A Misty Swamp in the forest

Drosarian often pondered time, how it passed differently to the little mortals he spoke to, or the beasts that congregated at his feet, and them himself. They all feared its passage, not enough time to do this, not enough time to do that, but the concept of time had often been lost on the old spirit. Creatures seemed to die as time marched on, but for Drosarian death was just enough reason to move on and try something new.

After his journey through the mist, however, he suddenly understood time far better than he ever had.

The mists had battered his spiritual form, something he’d never experienced before, but it was a sacrifice he was willing to make if it meant his sister’s survival. The young one was centuries younger than himself, she had much more to experience. Protecting her had left him weak, damaged. Dying.

When she told him to go, to follow the thread that reached out to him, he protested. He couldn’t leave his little sister alone, but deep down he knew he would die if he did. She seemed to understand that too, and by that point he knew she was fierce and strong enough that she could protect herself for a time. He had begrudgingly accepted.

The thread gave him enough strength and enough power to follow it, gaining speed as the dark orb floated across the new land. Most of it was lost on Drosarian, his focus entirely on following the golden thread that lit the path to something that seemed interested in giving him strength. Whatever it was, he would accept it if it meant saving his life.

He didn’t have days to travel, the time he had always taken for granted was quickly running out, but thankfully the thread understood this. It was why it was offered. The thread pulled and tugged on Drosarian, pulling him towards a smaller island within the larger island, something Drosarian would have to ponder some other time. What bothered him was the mists and fogs that seemed to coat the island.

He braced as much as he could, but instead of the violent assault of magic that drained him within the mists at sea, the fogs on the island felt soothing to his spiritual form. The pain that threatened to dissipate his form slipped away from him, leaving him feeling weightless once again. Forest magics, there was no doubt about it. They were weak and faint, far below what he’d immersed himself for centuries, but it was enough to keep him alive.

Finally, the thread came to an end in the misty swamps that his form now found himself in. The air was laden with the fog, and it hung silently over the murky waters below. Only the distant sound of a strange bird and a frog or two cut through it, leaving him mostly in silence.

How… peaceful.

His limited focus shifted to the tree, one that had once been filled with great forests magics, but now, like him, it was dying. Age had caught up to the tree, leaving it without leaves, and its bark chipped and cracked, yet it still had the strength to pass to Dros. It spoke its home of centuries, what it had seen pass through the swamp, and the passage of time that Dros was only just starting to understand. Dros replied in turn, conversing of his own past, and how he had barely survived the dreaded mist that surrounded the island, something the tree had sympathies for.

They spoke for a time, living on a shared lifeforce, gaining an understanding for one another. Finally, a pact was made. The only way they would survive is to combine themselves into one being. The tree would pass its knowledge and experiences to Dros, and Dros would live a fresh life.

The orb that was dross popped like a bubble, releasing his spiritual form. The dark cloud swirled around the tree’s broken bark, then slipped within, finding the heartseed and wrapping it in a shroud.

Days passed, then weeks, then eventually months. Through the spirit world’s thread way, Drosarian spoke to other parts of the island. More mortals had landed here and there, some had died elsewhere. A forest had been cleared, but another one grew in its place elsewhere. He cared not for the goings on of the mortals, they were unimportant to him as he healed and absorbed the tree spirit into himself, but what he did care for was sister. He had finally discovered that she had found a place to regrow. She was safe.

He could recover in peace.

He stopped paying attention to time, especially as his life was no longer limited as it had been previously, and instead his focus was plunged into his recovery. Slowly the tree around the heartseed began to shift and change, using what it had to create something new. Bare branches and limbs curled and twisted around each other, chipped bark broke and reformed, and its trunk split in twain. The transformation was slow, and parts that were not needed were sapped of what little life remained and discarded to the swampy floor below.

Eventually, a new form stood where the tree had once taken root. Tall, with two appendages on the sides and below. The gnarled branches had combined into a pair of arms, and the trunk split into a pair of legs that remained rooted to the floor. The spirit had a body once more, not one he was able to tailor, but one that had taken two spirits and combined them. Time had taken care of the rest.

Dawn had started to cast its glow across the foggy swamp. Sunlight struggled to get through, but the air seemed brighter with every passing hour. Distant birds had started their chirps, but went silent as a low moan rumbled over the swampy air. The flutter of wings followed, then another shorter moan.

