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Morrigan lingered within the shadowy embrace of the inn as the day unfolded, ignoring the beckoning whispers of the forest that lay on the outskirts. An intuitive hush within him whispered warnings of prudence, advising him to keep his distance from the thicket until the ripples from yesterday's occurrences settled. While the air was thick with unspoken tensions, Morrigan found himself encased in an oddly serene bubble, as if an ethereal shield was draped over him, warding off the unseen.

In stark contrast, trepidation had taken root in the innkeeper's heart, emerging sharper with each passing hour. His repeated treks to the upper floors, gaze flitting feverishly over the glassy surface of the lake for some hint of normalcy, were telltale signs of his growing distress. As dusk tinged the sky a bruised purple, he surrendered his fears to Morrigan's ear.

The strange absence of their neighbor Polleau paired with the silence where once smoke spiraled skywards from his abode struck a dissonant chord in the old innkeeper. Polleau was a pillar of dependability; it was unlike him to abandon promises or leave queries hanging without word or cause. The specter of mishap loomed large in these conjectures—possibilities that Morrigan met with a semblance of cool detachment.

However, beneath that façade shifted a current of disquiet when the innkeeper voiced an intention to pierce through this shroud of mystery should silence prevail into the morrow. With this determination hanging in the air, Moran felt a twinge—the kind that precedes eerie revelations—as they stood on the precipice of uncovering what truly transpired within those whispering woods.

When the request to join him echoed through the dimly lit room, a silent alarm blared within Morrigan's soul, a primal intuition that screamed for him to decline. With swift cunning, he weaved a tale of deadlines and chapters that were battling for his attention, promising his assistance would be at the ready should true peril arise.

In the veil of night, as Morrigan lay ensconced in his bed, dreams eluded him. Yet, the forest did not cease its eternal serenade. Those ancient guardians, tangled in both wonder and dread by many a tale, now stood as bastions of tranquility and refuge. With every breath of wind carrying their hushed secrets through the leaves, they enveloped him in an embrace of serenity that mocked the shadows which harbored his unspoken fears.

Morrigan's usually unshakeable nerves began to fray as he peered through his field glasses. The sight of the innkeeper and his aide rowing over the murky waters of the lake stirred a sense of unease within him. They were off to uncover the mysterious absence of Polleau and his sons, and as Morrigan watched, time seemed to dilate, every second expanding into an eternity. Anticipation coiled tightly within him, a serpent waiting to strike, as he awaited their return under the weight of an oppressive sky.

After what felt like an infinity, the figures finally reappeared from the thicket, their silhouettes cutting through the fog as they made their laborious journey back across the lake. Their expressions, now visible to Morrigan's sharp gaze, were a tangled canvas of despair and disbelief. The innkeeper's voice sliced through the silence like a knife through cloth, barely louder than a breath, yet it carried with it the heavy burden of their grim findings: Polleau and his offspring lay dead, ensnared by fate and entwined with the very timber they had vowed to conquer.

With his pulse thundering in his ears, Morrigan grappled with this harrowing revelation. His inquiry into their deaths wavered in his throat, his words quivering like leaves in a storm. The reply that came back was as frigid as winter's grasp—it seemed that nature itself had exacted revenge. The trees had avenged themselves; their roots were uncovered in violent defiance as if wrenched from the earth by some eldritch strength.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

The innkeeper's recount of Pierre's demise—his life forcefully claimed by nature’s arboreal spear—shook Morrigan to his core. It echoed with brutal irony; memories of his own hand forced by some unseen presence of the woods clutching at steel—the glint of a blade that seemed to manifest from thin air—haunting him with reflections of his concealed sin within the forest’s enigmatic shroud.

"Perhaps it was the work of a sudden gale," his attendant suggested with a hint of doubt in his tone. "But I can't quite fathom a wind with such selective wrath. No trees fell save for those that crushed them. And those—the way they were uprooted—it was as if they had sprung from the earth in murderous intent! Or perhaps yanked out by titans to serve as colossal cudgels. None were merely snapped; their roots lay exposed, wrenched from the soil—"

"And the second son—Valeran's brood numbered two, did it not?" Morrigan's voice quivered despite his efforts.

"Pierre," the aged man replied with that same unsettling depth in his eyes. "He was found under a pine, his neck savagely ripped open!"

Morrigan repeated in a haunted murmur, "Ripped open!" dredging up thoughts of that knife—a secretive gift from spectral figures.

"Yes, torn asunder," the tavern keeper echoed solemnly. "And within the horrific gash remained a splintered branch. A limb sharpened like a dagger—that must have speared Pierre as the pine toppled, slicing through flesh and snapping off amid its thunderous descent."

A torrent of bizarre theories spun through Morrigan's reeling mind. "You speak of—a splintered branch?" he managed to croak out, his face ashen.

"Indeed, a splintered branch," confirmed the innkeeper, his eyes probing into Morrigan's soul. "The scenario presents itself rather clearly. Jacques," he addressed his servant abruptly. "Proceed to our residence."

Only when Jacques's form was no longer visible did he continue, in hushed tones to Morrigan, "And yet—details linger perplexing and unexplained, M'sieu." From his pocket emerged a button attached to a fabric strip. This small token was unmistakably part of that blood-soaked garment Morrigan had consigned to the lake—to be ripped from its owner in his final moments.

Morrigan struggled for words but received only silence as the elderly man wordlessly released button and cloth into the rippling water beneath them. They stood side by side observing its journey—carried by one ripple and then another—silently watching until it disappeared from view.

"I suggest you need not recount anything further, M'sieu," the old innkeeper advised solemnly, turning back towards McKay with steely resolve in his aged but sharp gaze. "Valeran was unyielding; his offspring just as stern. The forests bore them animosity—a deep-seated malevolence. It appears they exacted their vengeance. Now, they revel in their tranquility once again. That much is evident. And this—relic—it too has been relinquished to oblivion. I have purged its memory already. It would be advisable for you... to also depart."

Under the shadowy cloak of nightfall, Morrigan orchestrated his stealthy egress. With the break of dawn casting its first ethereal glow, he stole one last, longing look from his window at the slumbering grove awakening with serene elegance. Every detail—the placid beauty that stretched before his eyes—was imprinted in his mind, as he bid a wordless farewell to the woods that had so profoundly reshaped his existence.

Having sated his appetite with a bountiful morning feast, Morrigan nestled into the embrace of his chariot's driver's seat, the purr of its engine signaling the beginning of his retreat from the hospitable shelter of the inn. The keepers of the inn, a couple warmed by true affection, dispatched him into the world with a heartfelt send-off—a medley of amiable smiles and deep-seated marvel at the saga that had unfolded under their roof.

With each mile gained on his odyssey through the forest's protective arms, the friendly refuge of the inn and its adjacent lake dwindled into mere specks, ultimately dissolving into hazy fragments of a life chapter drawing to a close. The wilderness around him seemed to croon an enigmatic chorus just for him—whispers among the leaves, exuberant canticles from the evergreens, and a delicate murmur from within the woodlands encased him. As a final benediction, the forest imparted to him its treasured offerings: calmness, mirth, and an invigorating essence.

This precious legacy rides with Morrigan now—the serenity he found is pulsing through him like a reflection of those hauntingly harmonious woods. The forest—with its hidden depths and cryptic murmurs—etched itself upon his very spirit, an eternal guide as he navigates toward uncharted horizons that beckon beyond.

THE END