The scarred grey stallion walked with purpose through the field, carving his own path through the tall orange-brown grass that brushed gently against his underbelly. It was a mellow afternoon, and he fit right into the landscape. The sun spread warmly across his back, the grass parted before him as though showing the way. A lazy sense of ease filled the scene, undeterred by the eager beckoning of the tree at the heart of the plains.
The tree which called, by the flutter of its leaves and the far-flung reach of its story, to all of Novus.
It called and Eik responded. Slow and steady he crossed the Arma Mountains, then tapered North across the foothills of Veneror. It felt strange to have Solterra to one side of him-- he was most always going to or from the desert kingdom, never skirting it by like this-- and from the East came a dry warm wind that whispered to him things best not repeated.
The tree was just as he imagined it. Nothing more, nothing less. He walked right up to it, placed his cheek to its rough bark, and sighed. Far below, roots dug into thick black-brown soil and underground rivers ran to the sea-- as it was, as it always would be. It gave him comfort to know the story would keep going long after he was gone.
***STAFF EDIT
@Rae has been sent +100 signos!
@Eik has been awarded +1EXP!
I dreamed of you in colors beyond seeing,
braided your name into the earth
It was pure happenstance that the way home from Delumine’s festival brought Dune past the plains.
The merchant, with a load significantly lighter than when he left home, was not interested in seeing the tree Novus couldn’t stop talking about. What was the point? So what if it was magic; none of the many stories told of money growing on it. And he had his share of magic at night, behind closed eyes, drifting from one dream to another.
No, Dune did not need to see a tree. He was tired of adventure and ready to be home. He missed his humble living space, and his workshop, and his cats-- who would be extremely displeased by his absence, and perplexingly even moreso by his return. The whirlwind of festival season was exhilarating, even addictive. One could get used to the drink and the merriment, the feeling of celebration leaving no room for existential or economic crisis. Dune toasted to gods that were not his, gods he did not trust. He drank to things that seemed irrelevant to his daily life (in Terrastella, new beginnings. In Delumine, the changing of seasons. In Solterra, the beauty to be found in violence) and he slung goods to all manner of strangers.
At first change was sweet, but in the end he found himself missing familiarity in all its dusty, poverty-striken glumness. So when he was on the way home, and the breeze blew just-so, and he turned to the south--
And the tree was there, beckoning, empty of promise but full, full, full of --
Of the unknowable and unnamable thing our poor vocabulary compromises as magic--
He stops for just a moment, and looks at the great, strange tree, and listens to the wind that blows, and tastes the sorry summer air,
And then he keeps walking. Because money does not grow on this tree, and he will not concern himself with it until it does.
As soon as she heard the story of the magical tree, Corr knew she had to see it for herself. Just its origin story alone caught her attention. Instantly she started to imagine what the tree might look like and what sort of special magic it possessed. Back home in Astreas, they would tell stories of the Tree of Life, and now she wonders if this may be it. If only her family could come with her to witness this. She knows they would enjoy it just as much as she will. No matter- at the least Hāsta is accompanying her (strapped on her back as usual).
When Corrdelia comes upon the tree's garden, her jaw drops in awe. It's nothing close to what she imagined, but better. While some may be hesitant to step closer, Corr is not afraid at all. In fact, she is only more curious to take in all the little details and all the smells. Her mind drifts to Po's connection with the earth and she wishes he were here to tell her what it's saying.
While the story mentioned it growing fairly recently, something about the way it stands speaks ancient magic. Its trunk is not bark, but glass that reminds her of a stained glass window. Golden grass surrounds the tree, reminding her of soft sand, only it doesn't sink in the same way with each footstep. Still, it makes a satisfying crunching sound.
Corr stands marveling at the leaf-stars and brilliant red flowers. She could be here for hours, she thinks, just taking in each detail with a childlike curiosity.
Following stories came naturally to me. It’s difficult to explain how exactly it worked, but the feeling it gave me was like a drop of water rolling downhill. I don’t think the water knows exactly where it’s going-- where it will stop-- until it’s there. My magic went ahead of me, clearing the way so all I had to do was lean into the fall.
I don’t know how long it took me to get there. It must have been a long while, for I remember being distracted by trees and clouds and butterflies, and lowering my nose to the earth to feel the words rise up to me slow as mountains. For their slowness I could not make out their form, but it pleased to know me that they were there, wherever “there” was-- for if it was not a physical thing, and no one else could hear the earth speak, who’s to know the words didn’t live in my head?
Anyway, when I finally arrived I laid my body down upon the roots of the tree, and I felt the embrace of the great beautiful earth beneath me.
I knew my mother had done the same, and I knew my father had pressed his cheek to the glassy trunk.
I knew many things, for the tree told me-- as it told me of the fabric of space and time it wove together, and the ache of summer as it yields to fall, and the countless tears that have fallen on the bare earth, sorrow that watered seeds which became forests.
I stayed there listening to the tree until the sun fell and my magic sputtered out. And then I slept, the inexpressibly heavy sleep of the spent, until the sun rose the next morning. When I opened my eyes, nothing was changed about the world except myself. I stood up, shook the sleep from my bones, placed a kiss on the tree, and finally I went home.
