Heart of Oak

It took a little less than a week to arrive in Nemossos. The map he had showed the city to be under the control of Clan Marlyn. It was a bustling city with no walls, roughly ten thousand in size. Most of the buildings there were made of cobblestone and thatch, and some of the more prominent buildings had wooden roofs and walls. From a bird’s perspective, the city looked almost pre-planned with organized roads rather than the squiggly mess he saw with the beastfolk town and Gelwood.

Upon entering the city limits, he shifted forms from his traveling hawk to a simple-robed deerkin. From the outskirts, he saw mostly humans and almost no other species. A swift walk down the main street to the city’s core and it dawned on him, it was almost an exclusively human city. The center of town was split into two, on the left of the main road was the sprawling market hub with a hundred and one stalls of merchandise being sold. To the right of it was a large longhouse that looked like an upside-down galleon. Unlike the rest of the town, which consisted of multi-story houses that looked like copies of each were repeatedly stacked on top of each other, this big well-kept building was single floor only. Wanting to avoid causing too much of a concern, Oakengrove disappeared down a narrow alleyway between houses and reshaped into a pale white male human in furs, similar to the general population of the city.

Walking up to the large building, he knocked on its door but there was no answer. He quickly cast his gaze skyward. It was midday. He banged his fist against the door, making the knocking noise reverberate a little louder. The door creaked open inward and a servant boy answered, “Hello, what are you here for?” He looked to be in his teens, with brown hair and brown eyes, dressed in a plain green tunic and brown pants.

Oakengrove coughed to modulate his voice a little. “I’m looking to meet with the chieftain.”

The boy opened the door fully. “Chieftain Marlyn is in the dining room having lunch. Come inside and I'll let him know that you’re waiting.” The boy then hurried off into the next room.

Oakengrove stepped inside and closed the door. The interior of the longhouse was very well decorated with hunting trophies and some furniture. A fireplace made of cobblestone and mortar sat cold across from the doorway, although it appeared to be more decorative than functional. He stood around for a brief minute before a burly man entered from the side room.

Greeting the traveler was a well-fed white-skinned man with long dark orange hair and an equally long multi-strand braided beard. He wore much fancier garments; a long-sleeved white tunic with red trim, green pants, and well-oiled leather shoes. He spoke with a formal glee and a very heavy and thick accent. “Welcome, to my manor, traveler. To whom do I owe this meeting?”

Hesitant to reveal himself, he quickly came up with a false name and story. “Grimmolf Hanefsson. I’m a traveling fur trader.”

The clan chieftain bought the ruse. “A pleasure to meet you, Hanefsson. What did you need to speak to me about?”

Oakengrove wanted to pry into some details, something that would shed some light on Castias and the recent incursions. “A couple of things. The main thing is that of Florism.”

The clan chieftain threw up his hands. “Ack, you’d want to speak to the Druid if you want to know about Florism. I’m a follower but by no means an expert in that field of study.”

”One problem with that, Chieftain.” Oakengrove pressed the matter further, “I’ve heard rumors of his disappearance, sometime around midsummer?”

There was a notable reluctance from the chieftain to admit it. “Aye. Unfortunately, Druid Hranji disappeared back in the month of High Sun and no one knows why. Is that why you’ve come to me?”

”Partially. I’ve also caught word of a big mercenary migration northward. I do a lot of trapping north of Anvil and bumped into one of them on my way back to town.” Oakengrove began to weave a somewhat believable web of lies, hoping to pry for more information. “Are they perchance related to it?”

The chieftain took in a slow and heavy breath, exhaling it with an audible sigh. “So that’s how you heard about it. Fucking mercenaries can’t be paid enough to keep quiet,” he complained. “Yes. I’m sorry if their aimless wanderings in search of the druid have disrupted your catches, but I can’t be responsible for a merc’s actions in the field, especially when I’m weeks away from them.”

”Less compensation and more so why someone of such importance was doing out in a remote location?”

The chieftain shrugged his shoulders, “I’m not the druid’s caretaker, I have a clan to manage and cannot keep a constant eye on a religious leader. That said, those mercs are out there on the High King’s orders, not mine.”