Then finally a crack as a large limb shifted in place. His strength had finally returned, and Drosarian had awoken. Crack! Crack! His limbs moved for the first time, freeing themselves from the stiffness of time, and the groan of bark on bark sounded form his joints as one of the trunk legs lifted from the ground. Several roots pulled up with it, before he took a long step into the swampy waters.

A breath tossed and disturbed strands of moss all over the creature’s bark-covered torso, and fearsome, hollow face as Drosarian’s foot came to rest, then the other lifted, bringing with it its own moan.

“Life…” Drosarian rumbled, his voice emanating from cracks all over his body. His gnarled hands and arms shifted up to his face, feeling along the skeletal, ghostly visage, then he looked his hands over, seeing what form fate had decided for him. “...a new chance.”

Another long sigh rattled through his form as he lowered his arms and slowly surveyed the swamp. “...I like it…”

The swamp had gone quiet again around Drosarian, who had remained still in his spot since he had taken his first steps. He had nowhere to be, so he stood and enjoyed the peace, shifting gently from side to side with the other trees. His roots had taken again, connecting him with the forest’s, and he had taken the time to converse with his new domain. Stories were silently shared across the network, and as he’d told them tales of his life, they returned the favour, allowing him to learn of the new lands.

But soon he heard a sound, one alien to the swamp around him. A light crack sounded from his neck as his branched head shifted, causing a crow that had perched atop him to flitter away, unnerved by his slow movement. A low moan rumbled through his core as he considered the noise. It sounded like… like a creature. What kind though? A deer? No, no, those sounded different. A toad?

Must be.

With a groan of effort, his rooted trunk legs pulled themselves from the wet mud below and he took his first steps in several hours. His movements were slow and methodical, each one placed with precision and intention as he moved through the forest, careful not to disturb anything around him, least of all his new friend. He followed the tune until it stopped, as did he, and he chose to listen once more.

Wood? A splash. Another low rumble as he thought, piecing together more of the picture that formed in his head… A toad who played with rocks at the water’s edge?

Must be.

He began to quietly move again, any noise that he made being the dull whump of his trunked feet against the ground, a quiet trickle as they shifted through water, or the subtle creak of his wooden joints with each step.

Finally, he found the source of the sound and stopped, looming between two trees not far from the boat’s side. It was no toad but… what did they call them. Ah, a dwarf. No, that wasn’t right. Not enough moss. Beards they called them, that’s right. No, this creature… Ah! An elf!

His body creaked in satisfaction as he looked out towards the boat, his form silhouetted in the foggy sunlight behind him, but he chose to observe in that moment. The first creature he’d come across that wasn’t a frog or a bird, but instead a creature of the kind he’d conversed with in past lives.

He’d tried with frogs, but they weren’t good at carrying conversations.

A long, quiet, almost eerie sigh escaped the holes in his body as it came to rest and the roots of his feet began to take hold, but he didn’t move, instead fascinated by the creature and its vessel. A cart, no doubt. No, that was on land… It seemed similar. Ah, a boat, yes.

Drosarian stood quietly in his silhouetted spot between the trees where he watched and pondered the boat bound creature. Perhaps not an elf. Definitely not an orc or a gnome, she was not big nor small enough. But then everything felt small to the ent, would an orc be closer to a gnome to his old form? Questions abound, but none he necessarily felt like answering at that moment. Instead, he stood quietly, the only sounds he made being the slight sighing whistle as his breath moved through his tree body, and the creaking of his limbs as he swayed with the other trees.

What finally took his attention was the dull growl that carried over the breeze. That hungry, deep growl that usually put fear into all sorts of creatures, but not to Drosarian. It only brought curiosity in that moment. What was the creature? What did it want? It was hungry, did it plan on eating the sleeping woman?

Drosarian rarely cared to break the circle of life, he had lived for longer than he could remember and many of those he came across died, but he had just come back from the space between death and rebirth. To take in that first breath of humid, swamp air and take his first step, it was quietly exhilarating for the tree man. Is it how mortals felt every day? If so, perhaps the woman deserved saving.

The roots underneath him shifted and pulled as he raised his trunk like feet from the mud, and he sucked in a deep breath through the mossy openings in his chest. He looked out towards the large feline and spoke, his voice coming in the form of a long moan. "Begone!" He raised an arm towards it, gnarled finger pointed outwards. "There is no meal for you here!"

Drosarian fell silent once more, he could feel the magical connection between the girl and the beast as she reached out to it, calming it. It may have been unexpected in that moment, but Dros let those thoughts fade into the past as quickly as they arose. What mattered then was that the elf was safe. He also didn’t have to break the circle of life either, so it ended up being a win win.

