Chapter 4.19: A Fear of Heroes

“Face your fear and receive Gor-Thar’s blessing, Bruq. There is no way back now!”
The satyr has fallen backwards, leaning on one hand behind him and shielding his face with the other.
“Protector of the Echoing Grove.”
The deep voice is accompanied by a cracking sound, like a cut tree slowly breaking and falling. The hulking tree rises above the smoke and towers above its spectators. It looks like the ceiling has disappeared and has taken a formless shape to make way for this manifestation of terror.
They recognise the creature as a treant. They’ve all heard the stories about the ancient souls inhabiting the equally ancient trees. They are described as patient, peaceful and comforting. This treant, however, is the exact opposite.
“You call yourself the ghost of the woods, the shadow of the forest and the blood running through the trees.”
It laughs. Through the shifting fog they can see something that almost looks like a mouth. Dozens of bright lights shine above the maw, crystals that look like eyes, going all around the upper part of the trunk.
“The only ghosts in the woods are those you couldn’t save, hunter!”
It swings one of its thick branches forwards, missing the satyr by just a few hairs.
Bruq looks through his fingers and sees the bright blue shades of his family follow the branch. It’s almost like they were hanged and the tree is swinging their corpses around.
“The only shadow of the forest is the one I cast down on it!”
The treant leans forward. It definitely has eyes, Bruq can see them clearly. Its mouth is nothing else than broken bark. The sharp pieces pointing away from the tree move like teeth when it speaks.
“The only blood running through the trees comes from when I spill it and enrich the ground!”
It pulls its roots from the ground and holds them in front of Bruq’s face. Blood drips from the razor sharp tips.
In a flashback he can’t repress anymore, he sees the corpses of other satyrs on those roots, dangling lifeless or coughing up blood.
“You remember me, don’t you? You fear I’m coming for you. We will meet, hunter. I walk the land of Abaddon, trapping the souls on which I feed over and over.”
“You have to get up, Bruq! You can do this!”
Oslando draws his friend’s attention. Even though it’s only for a second, it’s enough for him to recover.
“You are not real!” Bruq is shouting on the top of lungs. “You can’t hurt me! Not anymore!”
A maniacal laugh almost deafens him.
“I am real, hunter.” The treant shouts. “And now that you’re here, I can hurt you more than ever before!”
Burning leaves float down and heat up the temple. Bruq is sweating everywhere.
“Daemion, what do I do now?” The satyr looks at the priest, desperate and in awe. “How do I complete the trial?”
The branch-like symbol on the demon’s wrist is still glowing. It’s the only source of light besides the raging fire on top of the treant.
“Face your fears! Feed the Father with it!”
Bruq turns towards again to this horror of nature. It’s still laughing and mocking him, but he tried his very best to ignore it.
“You were the nightmare of my bedtime stories.” He would rather whisper than scream, but fears that the Father won’t hear him if he does. “You are a figment of my imagination, an unnatural personification of what I feared as a child. Tree, I am no longer a child and I no longer believe you exist.”
The roots smash the floor. The building shakes on its foundations. The orange flames blast upwards and even more burning pedals rain down.
“I am no figment, hunter!” Its voice thunders even louder, its echo hurts their ears. “You have seen me outside your dreams. You have seen me take lives you loved and you have seen me destroy homes. Tell me, hunter, who do you miss the most? Your father or your little brother?”
The perplexed expression on his face fades. Teeth visible, veins bulging, eyes black: there’s only anger now. He clenches his fists and takes a big step forward.
“You took everything that made the forest pure! The wildlife, my family, my childhood! But you burned down and your blackened corpse was cursed and buried. You will not take anything from anyone ever again! You are dead! You only exist in my mind from this point and I will never let you out!”
The flames disappear. The smoke slowly draws back to where the altar just was. A single root touches Bruq’s cheek, like a parent caressing his child.
“And now I live again.” The treant moves back into the darkness. “Risen by the curse that you thought would be my undoing. In my undeath, I wander the worlds again. I’ll be coming for you, hunter. I hope you live long enough to face me a final time.”
Bruq’s eyes widen.
“This can’t be true”, he stammers. “You lie! Why should I believe anything you say?”
The treant doesn’t answer. His form breaks down into the smoke he now hides in. Only seconds later, the fihyr is the only creature left in front of the statue.
“Well done”, Daemion says.
The demon turns his arm to admire this new marking. Its glow fades: the trial is finished.
“What do you know of this?” Bruq walks over to the priest. “What kind of fortune telling nonsense was this? Was it true?”
The devyryl looks away for a moment. He meets the gaze of the other adventurers. They look dumbstruck, mesmerised, horrified. This ritual has stopped impressing him a long time ago, but he remembers fondly how he felt when completing it. It was dreadful.
“We have stories about the undead treant as well”, he replies. “We call it the Wandering Tree. It’s a being resurrected by forbidden magic. Rumours say a group of heretics claims the souls before the Reapers take them and twist it in diabolical ways, turning the souls into wretched things, almost as rotten as they are. I believe the rumours to be true and I fear, sadly, that the Wandering Tree is out there somewhere.”