firewood. Overhead, beams stained by countless tendrils of smoke cradled an assortment of dried onions, fragrant herbs, and slabs of meat, preserved for the harsher months. Dominating one wall was a grand fireplace that seemed to be the heart of the lodge—near it, Valeran's other son appeared as nothing more than a forlorn shadow, bound together by roughspun cloths. As Morrigan's eyes adjusted to the low light, he discerned a crude bandage swath that veiled half the man's face and claimed his left eye—this was the same reckless youth who had bested the slender birch, only to suffer its vengeful blow.
With deliberate solemnity, Valeran moved closer to this battered figure.
"Behold, Sir," he intoned gravely as he delicately peeled back the cloth covering.
Morrigan fought back a visceral recoil at the appalling sight before him: an empty cavity lay in stark contrast against seething flesh where once an eye had been.
"By the stars above, Valeran!" he blurted out with urgency. "The poor soul is in dire need of proper care. Permit me to retreat across the lakewater; I can return with my medical supplies forthwith. My training isn't scant in such healing arts."
Valeran's expression stiffened in a manner that softened as quickly as it had set. With an almost reverent touch, he laid the bandage back down to shroud the horrific wound from sight once more.
"He's on the mend," he declared assuredly. "We hold secrets of healing in our grasp. Your own eyes saw it from your boat, how that cursed oak lashed out at him. Took his eye clean out – laid it right on his cheek. The gruesome task fell to me to remove it. But see, he recuperates steadily. Your assistance isn't necessary, sir."
Morrigan's response was little more than a whisper to himself, "Yet, violence against the tree was unwarranted."
"And for what reason should he not retaliate?" Valeran shot back with fierce immediacy. "The tree harbored malice towards him."
Bewilderment danced across Morrigan's features as he studied the furrowed brow of the elder agrarian. What arcane truths did this rustic sage clutch to his breast? His dialogue suggested that the mysteries lurking within the grove myriads were no mere illusions spun by a mind's fancy but were rather tangible encounters.
"Sir," Valeran pressed on, adopting a tone befitting a delegate parleying on foreign soil. "You come before us as a sort of herald, touched by the whispers of the wilderness itself. The very woods have imparted their secrets upon you. Therefore, as its chosen envoy, I shall engage with you openly. My ancestors have planted their roots deep in this soil for four hundred years; our dominion over these lands spans a full century. Throughout that lengthy passage of time, not once have we felt anything but animosity towards the arboreal sentinels encircling us—and they return the sentiment.
"Our shared chronicles with this ancient woodland are fraught with hostilities and hardships most severe. A vengeful branch took my father's life; my brother was left broken by another’s wrathful strike. My grandsire, once a hearty woodsman, found himself ensnared within nature's labyrinth, only to emerge devoid of his wits, prattling relentlessly about sylvan sprites – enchantresses who led him astray with their spectral songs into mires and impenetrable undergrowth. Within every successive era, those stoic guardians exact a tithe from our bloodline—wounding or sentencing our relatives to death's embrace."
"Tragedies," Morrigan countered quickly, skepticism edging his tone. "Your words paint a portrait steeped in fantasy, Valeran. One can't simply blame flora for fate’s hand."
With unwavering intensity, Valeran's passion erupted as he spoke, his voice slicing through the air, laden with a legacy of enmity spanning generations. "It might be a thing of shadows in your thoughts," he declared, "but heed my words. This feud digs deep into the annals of history, rooted in our forebears' era when we were nothing more than serfs, bound to the will of the aristocracy. We were granted the meager liberty to scavenge for fallen sticks and boughs—mere scraps to stave off the winter's bite in our hearths. Yet, the very act of cutting down a tree or even breaking off a branch as a barrier against the chill would earn us a swift journey to the gallows, an excruciating rot in a damp cell, or whippings so severe we would wear their spite engraved on our backs.
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"While the lords sprawled in their endless acres, we eked out a life on pitiful parcels of land not yet claimed by forest. Should those towering sentinels encroach on our humble patches of survival, casting their foreboding shadows over our meager yields, we had no choice but to endure their slow conquest or find ourselves subject to lashes that tore flesh and spirit alike, the cold dark of imprisonment, or death dangling from a rope.