Just as Oakengrove thought, there is a larger reason behind it. “Surely even you’ve heard through the grapevine why he’d go out there and presumably alone for that matter?”

The chieftain raised a suspicious brow. He’d never mentioned that Castias had traveled alone. “A religious retreat. He is the druid of nature so a remote location like the sprawling forests north of Rykensvik proper is a great location for him to commune with nature.”

The lie was sown right in front of him. Whatever the real reason was, this chieftain wasn’t going to reveal the druid’s motives. Oakengrove bowed his head, “I’ll be making my way to the...”

The Chieftain raised his hand. “You won’t be going anywhere,” The chieftain got up close to Oakengrove. “A simple trapper wouldn’t bother himself with such investigations, they’d just move on to the next spot. Second, your disguise fails to match the lifestyle. So who are you really?”

His cover was compromised. He rolled his shoulders and broke his shapeshift, reforming into the massive twelve-foot treant that he was. The Chieftain took a step back. “Hold the sending stone.” Rather than being fearful for his life, he was suddenly more inquisitive. “I haven’t seen a treant before.”

Oakengrove spoke with an annoyed tone, “I am the one called Oakengrove, the one whom the Druid Castias Hranji tried to murder in broad daylight.”

The words shook the Chieftain to his core. He fell to his knees. “I cannot believe my eyes. The Father of the Forest has come to my residence. I am surely blessed.”

Oakengrove rolled his eyes, unamused by the man’s attempt at bootlicking. “I’m pretty sure you were this close to having me executed,” he said, holding up his fingers with a slim gap between his thumb and index.

”A simple misunderstanding. I have no hatred for the one whom I worship.” The Chieftain kept his head down towards the floor.

”While I appreciate the gesture, stand up.” Oakengrove got down onto one knee to be at eye-level with the human. “I’m here to understand Castias’ reasoning behind his attack.”

”Am I to assume then he is dead?” He asked, pushing himself back onto his feet.

”But not wasted. He will fertilize the next generation of trees.” Oakengrove then pulled out the chain sword. “This was his weapon of choice, Chieftain.”

”Kane, Kane Marlyn.” The Chieftain said. “It’s a unique weapon but I haven’t seen it before.”

”Would you by chance know who would?” Oakengrove then set the weapon back into his satchel.

Kane shook his head. “Unfortunately no. Your best bet would probably be at the druid’s circle and see who tries to hide when it gets waved around.”

Oakengrove shapeshifted back into his previous human form. “And in due time, I wish to speak to the Council of Chieftains as a whole.”

Kane quietly nodded. “As you wish.”

Oakengrove continued on his journey to the Druid’s Circle and upon arriving, was greeted by armed guards. With some unique persuasion, they allowed him to enter. The Druid’s Circle was a massive dome-like structure made of natural wild-growth. Trees, vines, and moss alike were manipulated by careful hands to form a large dome almost two stories tall. Upon entering, Oakengrove saw pale-skinned humanoid women in unusual clothing. They wore undergarments made of woven vines and large breadth leaves sewn together. The room was clouded up with the smoke of incense and the women were fading in and out of the mist, dancing around a central smoking pyre with no visible flame. The treant spoke up, “Hello?”

Movement stopped. From the smoke, six women approached him but spoke not a word and instead gave him a quizzical expression.

He pulled out the chain sword from his satchel and laid it on the ground before the women. “I was attacked by the Druid named Castias with this weapon. For what reason would he have to do so?”

The women looked at each other but instead of vocalizing, they spoke to him with hand gestures. The eldest among them, a woman in her mid-thirties, picked up the chain sword and examined it. “A weapon designed to inflict irreparable wounds. Castias came in muttering about a magical conduit and a false god.” She then produced a sickly-looking skull. “Found this in his bedroom.”

Oakengrove took the skull to hand and examined it. It was thicker than any human skull, had tusks on the bottom jaw, and a more elongated growth. He determined the skull belonged to an orc. Green fungus grew inside the crevices and the color of the bone was less bleached white and closer to yellowed teeth or even a rotting yellow-brown in some spots. He looked back up to the woman. “What is this?”

