Heart of Oak

Khar has become a very good diplomat over the past few months. With Frida's masterful craftsmanship, he's been able to barter for knowledge that was otherwise unavailable to me. The beastfolk village, while an ally of the loosest sense, is very much isolationist. Under Poppy and her council's leadership, the city is almost completely unknown to its human neighbors.

Saea's presence down south in Anslo has also produced very useful sources of information. She's still finding her place, but from the letters she's sent me via message owls, she's been spending no small amount of time at several of the libraries. An interesting aspect of the situation is how the books that she's deemed of great interest to me get to me. I've learned that there's a postal system within Rykensvik and, albeit for a decent amount of coin, postmen will travel as far as Gelwood. Kateda has been my runner to and from that rural town.

These books are all historical accounts of events or documented renditions that came years later. With more than a dozen in my possession, I've been able to piece together bits and pieces of who I am, and who I was. The stories of the Father of the Forest, the God of Nature, and Life, all depict a benevolent treant who not only shared his power willingly and unconditionally but actively challenged the rise of the dragon.

The books lightly touch upon Odis, the dragon who ascended to godhood. I've yet to learn how a dragon became a god, but what I do know is that the Odissian Pantheon is relatively new and ascended to near global dominance after my death. How I died, however, is still shrouded in mystery. The pair of books Falcher brought back from Huma also go into encyclopedia-level detail of the world's history but both end before the Age of Monsters, this world's fifth era. The frustration grew ever larger when I discovered that this world is in its seventh era. To complicate it further, there is no consistency between each era and all seven of them vary in length. Only world-altering events dictate the change of eras.

Winter is almost upon us, and the future is not in my hands alone, but in the hands of my companions whose favor I must court whilst they must also gain favor with the greater powers of the world itself. An intricate puzzle with more pieces appearing every day.

I hope Simadger is still doing alright.

An icy wind sharply blasted through the open windows of the home tree, breaking the treant's focus on the journal before him. He raised his wooden head and turned to look outside. Nearly all the leaves had fallen from the trees. A cold and damp fog had also set up overnight. The lake shimmered in the early morning rays of sunlight, unobstructed by the old-growth forest that Oakengrove grew himself during the summer. Since Falcher's return, Frida, along with some of the Huma refugees, chopped down trees for lumber to build a more permanent residence.

At first, Oakengrove protested the idea. He didn't want to draw more attention to himself and starting his own town will do just that and then some. However, there was nowhere else they could go that would not only ensure their safety but not add to the issues already brought forth by the Basar Clans. That and Sura also promised to help him with the fight.

He stood up from his desk and walked over to the window. Even in the crispy cold air, birds still chirped like it was the first day of spring. He heard the bluejays assert their dominance over the mourning doves and black-capped chickadees. The treant took a deep breath. The tingle of frost coated his chapped wooden lips and left an icy glaze on his ivy beard. Then it all melted away with a warm exhale.

For all the moments he spent in admiration of the beauty of nature outside his room, the rampant thoughts became still and quiet. Every subsequent breath felt refreshing. His gaze drifted down towards his left hand. A rotten texture had overtaken one of his knuckles. The spongy squish felt repulsive and itchy. Then his thoughts returned. He looked back over his shoulder at the room.