"The trees became our wardens," Valeran's utterance transformed into an edged whisper of raw venom. "They crept over our territory, thieving morsels straight from our offspring's mouths; they carelessly discarded limbs as though offering alms to paupers; they mocked us with visions of solace from icy winds—tempting us with their hollow promises only for us to find ourselves swaying lifelessly at the end of the forest guardians' nooses."
Indeed, sir, we fell victim to the relentless chill for their prosperity! Our descendents faced starvation that their young seedlings might sprout, expanding roots in the newfound space! The forest's towering giants looked down upon us with scorn. We sacrificed our being for the sake of their continuance—and yet, we were flesh and blood!
With the uprising came liberation's sweet awakening. Ah, Monsieur, during those times, we sought our vengeance! Great trunks split and hissed in the face of winter's bite—no more did we huddle for warmth over meager tinder scraps. Where once stoic trees dominated, crops now blossomed—no longer did our progeny languish for theirs to prosper. In this era, it was they who bowed to us, and we reigned as their sovereigns.
The trees sensed this seismic shift, their disdain for humanity deepening!
Yet for each affront, an unyielding harvest of their existence as payback—a hundred of them for one of us—we've echoed their detestation. With steel and flame as our heralds, we've pressed our campaign—
"The trees!" bellowed Valeran with an intensity that had been simmering beneath his composed exterior—now bursting forth like a solar flare. Madness gleamed within his gaze as spittle frothed at his lips; his silver strands entwined within the vice grip of his hands—"These cursed forests! Onward they march—an unyielding tide of bark and branch—creeping ever inward—suffocating us with their encroaching might! They aim to reclaim our tilled earth as realms lost to ancient times! Constructing their verdant bastilles around us as if reviving the dark stony keeps of old! Advancing—relentlessly! Hordes upon hordes of trees! The trees! Oh, these damned woods!"
Morrigan stood frozen, his eyes wide as she observed the unbridled hatred emanating from Valeran, like a dark energy that had been bequeathed to him from his forebears. The ancient dislike had seeped into his veins, a reminder of distant memories when his ancestors were suppressed, their resentment bleeding into the woods that their oppressors had once claimed. It was this type of distortion that could morph nature itself into antagonism, where the simple spread of woodland was seen as an aggressive army encroaching.
Yet, questioning the intent behind nature's touch was difficult when she watched how a fir deliberately seemed to strike as a birch was cut down—and then there were those mysterious forest spirits...
"Hold on," Pierre's voice cut through the tension as he rested a hand on Valeran's quivering frame, an appeal for peace. There was a momentary ebb in Valeran's countenance, the untamed look dimming for an instant.
"No matter how many trees we fell, they multiply! A tree can be replaced, but can one of us? No! They outnumber us; time is on their side. We are merely three souls against an eternity. They lurk amongst the boughs, forever ready to ensnare or overpower us.
"But listen well," Valeran pivoted towards Morrigan with eyes red from strain. "We shall strike as Pierre counseled. We aim for the thicket you've been yearning for. It serves as the verdant heart of this forest—where the wood's vitality pulses with might. We're aware—and surely you've sensed it too—a targeted blow there would drain the energy sustaining this place and display our domination."
"The nymphs," Pierre interjected with fervor burning in his gaze. "I spotted those ethereal women there! Their haunting beauty glimmers as they lure—then vanish before they are within reach."
"These elusive sprites who peep through our windows at night—to ridicule and elude!" added another with only one eye to see their torment.
"We'll be taunted no more!" Valeran regained his manic tempo. "Soon they'll all be at death's door! Every single one of these forest beings shall meet their end!"
Caught up in his own wildfire of zeal, Valeran gripped Morrigan’s arms tightly, jolting him back and forth violently.
"Deliver our declaration!" he thundered with full force. "Let it be known that this day marks their end at our hands. Announce it far and wide—it will be our turn to exult with the coming frosts. Imagine them—their ghostly figures ablaze providing us heat in our homes! Go now—take this ultimatum to them!"