Sa'roir and the Coyote's Tree

[NomadGaia 924]

 

It would be a day or two before the young ame’ would come across one of the trees her mother had described. The arid desert air would whip across her face, giving her a far rosier complexion over the long journey. The burns over her eye would sting, having been dried out over her journey. But nevertheless, she carried on through it all. At last though, she would spot it in the distance, atop the hill. It’s messy pale green leaves sat atop its branches, like a head of wild hair over each one. At its sight, the ame’ let out a dry laugh, shaking her head as she pressed on toward it.

 

All the while she went, her wrapped feet would dig small footprints into the sand. As she approached the tree, she’d drop to her knees, bowing to it as it stood, tall and silent. Quietly, she spoke her gratitude to the tree, thanking it for this small sacrifice.

 

“I bring nourishment to replace what will be lost, Vision Tree.” she uttered.

 

At this, she reached into her bag, withdrawing a small bundle of cloth, wrapped in small, raggedy twine. She’d lay it out before her, before reaching toward the base of the tree’s trunk with her knife. She’d begin to dig out a small hole beside the tree, stabbing down into the dirt to loosen it, before pushing it out of the hole with her hand. She did this until she reached the roots. Then, the ame’ reached back over the parcel, cutting the twine with the knife, revealing a small lump of meat, which she’d pick up and place over the root. But it was dry. The ame’ thought. Reaching for her waterskin, she found it to be light. Peeking a golden eye within the skin, she saw just a bit of water at the bottom. She’d eye it momentarily, before shutting her eyes, and pouring a bit over the lump of meat, to rehydrate it some. After this ritual was done, she’d cover the hole with the dirt, patting it down with her bare hand.

 

Then came the task at hand. Rori reached up, carving a small amount of the bark from the tree’s side with her knife. Gingerly, she took the small, flat piece of brittle bark, laying it over the piece of cloth that held the meat. With the pommel of her knife, she’d begin to crush the bark into tiny pieces, obliterating it until it was naught but a powder. She’d draw a small pipe from her bag after rooting around for a bit, and with the new powder, she’d fill the bowl at the end.

 

Finally, she’d sit against the tree, and hold the pipe in both hands, bowing her head.

 

“Coyote.” she whispered “I seek a vision from you. Show me what I need to see.”

 

With a match she had bought from an Orenian trader, she’d light the pipe up, before bringing it to her lips and drawing a hefty breath inward. Holding it for a moment, she’d lay her head back against the tree, before spindles of smoke lofted out from the corners of her mouth, trailing into the skies, before being stolen by the harsh desert air. Rori would sit there for some time, watching the thin clouds that slowly crept across the sky in the distance, like a man crawling to an oasis for water.

 

Her eyes trailed down, across the sandy rocks that dotted the landscape, over the brown desert grasses that stretched like patchwork over the ground. The sun would beat down bright… and brighter, and brighter. The finer details of the world around her began to shimmer away, the ame’ squinting some as the sun enveloped the world around her. Her head swayed, as if it had become a heavy weight, rolling to the side as her arms and legs refused to move.

 

“Sa’roir…”

 

The gentle voice wafted over the rocks and grasses, becoming little more than a whisper that hit her ears.

 

“Who… said that?” she would say, lifting her head up lazily to look across the ever brightening landscape. Nearly all detail had faded, and the world was little more than a blank canvas. The woman’s voice spoke again to her.

 

“Never forget. We were known as the forgotten folk. Centuries of tradition, and culture, withered away like the corpse of a beast.”

 

Before her, the canvas that was the world began to shift and meld, what little color there was growing- and amalgamated into a scene before her, of a lone and decrepit shrine that once depicted the earthmother, the aspect of life. It was covered with weeds, desecrated and speckled with foul writings.

 

“Why are you telling me this? Who are you?!” Rori called out once again, in vain.

 

“You are the blood of my blood, Sa’roir. But you have lost your way.”

 

A woman would emerge from behind the statue, her skin as dark as the bark of the trees, her eyes a golden amber hue. Her blackened hair descended from her head, stretching down to the forest floor, dragging twigs and leaves along with it. She wore a simple green robe, beads stretching down across her braids. Rori would recognize her from the paintings within the Vale. 

 

“Marmarhaelun…” she said, her eyes flooding with recognition. The ame’ lifted a hand lazily to try and reach out to her, but to no avail.

 

“I pass on that which my teacher taught me. I speak now to you what he spoke unto me. Do not forget this.”

 

After speaking, the elder would pause, stepping forward only to kneel in front of Rori, staring at her eye to eye.

 

“Never forget we were once known as the forgotten folk. Those who had left their ways behind, to die in the mud. We lived, subjugated by others, a hollow shell of what we once were. Centuries of war, and slaughter had turned us into this, had made us forget our way. We cannot forget, Sa’roir. We must bear the torch, and uncover that which has been forgotten. Do not let the world around you quash what is left. Do not let what has been found be forgotten again…”

 

“But… how? How can I do what you’ve done?”

 

“Learn all that can be learned. Live as we live, and teach unto others what has been taught to you. And when all is done, seek to uncover what is still lost to the past, to the fires of war and bloodshed. Bear the torch, young one.”

 

And soon, all would begin to fade away from Rori’s view, including the elder.

 

“No, no wait! I’m not you! How will I know what to do?!”

 

The young ame’ would try and push herself forward, to pursue the elder as she stepped away, and faded into the night. But all the ame’ could do was crawl, and listen to her final words.

 

“Never forget, we were once known as the forgotten folk…”

[The Media Wizard 2954]

Across the realm, an elven prince would be sat at the edge of a cliff. His long, red robes would billow in the breeze. His thumb gently wipes across the wilted, red petal that had been gifted to him long ago. It no longer carried the familiar presence of his marhaelun, but he kept it nearby just the same. "Ame nae evareh, marhaelun."

 

Spoiler

 

[WestCarolina 1778]

Graveled, lagging steps shuffle across the square as the short cub lurches back into Nevaehlen. Miven excuses herself from a conversation with the Grand King, making a beeline for Rori.

They join at a bench, crackling fire adding to their hushed conversation. Miven inquires about the experience, only to dawn a smile when hearing that Rori met Awaiti. 

For some time, mother and daughter shared stories of their loved one, and all the Bear could hope for was that her cub remained true to herself.