The Tale of an Ex-Leper (WoS lMT Jyg 30)

[Ssinith DIllil]

It is amazing what happens when people use their sense of smell.

One could not miss his stench due to the lack of trees and precious wildlife giving fresh air. Some habits died hard, including not bathing for fear of contaminating water sources. His form was hunched over at the edge where the catastrophe ended and barely spared what was now the "life-filled" outskirts of the Weald. His toenails were long like talons, and some would dare to venture formed to act as such.

Sadly, he no longer had a full nose as the tip of it was decayed to the plague he once had. His clothes were various hides and clothes made from natural resources or tokens of appreciation from travelers he had assisted. The hood of his cloak his his face, but his mane of various dreadlocks and twine left trails behind him and at his side as he was hunched over.

His staff at his side had seen age and wear as he examined the soil, trying to ponder once more how to restore it. His power alone as a child of the Mother would not be able to restore life.

One of his stray cockroach brothers crawled onto his arm as he examined the soil. Turning to his 'brother' the cracked hand of the strange hermit inspected the soil once again in months.

"A place even you can not live, I am sure. Rich with filth... and pray, how might one extract this filth as one would extract venom from the asp's bite?"

Metaphorically speaking, of course. He knew the cockroach would never have an answer to that. Cockroaches could live in many poisonous conditions to survive. Extracting poison would never be their specialty when they had no need.

He had tried digging deep to find fresh soil inside the tainted part, but to no avail. Surely if a part stopped here with nature which was somewhat intact on the other side, there might be a place there the taint ended enough for soil to have some life.

A new plan, and a new day as he walked along to try and contact nature in the ground. He poked his staff into the hard soil every now and then to attempt to find that pause in the accursed soil.

[Vanadius]

A lone figure stood and watched as the "Verminlord" inspected the soil in the great southern Weald. He wore a rough spun tunic of green, simply cut and leggings of a even more unadorned brown. His feet were covered in low boots, almost slippers, and he bore no weapons, save a poniard at his waist. He had no equipment, or belongings with him, so his nimble hands were empty, and he was completely unencumbered, as if he were merely taking a stroll near his home, and had not thought he would be out long enough to need anything.

His eyes were a deep violet color, like the sunset or the dawn, and his angular features showed wisdom and age, but still a measure of virility and strength. His hair was like a silver mane, and wisps of it caught and floated in the gentle breeze as he watched and waited.

There were few that knew that he even existed, and even fewer who ever knew his name. Yet he pushed his name out on one of the breezes towards the "Verminlord", just to see if he could hear it.

~~~

Gaichel's staff reverberated in his hand with an echo of something powerful and deep within the land. The wood trembled and shuddered in his fist as it recoiled and a blast of wind nearly knocked him off his feet. The very earth quaked and rocked under him for a flicker, and all grew still and quiet once more.

Voices and whispers came floating to him from all directions and snippets of language came to his ears in broken and shattered fragments.

"...Lost..." one said. "...I'm afraid..." Said another.

"...So alone..."

The nearly unintelligible whispers continued to swirl and confound.

...Defeated... ... the fire... ...What about...

...To the river...

The whispers fell silent, leaving only Gaichel and the silver haired Adhiel standing amidst the ash and cinders. At the toe of of one of his feet, a green sprout poked up through the destruction, and showed a sign of life.

[Ssinith DIllil]

He almost fell to his knees at the quake as he rested his hand on the ground. Looking up to the sky with his sharp green eyes, he looked around as the voices echoed through his mind. At the mention of the fire, he realized that there must have been some fragmented nature left around the area.

"W... where are you?!"

He started digging through the soil, trying to find some fresh, as if rescuing someone who was buried in an avalanche or a collapsed house it was not until he saw the spout that his eyes widened and he shifted his position. Pressing his long talons to his lips in awe and wonder, he watched his step as if he was walking on eggs and stared at the small spout with tears welling in his eyes.

"This giant scab is healing?! ... Oh... Mother dearest! ... I'll find the rest of you, I promise!"

He looked at the sprout, constantly looking down to make certain he wasn't stepping on any others. He wanted to see what sort of sprout this was who was brave and strong enough to see the surface of this wasteland. He wanted to almost hug the little thing, his hand going back and forth debating about transplanting it elsewhere before his hand merely kept away from the spout to examine it with his eyes. As he leaned over, several of his dreads fell to the ground, revealing bone trinkets from animals he considered 'old friends' who had long since passed.

"Oh, little one! I have been looking for you for months!"