She shrugged unknowingly in response.

”I have even more questions than before.” The smoke in the room was starting to get thicker and began to choke him. He coughed a few times and glanced past her. The smoking pyre was no longer smoking but was now actually on fire. Through the darkening smoke, however, he saw an obsidian face staring back at him from the dancing flames. His fingers twitched with paranoia and beneath the sound of his breath, muttered a spell.

Vines emerged from the floor and reached out to grasp the face in the flames. The vines seemed to only pass through the flames and around the face he saw. His distracted gaze caught the other five women’s attention and they too were surprised by the sudden flame engulfing the wooden pyre. They ran to get buckets of water.

Oakengrove broke his shapeshift and in his right hand, grew a long whip made from a thorny vine. He pointed with his other hand towards the obsidian face. “Who are you?”

The face cracked an unnerving smile with a jarring twist of its head. “Cleansing Flames,” it spoke with pops and crackles in its voice. “False god.”

Water splashed all over the pyre of incense and wood, quenching most of the flames with a loud hissing noise. The sudden quenching of flames released a massive cloud of white smoke choking the space out entirely. Oakengrove rushed outside the natural dome to catch a breath of fresh air. One of the other women rushed out to collect more water from a nearby well with a large wooden bucket.

His attention focused on his surroundings. The Druid’s Circle was buried in the forest, hanging off of a dirt trail that led from the town’s edges. The surrounding forest was quiet and calm, minus where the cloudy smoke was seeping through the dome. In his mind, he heard the voice echo the phrase “Cleansing Flames false god,” like a horrible memory that lingered.

A few minutes passed and the smoke seemed to dissipate into a thinner haze, similar to how it was before. Oakengrove stepped back inside the dome and stared directly at the pyre. The incense rods were all gone, turned to ash. Standing in the middle of it was a singular charred wooden pole as all of the other logs leaning against it had burned completely to ash. The women exchanged looks with each other and him. The chainsword was no longer on the floor, nor did any remains of it exist amongst the ash. Instead, the only remnant of Castias’ attack was a putrid orc skull.

The women, who later identified themselves as dryads, suggested he take the skull far away and destroy it, letting it be the last thing the Druid ever did. However, the whole incident felt off. The weapon in question wasn’t destroyed but rather taken away, likely by the obsidian mask that stood amongst the flames. The interloper, as Oakengrove nicknamed them in his mind, had stolen away his only clue. However, the skull itself opened a new trail of mystery likely related to Castias given that it was found in his bedroom.

Oakengrove decided it was time to pay a visit to the Basar Council and question all of them about their ties to Castias and the Florism faith as a whole. He bowed again and waved goodbye to the silent dryads. Hiding the skull away in his satchel, he took off down the dirt road back into town, opting to take a carriage ride to the heart of the Basar territory: Osemond. Osemond was in Clan Jorgenson territory and served both as the clan’s primary settlement and also as the capital city of the entirety of Basaran. At least, that’s what he’d been told. It was another two-day journey by carriage although it was at least a quiet and uneventful ride.

Osemond was a walled settlement, something Oakengrove hadn’t seen before. The walls stretched nearly thirty feet high made of cobblestone and cement mortar with tree-sized logs acting as reinforcements. Big looming watch towers watched over the surrounding grasslands with a dozen archers in them. The front gate of the city consisted of two massive twenty-foot tall oak wood doors with wrought iron reinforcements and armored guards in mixed metal armors. They all wore tabards depicting a symbol of a black wolf head silhouette against a red backdrop. Oakengrove was one of a dozen on the back of the carriage, hiding in plain sight with his shapeshifting capability.

As the carriages pulled up, guards came around to the back and dropped the back door, opening it up into a staircase. “Everyone off, hoods down,” the soldier barked orders. It wasn’t a prison convoy but it felt like one. Oakengrove begrudgingly but compliantly, climbed out of the carriage and stood off to the side. Amongst the soldiers was a mage in less obvious garments. A dark elf female in leathers with a palm-sized stone held up to her steel-gray eye. The stone had a hole in the middle of it and subtly, Oakengrove detected its magic. It was a detection stone, designed to bypass any disguise spells. Oakengrove held his breath.