Though what he didn’t expect was her reaction to his new form. It did cross his mind for a moment that he may be fearful, perhaps, but the crows hadn’t seemed to mind, why would the elf? Regardless, she fell into the water, amusing the tree spirit a little but he didn’t show it, and instead he remained still, enjoying the show.

He remained silent for a few moments more as the elf clambered back into her boat. Another unexpected outcome, but a welcome one, it would make for a nice little story he could tell the birds the next time they roosted on his head.

“You fell.” His words echoed from inside his body in a ghostly way, carrying on the winds that whistled through him. While the sound seemed to fit his strange, gnarled body, they came with an uncharacteristic warmth to them. “Well done.”

The large tree fell silent once more for several moments. The outburst of telling the panther like creature off left Drosarian a little winded. He needed to take it easy, and thankfully that was his primary state of being. At least while his sister was safe.

Wind whistled through the cracks and crevices of his tree-like physique, pushing and pulling at the strands of moss that dangled over him. It was the only sound he made, and the dark void beneath the holes that sat within his ominous, off putting face remained completely dark. Was there anything behind them to speak of? It was doubtful anyone knew.

Then his head turned with a crack, causing another crow that had perched on one of the gnarled branches across his head to flutter off with a startle. No new friends today.

“Then I was… successful…” The voice echoed from within the creature’s sternum, without any movement of the angular, strangely smiling mouth that crossed the bottom of his mask-like face. “And I’ve not seen a human in…” he trailed off for a moment and shifted slightly, seemingly looking off into the far distance between the foggy trees, trying to recall a memory. “Longer than I care to remember.” He shifted back with a creak. “Distant memories of a distant past of humans who are long since gone. Irrelevant.”

With that, he raised his long, barked hand and pressed it to his echoing chest. “Drosarian. Tree creature… is a new name. A curious name.”

He didn't seem to care at all about Orwen's look. It may have been an annoyance or inconvenience to have been drenched, but he was certainly amused. That's what mattered.

Drosarian felt silent again as thoughts echoed through his rather spooky form. The only noise that came from him was the gentle breeze of air flowing through his porous and holey barked form, but every now and again they seemed to carry words that weren't quite intelligible. A figment of one’s imagination? Who knows.

“The old world…” he finally whispered as his gnarled visage looked into the mists. “I have known many old worlds… and many names, and the stories behind them.”

This little human was an interesting one. She seemed so small, yet seemed to think of herself as big. Dignified. She saw no amusement in her own predicament, much to Drosarian’s slight disappointment.

“Why are you… here…” a long gnarled hand reached up and gestured towards the misty swamps. “This feels like no place for such… little things to be sleeping in. Not in the open. The birds tell me we aren't alone in the mists, and I can feel it too.” A low whistle seeped through his torso again, and soon a crow landed on his branched head once more. “And they are wise enough not to lie to me.”

“For someone so… fragile, you are perhaps too… callous on death.” The tree seemed to take his time finding the right words for the situation. He had all the time in the world, and didn’t much seem to care about taking up others’ time with his thoughts. “Your kind always seem to carry the importance of honour in death… It is… curious…” To someone functionally immortal, the concept of honour in depth seemed heavily flawed indeed.

“Respect nature…” his body creaked and moaned as air filtered through the gnarled holes of his body. He certainly appreciated it. “I suppose we appreciate it… but you are short lived. Small. Most of us do not take the time to be bothered by your presence.” He reached up and the crow that had perched on his head hopped onto his finger so he could look it over. A new friend? Curious. “And the fauna, like my little friend here…” The crow looked about, not entirely sure what was happening, before fluttering off again. “Are only interested in their next meal. A simple life, one I find myself jealous of sometimes.”

Then there was the question of the hour. Why was he there? He’d rambled enough already. “I am here because I could survive.” It sounded simple, but it likely wasn’t. “The mists took much from me. I was forced to find a thread that would take me. I found one that lead me here, to a tree that was dying, as I was.” He gestured back to the empty spot he’d uprooted from. “There was enough of each of us to become one. Given more time… perhaps I’d have taken a different form.” His gnarled hands lifted to his equally gnarled, spooky face, then lowered again. “But I like this form. It may prove temporary, but as in all things… time will tell.”

Each word was deep, guttural, and punctuated by the wind flowing through his body, pushing aside moss and leafs as it did.