With the tiny refugee now at ease, the horned protector’s gaze shifted back to the young eyes encircling her. These young souls, still green in their years, awaited the resumption of a tale interrupted by the feathered tumult. Her tone was soft yet imbued with a profound reverence as she began, "Before Unia, there was only the Great Silence—an expanse as vast and void as an endless desert, devoid of sense or life. All was still, as if the world itself lay in wait, poised for the moment of creation. In that profound quietude, the first breath of life stirred. The Primemother, our Primordial Ima, the most majestic and splendid Ginkgo tree, awoke, heralding the dawn of existence. From a minuscule seed, cradled in the tranquility of that boundless silence, life began to burgeon. A tender sprout emerged, striving upwards towards the light with steadfast resolve. It thickened and ascended, eventually unfurling into a magnificent tree whose limbs stretched out to forge the world asunder. Its roots delved into the nether realms, anchoring the earth, while its boughs reached skyward, sculpting the firmament," she narrated, her hands painting the scene in the air, igniting the children's imaginations with visions of a past unseen but recounted through the ages.
Her gaze swept across her young audience, returning to anchor on the colossal tree that stood sentinel in the distance. So majestic was its stature that even from afar, its girth occluded the northern vista, its canopy piercing the clouds to dominate the skies above.
"It was the very moment when life began to break through. From her offspring sprang the first Yoshvei haYa'arot. Born as the inaugural children of nature, we were imbued with the sacred duty to nurture all its denizens, to infuse it with life and uphold the harmony that sustains it," she concluded, her gaze both elevating and solemn, capturing the attention of the youths encircling her.
"Then, the Primemother, upon reaching the zenith of her vigor, dispersed her seeds throughout the expanse of Unia. Carried by the whims of the winds, these seeds landed in various corners of our world, giving rise to many other races—Humans, Sigrians, Isvandrare, Ardag, Marshfolk, and Sandkin. Each progeny of Ima Gingko found its niche in the world, adapting to diverse environments, yet all remained linked by a singular essence that emanated from Ima."
No sooner had the narrative finished than a small voice intervened: "Moret Ezra, I too want to become a prophet and teach the hornless to live with righteousness, as we do!"
The teacher's attention shifted to the young face before her. The girl, her eyes glowing with the sincere belief in her future deeds, looked earnestly at the mentor. "That's a wonderful idea, na'arah. But it will be a long journey—you will need to try very hard," the woman responded with a soft laugh.
"Moret, but how does one become a prophet?" Another eager voice rang out, just as youthful and fervent. The ears of the young listener seemed to perk up in anticipation of the answer.
"To begin, you must prove yourself the most noble and righteous," Ezra began, her eyes sweeping over the captivated young faces. "Uphold nobility in every deed. Extend your help to everyone: those near and those far, kin and stranger, living and non-living," she instructed.
"Can one then become a prophet and serve the Celestials and Ima?" interrupted a small druid, his eyes wide with curiosity, his gaze not yet clouded by the myriad hardships and disappointments of adult life.
"Patience, yakiri. Even the most worthy and wise among us cannot commence their service to the heavens immediately. Many decades will pass before you are truly prepared," she replied, her tone both playful and inspiring, allowing the shimmer of naive dreams to dance a moment longer in their wide, eager eyes.
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"But what must one do to prepare?" the boy inquired, his youthful ambition unquenched by any obstacle.
Ezra's gaze drifted back to the colossal tree. "As you are aware, surrounding the heartwood of our Ima Gingko stands a hallowed sanctuary—a retreat for the Blameless, deemed the most righteous and virtuous among us. The Blameless residing within its revered limits dedicate themselves to Ima's perpetual vigil and nourishment. But that's not all. They also temper their spirits and fortify their bodies, preparing to disseminate her will and goodness across the expanses of our realms and beyond. That, I'm afraid, is all I know," she narrated.
The children around her, their eyes sparkling with reverence, hung on her every word, their minds blossoming with questions yet unvoiced. Yet, curiosity manifests in myriad forms. "Abba says those beyond the forest live solely for sin. And my ima, she says we are elevated, not like them," the eldest boy declared, his tone devoid of malice—merely a reflection of his deep-seated belief in his parents' teachings on the natural order.
"Ishmael! No righteous Yoshvei haYa'arot would be so arrogant as to claim to be above others," the druidess’ response was firm yet threaded with a deep-seated concern for the tender souls before her. "We are all children of the same venerable mother. As Yoshvei haYa'arot, we were the first to witness the dawn of this world. As the elder kin to all beings, it falls upon us to guide those astray back to the path of righteousness. Should they falter, the fault lies with us," she elucidated with gravity, her sharp gaze never wavering from the boy whose face was masked in a veil of skepticism, her words dissipating before reaching his mind.
"But Ima Gingko shaped them, and yet they do not honor her. Instead, they pray to their false gods," the boy interjected, his discontent barely veiled.
The woman exhaled deeply, feeling the weight of the conversation shifting dangerously. "Please, tread carefully with such words, Ishmael," she began, her voice low and measured, each word chosen carefully.
"Even though they are unrighteous, their faith in their invented creators is as strong and sincere as our love for the Primeima," Ezra declared, her voice resonating with a firm sincerity. Yet, with each utterance she noticed the shift in the young faces around her; the respect that once filled their eyes gave way to doubt, and the attentive ears that once hung on her every word began to withdraw, shrouded in a veil of indifference. The confidence in her voice quickly waned.
"They have different views of the world, and we cannot force them to see the world through our eyes. You wouldn't want someone to force you to stop loving our Ima, right?" she continued, her voice balancing on a razor's edge between guidance and transgression. Her words, delicate yet disruptive, settled into the silence, planting ideas of tolerance in the fertile minds of the young. These seeds sprouted quickly, their roots probing deeply, beginning to crack the formidable walls of stereotypes and unquestioned doctrines that had been meticulously constructed around their perceptions since birth.
Amid this subtle yet seismic shift, a question as innocent as it was perilous pierced the air: “Can I believe in something else too?” The little girl—a blank canvas eager to absorb the hues of new possibilities—asked with the purity of untainted curiosity. Yet, this simple inquiry unwittingly tightened a noose around her teacher's neck.
The air grew thick; fear of impending retribution caused her voice to waver: "What? No, I didn't mean that... It's far more complex than..." Her eyes darted anxiously across the sea of puzzled young faces, each child a mirror reflecting back her rising anxiety as she struggled for the right words. Her pulse quickened as her gaze met Ishmael’s—the young boy, who was well-known for reporting others.
"Ishmael, yakiri, please, let me to explain," she implored, her voice strained as she attempted to project calm, though the thin ice beneath her feet was fracturing.
Ezra’s already tumultuous thoughts were further disturbed by the discordant sounds emanating from the bird nestled against her shoulder. Its loud snores and abrupt, piercing whistles seemed to mock the gravity of her predicament with its blissful ignorance. Yet, her voice was soft. "You should sleep elsewhere, little girl," Ezra whispered, tenderly stroking the small bird's head.
Unfamiliar with the intricacies of druid society, the feathered creature stirred sleepily and chirped discontentedly, spreading its wings. With each beat, the meadow, filled with these complex beings, receded further into the distance, blurring into patches of green and brown—just one of the many stories hidden within the boundless Ancient Forest.