Blackfeather Woods deepest sympathies

He did not wish to live in the brightsun mesa as mother did. And yet, he could not leave her, oh not again.

So, he slunk from her side. But he did not go far. Between the Mesa and the lake, the darkling wood called to him, it tugged at his spirit and hissed in his ears. Pleaded, no, bade him to go.

To here.

Pelagius did not know the significance of this wood to his family line, nor would he ever. But he felt as though this was a homecoming of some kind. The background hum of the beetle choir grew quieter and quieter until…

Silence.

Pelagius was alone.

It disquieted him, made his skin prickle and his eyes bulge. He strained for the voices of the beetles, for their hissing wings, but found nothing.

He picked deeper.

the tree was nearly wilted, roots clutching the earth like pale fingers crumpled bedsheets. a deep breath brought in a scent of sweet rot tinged with natural nostrums. the tongue unrolled, and specks of plant-matter stuck to it as flies do to yellow paper.

effects of the tree's infections were once, doubtlessly, immense - or, perhaps, the brain had grown accustomed? yes, there were many seasons of consumption behind the way it now parsed through the mild sensations of the bleeding willow. dull, yet, the tail contently swayed.

seated, it stared up at the tree's rot, back turned to the rest of the woods.

Pelagius was once a little boy, growing beneath his mother’s stories and his father’s strength. The boy was far from that now, but the stories were still there.

Even if Mother hadn’t told him about this one, he would know it by its face.

Spirit.

A quick two-step forward.

Do the woods call to you too?

He did not know why, or how, or if he’d ever know. But he belonged here, for now.

shift of posture, all there was to show surprise.

the head turned, for the ears never could.

for a while, there was silence.

then,

undeniable.

cowled gaze drifted back to the bark.

this place... of much power. a mind, feels it. hark, these birds... how they whisper.

the head angled. above, muffled by the canopy - murders, conspiracies.

...curiosities, of course. it resumed. an altar, not far from here. offerings... fresh. its muzzle tilted up, following the seep of pus. a mind, feels it.

doest thou, deadblood?

Oh yes.

His blood was far from dead, but he would allow the spirit to think of him that way. They were a spirit, it wasn’t like they could see the gold running in his veins.

Pelagius was a creature divine and holy, and everyone he met would soon see that.

An altar, you say? His eyes in the dark are a sharp gleam.

It is not needed. His grin was a slice of silver.

Its god is already here.