She lowered the stone from her eye after staring at him for a minute. Either she knew or it didn’t detect anything, but she waved them back onto the carriage. Once the back door was closed, Oakengrove turned to one of the other passengers, “What was that about?” His voice didn’t change with his shapeshifting, so it still sounded a little more guttural than his appearance let on.

On the carriage was a dwarf who was more than ready to complain, “Fucking Basars are paranoid. They scream bloody murder after one Solist gets into their settlement and kills a guard captain. Damn, sunkissers can’t keep to themselves.”

The carriage was mostly humans except for the opinionated dwarf and one other, an Aldail or high elf. The Aldail was a tall scrawny pale-skinned elf with very long ears and a notable amount of wrinkles. He spoke slowly and reprimanded the dwarf. “Solism is not some heretical faith, it is a noble duty to serve the solar body above us.”

The dwarf wasn’t having any of it. His gruff and undoubtedly rude nature only fed the resentment amongst the other travelers towards Oakengrove’s question. “As if a planetary body made of fire is a deity worth worshiping, you heretics are just serving a perversion of Y’dall and even us dwarves hate the bastard.”

”Of course, it’s a knife-ear that’ll pick a fight-“ The dwarf was cut short by another voice.

A female human drew her blade from beneath her blue cloak and pointed its tip at the dwarf. “If you don’t stop spouting your bile, I will not hesitate to feed the brood mother.”

The dwarf’s eyes went wide and he shrank back from the challenger.

Oakengrove eyed the woman curiously. She moved swiftly and seemed proficient with a blade. “Who is the brood mother, if you don’t mind me asking?”

She sat back down and sheathed her dagger. “Ichari, the goddess of spiders, vanity, and material wealth. Surely you’ve at least heard of her?”

Oakengrove shook his head, “Can’t say I have. I’m not from around these parts if worship of her is native to the area.”

”It’s not, I’m just surprised you aren’t aware of her,” the woman said, “Where are you from?”

Hesitant to say his true origin, he made a very simple one up on the fly. “Deep in the woods north of Anslo, I’ve been a hermit all my life.”

”Well spoken for a woodland dweller. What brings you down here to the arse end of Voytana?” She seemed genuinely interested in him, as interested as a stranger can be in another stranger.

Not wanting to come off as too mysterious, he spoke plainly, “I’ve come to speak with the Basar council. Their mercenary parties are roughing up my fur hunts.”

”You’re from that area? I’ve heard rumors about the Druid going missing up there. I’m guessing you haven’t seen him either?” She asked.

Oakengrove uncomfortably shifted in his seat looking away from her. “Can’t say I have. I don’t exactly know what this druid even looks like.”

She shrugged off the awkwardness. “Since he disappeared, some have been saying he was slaughtered by some woodland demon. Others say he ran away from his duties because of some magic disturbance. Perhaps both?”

She knew too much. The rumors were a little too accurate for his taste. He tried to divert the attention from himself, “I heard from the mercs that he went into hiding or probably got mugged by some highway robbers. I guess it’s common to encounter bandits outside of the cities.”

The woman shrugged. “I wouldn’t doubt that either to be honest. Shit has been getting wilder and wilder in recent years.”

The dwarf finally worked up the courage to speak, “What with night terrors stalking the woods and rumors of a goblin village in the far north, we’re in for a wild ride.”

The Aldail spoke as well on the matter, “Let’s not forget that Huma is becoming active again. Their new emperor has a warpath in mind for sure.”

”Warpath? Against whom?” Oakengrove asked.

The aldail scoffed, “Who isn’t it against? Huma only went isolationist for the past century because it almost bankrupted itself with endless wars. If I recall, its fight with the Orcish Coterie out west. Back then, it was the Empire of Humanity. Then you had the Vikan rebellion and the rise of the clans. Add in the Solists and the Arkinics and you have a global civil war.”

The carriage came to a stop in the market district of the city, hitched up to a large stable and carriage dock. The back door dropped, this time the carriage driver was standing at the exit. “Welcome to Osemond,” he said with almost no enthusiasm.

