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THE LAMENT OF BROTHER OAK


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THE LAMENT OF BROTHER OAK

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The gates were open.

 

Amaesil Vuln’miruel, High Warden and the Oak Druid, rode past the towering archway of the woodland city entrance. He rode atop his druidic companion — Estelavern the Elk —  and looked around the city proper. The entrance was silent; not even birds were chirping. A frown crossed his face. His eyes flicked up toward the barracks above. He had hoped to hear the clashing of ferrum on hay, but there was nothing. Complete, utter silence.

 

Amaesil slid off of the elk’s back and ran a gloved hand across the beast’s neck. He had just arrived from the lands of Haense where his Wardens were preparing to support the mortal-born humans in their war against invading Rimetrolls. He had not been gone long, right? Yet the city grew vacant in his absence.

 

The elf began a slow walk throughout the city. He spotted an elf every few minutes, but they were always in a rush or having a short and aggressive conversation at a whisper. Days before, the city had seemed so vibrant and alive during the coronation, but now it was akin to watching a starving animal lie in a pool of its own making; unable to hunt and fend for itself.

 

Eventually, the elf arrived at the foot of his cultural home — the Father Circle. A smile graced his lips as the soft singing of birds and scuttling of animals began once more. Nature had always reigned supreme in this portion of the city and it would continue to do so until the end of days; however, there was a distinct lack of voices and laughter. The druid left his stag companion behind and used the lift to ascend to the upper portions of the district. He found himself wandering amid empty buildings that were starting to show signs of encroaching nature: moss, roots, weeds. Nobody was nearby.

 

Amaesil came to the towering, ashen tree at the center of the small pond. He was attuned here. He had begun his life anew with the name “Amaesil” and found kinship with the druids, Mani and Aspects. The memories warmed Amaesil’s heart, but it had become like a thin veil placed overtop a painting that was starting to chip. All of his fondness for this place had not saved it from the abandonment he was witnessing. Had it been his fault? Had the Wardens blinded him? Was he responsible for this downfall?

 

No, he concluded. Only a poor hunter blames their tools. The wolf that neglects to hunt starves. He had written those words for the Wardens Way long ago, and he was seeing the true consequences of a starving beast of elven creation.

 

Amaesil lowered down to a knee before the ashen tree and looked around. His frown grew deeper, but his resolve was steadfast. He withdrew a short dagger made of black glass — obsidian. His free hand gently cleared away some spreading grass before he impaled the dirt with the dagger. A breeze passed through the district, but no sound came afterward. He rose to his feet and looked around one final time as a Druid of the Father Circle. With that, he returned down the lift.

 

Shortly after, the Young Fox Amaesil Vuln’miruel could be seen riding out of the city to resume his duties as High Warden. His purpose had become muddied, but he would do all he could to serve the High Prince, Wardens and Descendant races whenever possible. As he rode out, however, he was born once again.

 

Brother Oak had become a druid without a circle.

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The Fox Mother sat within her seed's hall, cleaning the supplies she had used to tattoo the newest addition to the family. The dark circles under her eyes had failed to disappear, and it was in moments like these she thought about the one who had first received the golden marking. The High Priestess placed a hand on either side of the basin, dipping her head with a heavy sigh. "Be safe my son, remember what I've taught you.."

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Brother Spore, a member of the Father Circle who resided within it's grove most of the time would have most likely seen the young Druid making his way out of the vacant circle. The man formed a slight frown as he noted this might be the last time that Amaesil would reside within the grove. A feeling that appeared all to present with those he had talk to regarding his circle. "A shame at what has become, but the only way is to continue forward." The 'ame would comment softly to no one in particular, more likely than not the various creatures that made their home around his cliffside home. 

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"Eh, can't blame him." says Eir'thall, a former Father Circle archdruid. "I gave up on that place a while ago. Elvenesse, too. We'll never crawl out of this rut we've dug for ourselves." 

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From her burrow within the Mother Grove, one Syndra Caerme'onn allowed her gaze to pool over a letter, written by a friend still residing within the walls of Amaethea. She stroked the growing king cobra that sat perched upon her shoulder, a stern look upon her visage.

 

"A once great circle....now falling into relative obscurity. And of course, my dear Circe, we know why," She'd nod intently at the serpent, letting free a heavy sigh. "In due time, we will set things right. Perhaps it is time to have a word with my maln..."

 

@_Sug

 

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Within the Father Circle, in a home beneath a tree, was an 'ame woman, not a former or current member of the Father Circle. Perched on the couch, amber gaze watching the flickering flames of the fireplace. Her recent conversation with Syndra came to mind.

 

"Rosalia, I didn't expect to find you still here."

 

Only one thing kept her there. A promise of forever, to wait and to always find their way back to one another no matter what. 

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