HoN Lore 14: An Old Tale

Sol rose slowly over the horizon, casting brilliance over the clearing.

The light showed the leftovers of what had been their camp during the night. Embers strewn everywhere, blood mixed in with dirt, and the remains of Hunters littered the ground.

They gathered around the Armordillo laying on the ground. Attempts to move him to the pool had failed; already the Legionnaire had to discard his gloves that had failed to protect his hands from the deadly spines.

And so, they had decided to try and heal Armadon where he was.

The Scout watched on in helplessness as Jereziah and Ophelia kneeled intently over Armadon, one tracing quick runes into the earth, as the other bowed his head in silent prayer to Sol. Hovering above Armadon was Nymphora, providing a constant source to replenish Jereziah and Ophelia’s strength.

Glancing to the side, the Scout noticed the Treant standing alone, facing Sol. After the fight, it had regained its senses, but had refused to speak to any of them.

Now that he had a good look at the Treant, he realized that the being looked old. Very, very old. But that was just his opinion; few men have met Treants, and only in passed down stories. Who knew if they became Treants after they aged from trees? Who knew if Treants and trees were separate?

He was cautious to approach. Walking at a slight angle as to not seem as though he was sneaking up on it, he slowly edged to the Treant’s side. Together, they looked at Sol’s emergence.

The view was beautiful. The rays of light painted the sky in brilliant shades of pink, orange, and purple, as night was forced into the recesses of darkness. The Scout was content to just stand and watch the magnificent display. The Treant would talk when it was ready.

Blue appeared, as the other colors faded into simple tints against the clouds. The Scout squinted his eyes as Sol’s light flared, unhampered over the horizon, through the leaves of the Forest. Good, now all of Jereziah’s prayers will quicken.

“I was but a sapling,” began the Treant, “when the first Keeper of the Forests died.”

The Scout was startled out of his lull.

“I am afraid that I have not heard of a Keeper of the Forest,” he said slowly, trying to not offend.

The Treant sighed in a rattle of leaves. “A Keeper of the Forest is a Treant that has taken the burden of keeping the peace, prosperity, and life in Forests everywhere.”

“And…do Treants or Keepers die normally?”

The Treant turned around to face the Scout. “No,” was the answer.

“I once blamed you humans for the First Keeper’s death. When your kind warred and…released that thing, the Forests were threatened. Everywhere, forests died as it spread. The First Keeper could not bear the pain, connected as he is to the trees. He chose by himself to take in the trees’ pain.”

The Scout had no idea what the Treant was referring to. History wasn’t his strongest subject.

“He survived it. Weakened, but alive. But,” the Treant added, “then, the daemons appeared. Brought forward by YOUR creation.”

It shuddered, “The daemons burnt and pillaged everything. Nothing was left alive, only to burn. Again, Forests and trees everywhere suffered. The First Keeper was already weakened, and could not fight them. The daemons killed everything in sight. Your kind, too, suffered at their hands.”

The Scout stayed silent, as the Treant narrated on. A single withered leaf blew off of the Treant’s crown.

“But he knew his duty. There were very few Forests left, and with the last of his strength, we were saved. Using his powers, he shielded us from the daemon’s sight. My home grove was the last one. I remember it well. It was the very day I achieved sentience.”

The Treant shook its head as it gazed back into Sol’s light.

“The daemons were coming, their hellfire burning brightly in the darkness. He told me that I was Keeper now. But before I took his duty from him, he was going to protect us all one last time.”

The Scout knew what was going to happen, but did not interrupt. He wanted to hear it.

“After the spell was cast, his own protection gave out. And then…” the Treant paused, “the daemons fell on him.”

The Treant looked away. “He was helpless and already in pain. Merely a small distance from my grove. And yet, I could do nothing.”

It pounded the ground with force. “Nothing! I was forced to be the sole witness. Even powerless, his vitality was the worst prison imaginable for himself. The daemons had found a play thing that would not die immediately from their antics.”

And from the place the Treant had pounded, a new sapling grew. The Treant caressed its newborn leaf with a tender touch.

“I knew he had expected and welcomed death. When his life finally gave out, I had felt better for him.”

The Scout could not stop himself from saying, “But you are Keeper now. His suffering is over. I understand why you hate the daemons. Don’t worry, the Prince and I will…”

The Keeper looked at the Scout, and the Scout stopped midsentence. He did not know many Treant expressions, but the one he was seeing now was undoubtedly full of sadness.

“No. The one we fought yesterday…”

The Scout’s jaw dropped. “You can’t mean…”

“Yes,” said the Keeper, “He is my predecessor. Rooftrellen was his name in life.”

##########################

“It looks like a whirlwind went through all of these trees,” said the Pyromancer.

The Blacksmith and the Silencer looked at the swathe of destruction they were seeing. When dawn had broke, they had agreed on trying to find the party sent to rendezvous with the reinforcements. At first, none of them had any idea where they were going, and were simply searching for signs. Now, they had one.

“Judging by what their group contains,” said the Blacksmith, “I’d say this is the work of that Legionnaire.”

“But there are no marks made by a blade!”

The Blacksmith scratched his head slowly. “Well,” he admitted, “that IS true…”

The Pyromancer laughed derisively, “And you call yourself a Blacksmith.”

“Oh give it a rest,” the Blacksmith said indignantly, “I MAKE weapons, not use them…”

“Enough,” interjected the Silencer, “We’ve found what can only be a path. Do we follow it?”

Both of them looked at him, then nodded simultaneously.

“Then we best hurry up.”

They followed the route, with the Silencer suddenly realizing something.

“My memory isn’t great, but apparently you two bicker like…is lovebirds really the term?”

Both of them immediately rounded upon him. “We are NOT lovebirds.”

Pulling the hood over his features to hide a growing smile, he said meekly, “Understood.”

If memory serves, people’s personalities don’t change much over time.


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