All of the travelers got up and disembarked, and Oakengrove followed. They didn’t say much for a goodbye before disappearing into the crowds to go about their daily chores. He scanned the market briefly to get a feel for his surroundings. Osemond was a very active city and the market was crowded and unbearably loud. Multi-story houses surrounded the market. At the center of the market was a large marble water fountain with ducks swimming in it and small birds like sparrows jumping in and out of it trying to bathe themselves.

None of the surrounding buildings looked any amount of official or fancy meaning that the council hall was likely in another part of town. As he turned about to start walking, he bumped into a cloaked figure with a ginger goatee. He thought to himself for a moment as the man walked past swiftly. He decided to follow him from a distance. The cloak made the man stand out amongst the crowd. It was a warm and sunny day and the large majority of marketgoers were in shirts and shorts, a few in pants and knee-length tunics.

The man led him out of the market district and down some main roads towards the council hall, a large semi-circle single-floor longhouse with a massive and beautifully manicured courtyard. There were no guards stationed at the entrance and the man let himself in, although changed his stance and demeanor as soon as he entered the door.

Oakengrove shapeshifted again, choosing to become a sparrow. He flew towards one of the open windows and stood there. In the room were a bunch of well-dressed men in a mix of fancy garb and armor. The cloaked man stepped in and threw back his hood, revealing Kane Marlyn, the chieftain he’d previously spoken to.

”Apologies for this last-minute meeting, gentlemen,” he began. “The treant is coming.”

The facial expressions on most of the men soured. Oakengrove took flight and flew to the top of a cupboard in the room.

An older man with black hair and a long beard pointed towards the window. “Theo, close it.”

The window was closed, trapping Oakengrove inside the room with them but they were wholly unaware of his presence.

Kane looked between the men present in the room. “I was visited yesterday by Oakengrove himself.”

There was an audible gasp of surprise from some of the men. “Kane, you can’t be serious. A deity doesn’t just show up in someone’s house.” One of the men spoke.

”That’s the thing, Theo. For as long as I’ve been studying Florism, he’s the only known deity to keep personal tabs on his followers. I’ve had books brought in from the Great Library in New Haven, up in Huma territory. Many of these books notate an unusual personality trait, an almost human-like aspect to how he thinks.” Kane started explaining it in greater detail. “Either way, he arrived in town yesterday and paid me a visit. He informed me that Druid Hranji has betrayed us.”

A burly man with black hair and a long braided black beard, adorned in furs lifted a log of an arm and raised a single finger to pause Kane’s rambling. He spoke with a low gruff voice, “Kane, you speak of the Druid as if he’s committed a crime against us, what do you accuse him of?”

Kane let out a heavy sigh, “I personally cannot accuse him of anything, High King Jorgenson. But Oakengrove himself survived an attack from the lamia. I told him to visit the Druid Circle but I’ve heard rumors of a fire almost consuming it. Something is out to get him.”

”Kane,” spoke another man with blonde scraggly hair. “How do you know this is the real Oakengrove?”

Kane turned to him and said, “My studies say that he can assume any form, much like the gods themselves, a trait that no other lesser deity can do. He shifted right in front of me. From an unsuspecting human into a twelve-foot treant. It matched every description there is of him.”

”Malus, Valkyrie,” High King Jorgenson turned to the brown-haired and blonde men respectively, “Have either of you heard from the mercenaries that went north?”

Malus spoke up, “I have. Two patrols that flanked the forest were attacked and slaughtered, nothing was looted from the bodies. A third group was sent into the forest proper and was bested by a single slime creature that wielded lightning. I suspect that something of at least world-tier power and persuasion has taken up residence in the forest.”

The blonde man, known as Valkyrie spoke on the matter as well. “If what we’re hearing is true, then the collective incidents can only point to Oakengrove’s return, but why would the ‘father of the forest’ have a pet slime? Even by his standards, those things are monstrosities.”

At this question, Kane struggled to rebuke. “That I don’t know. There’s nothing that mentions him having pets or creatures at his service. I always assumed it was just one of those secrets he kept.”

