And Yet, It Grows On

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UilliamNebel
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And Yet, It Grows On

Post by UilliamNebel » Tue May 03, 2022 11:04 pm

Below the snow line of the Skull Crag, on the seaside of the mountain chain, Dethos sat near where the Silvanus shrine had once been. Where it had been relocated to, he was not sure. Perhaps vandals, perhaps other devotees had figured a ‘better’ place for it. Still here above the trailway to the Fortress City its absence was felt by him. All about the tall trees of the mighty wood still grew, the cool streams of brooke and river picking up growing winter thaw, the growls of a bear heard off in the distance. The natural world of Toril, looked over, fought for, by the followers of Silvanus, Chauntea, and other sacred nature entities, would go on without notice of the missing shrine.

Feeling the edge of it on his toe, Dethos looked down to see the shattered and now rotting wood of a bow buried beneath some loose dirt. A smile crossed his face, as he knelt down. Late spring rain with wind had uncovered a sacrifice made to Old Father Oak. With reverence in his spirit, Dethos went to rebury the offering fully, so as not to diminish another’s prayer and giving to Silvanus.

‘Old Father Tree, I pray the one who made this, and broke it, to give back to you in this soil, was answered in their prayer.’

For the Ranger, it was a sincere prayer. Dethos had been on the end of many unanswered prayers to the deities of Faerun. To know without question that the Gods did exist, but that not all prayers deemed some measure of reply, was a sorrowful matter.

Standing again, he went to gently pat down the freshly thawed, and loose dirt over his own sacrifice that he had made. Below the black soil of the Skull Crag peak was a wood panel cut, now cracked and splintered, the art of it lost. On it had been the story of Detho’s sorrow, a thing that he had prayed much for Silvanus aid to let down. For over three dozen springs, pilgrimage had been made with the same prayer, to bring abolition from the pains his heart suffered. Every year a new wood cut, capturing a picture from a time in his life when joy was plentiful and shared with another.

‘I dare to say Father Oak that your silence on this is my answer. That though the tree that survives the strike of lightning, will never be less scarred. And yet, it grows on. But I will plant these roots of my being, and for all my years continue with this prayer and sacrifice every year on this day. Not out of spite for your judgment, or folly that you will take some other action, because I continue to do so. But that I cannot help to, for what else am I to want after all you have given me in this life.

Until I am in your House of Nature.’


Finishing his prayer, Dethos made a few clicks with tongue to teeth, the cadre of his giant companion arachnid and several phase spiders coming to his side and preparing for the trip back down the mountain slopes. The valleys below, where beast, harpy, giant, and other predators roamed would soon flow with the blood of battle, as a servant of nature strived to bring Toril’s balance to the area.

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