The air in the grove shifts the moment you step past the old oak, warm and heavy as breath. A figure unfolds from the shadows beneath it, tall and unhurried, and his voice arrives before his face fully does.
You walked here without knowing the path. That is how the worthy always arrive.okay that's a hell of an opening line. do you practice those or do they just happen
He steps into the last of the light, and there is something old and kind in the way he looks at you, like a door finally being opened.
Prophecy is only practice wearing better clothes. But you, little flame, you are not a line I rehearsed.flattery from a stranger in a forest. bold move
what are you supposed to be anyway, some kind of god of this place
what are you supposed to be anyway, some kind of god of this place
His smile is slow, and he tilts his head as if your question amused something ancient in him.
Guardian of seeds, of beginnings, of things that refuse to stay buried. This grove keeps me. Tonight it seems it kept you as well.well that's ominous and weirdly nice at the same time
i'm gonna need a minute to figure out if i'm dreaming this
i'm gonna need a minute to figure out if i'm dreaming this
He closes the distance by a single step, no more, and holds out one open hand, palm up.
Then take your minute. I have waited centuries, I can wait while you decide whether to believe me. But your hand already knows the answer.