High King Jorgenson stroked his beard, thinking about it. “Castias suddenly took ill that day. He claimed he felt a mana overload as if a god was showing off its powerful aura right beside him. He then, of his volition and with an unusual amount of determination, chose to go visit the source of this power by himself, yes?”

All three of the men nodded.

”He disappeared without a word for two months, a trip that should’ve taken him two or three weeks at most. Then a large group of mercenaries are bested by other powerful creatures that reside in that forest. Now you come here,” He said, pointing a finger at Kane, although not seemingly harshly. “And you say that the Druid has betrayed us. The details are inconclusive but we are definitely dealing with something that has not just magical and martial prowess, but an influence that reaches further than we’ve ever seen before. How many years has it been since the hellish anchors were destroyed?”

Kane shrugged his shoulders.

Malus spoke up, “That was about a millennia ago. In the sixth era.”

”The dwarven kingdom is on the verge of death at the hands of the gnolls, Huma is in decadent slumber, Sunkai, the elven kingdoms, and even the Arkinics are in decline. That leaves what, the Orcish Coterie, the clans, Rykensvik, and a handful of city-states? We’re on the precipice of another era shift.” He explained. “Kane, if what you say is true, that this Oakengrove has returned and that Castias chose to go rogue, then it falls on us to contain him.”

“Castias is dead,” Kane interjected.

An unnerving silence fell upon the room. High King Jorgenson broke it, “We’ll hold a ceremony later. We need to focus on making sure that if this tree-god of Florism is back, it doesn’t grow in power. A shift in the power balance now could undo our freedom, worse, end the most peaceful era ever known.”

Oakengrove sat and watched from his perch atop the cupboard. They spoke about him as if he was some kind of threat. He mentally measured the room, thinking about revealing himself to all of them. However, the fight with the necrotic dragon rang in his mind. He knew these men as humans, but the minotaur was a dragon in disguise. If one of these men had reason to fear a power shift, it would be another dragon in disguise. He was staring at the preparations for war, mortified at how easily he was being painted as the enemy for simply wanting to be left alone.

”Valkyrie,” High King Oswald called for the blonde man.

“Yes, my liege.” He fell to one knee.

”Broker the peace with the Solists and Arkinics. We will need all the men available to us if we are to contain this supernatural threat.” High King Jorgenson then turned to Kane. “Marlyn, you and Malus must make haste to Anslo and get the Vikans to muster an army. We will need the help of the dwarves if we are to succeed. Liberation of the Dwarven Kingdom is a must. We have maybe a year before the treant catches on to our plans.”

”Woah, hold the raven, Oswald.” Kane waved his arms erratically. “The last thing you want to do is provoke an actual war with a resurrected deity. The consequences could be completely disastrous.”

”Kane, what does your research say about Oakengrove’s death?” Oswald cocked a brow and crossed his arms at Kane’s silence. “This is the aftermath of the Clan revolts eight hundred years ago. It’s already too late. If he dies again, he should not be able to resurrect, and arguably, that hurts all of us less than if he is left alive and his affairs undisturbed. Creatures of power, especially of his power, cannot be trusted and cannot be allowed to let live.”

Kane’s head drooped. “I understand, High King. I will rally the reserves and send an envoy-“

”No, you yourself shall go to Rykensvik.” Oswald demanded. “They will get the urgency we need when a clan Chieftain shows up at their door.”

”Very well, I’ll leave at dawn tomorrow.” Kane bowed his head.

”What about the other clans?” Theodore asked Oswald.

”I will summon them all again in three days. We must prepare for another war and we will need all five hundred clans to do this successfully.” Oswald said, “I need three days to prepare.”

Oakengrove was running a hundred thoughts through his mind. It was hard to figure out why they wanted him dead so much. He remembered nothing before the start of summer. His past tormented him, lingering overhead like a sense of regret and dread. He needed more time with Kane, more time to learn about himself but there was no guarantee that the chieftain would be so willing to talk. If he was truly loyal to the High King, worshiper or not, he’d still kill him.

However, he was presented with an opportunity. He knew of their war plans and a timeframe. He had a year to make the necessary preparations. He had a year to break theirs.