Roots Twisted, Blackened & Bitter



  • Old Miser Maerwold said: "Nevermind the thorns;
    Grab stem up by the sharpest points, or be naught but those horns";

    What felt as a blade slid within pink palm;
    Soon vines bled nectar, and honey, and balm;

    A pulse grew steady, as the hand's wound grew grim;
    But Old Leaf was there now, protecting, and shaping, and now-a part of him.

    A leather bound journal, unlike what a feral druid may prefer, is always with young Falwyn. He writes in beautiful letters, with Deneir's eye dotted 'I's. A story seems to be told, albeit without clear order, as he one moment speaks of childhood, and then today, and then yesterday, or of some unimportant, idle boulder.


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