The following would take place in the future, when word of the Hierophant's passing had become common knowledge amongst those in common circles. In a place untouchable by mortal hands dwelled a devout narrator. An author with beastly features--dragging the point of an ink-tipped quill across the old pages of a wide and large saga with a primitive, practiced hand. The pages were bound to black and white leather. He sat upon rolling wheels of glittering fog, other books stacked high above him, below him, and at his level. Scrolls sat beside the stacks or hung from the branches of the trees in the forest he resided in. Each tome held a single story-- of people and creatures, of myths or legends, with some crossing into the narrative of the others. They contained accounts of the past, events still being penned, and near-empty volumes reserved for matters yet to transpire.
This is what that narrator wrote today:
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"Be safe!"
"I will! I'm off, I'm off!"
Thus concluded the last exchange between our pilgrim and the Wicker Druid, and as he leapt through the air and traversed towards the northern clouds, where frigid winds stung his pale face, there were thoughts of gratitude to the guide that showed him much. For the Aspen, Nenar as most knew them, would be remembered fondly by most. A reliable teacher to those who sought guidance in dark days, a friend to those who needed it, and most important of all; family that would be mourned for. The trees were not known to cry, yet I myself observed that the wicker trees in the West shed more leaves than usual. It seems trees too, can grieve.
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The narrator's quill stopped after dotting a period with their ink, the tip of their pen hovering over the next space. Slowly setting the quill aside in an old inkpot, choosing to rest for a moment, something within their ancient soul would not allow them to continue. They were an elderly creature, one who had some difficulty lifting themselves away from the cloud upon which they sat. A staff slowly levitated to their grasp as they walked past their desk to look over the cliff's edge, a stick of incense burning quietly at his side. Time passed until the incense had reduced itself to just ash, and there did the narrator quietly lower their head to a clearing in the valley. What did he see in the forest, where there was a single rotting stump?
New life had began to grow thanks to its nourishment.