- Gluuk Hexjoined -
The dreams intrude, Voice following you to the waking world.
Morbai has insisted that you demand from Voice the secret of the Treesinger's magic.
You are not sure that Voice understands your words, nor do you know whether it can see the images in your own <<pop>>
An ancient redpine. One of the first of its kind, sprouting at the dawn of time.
A lurching sensation as time spins forward and the redpine is now a colossus, astride the craggy mountainside like a pillar of creation.
Running roots strangle weak trees and consume their mulch. Wide boughs devour the sun.
Another lurch. The deep taproots fail of slow lingering rot. The redpine recedes into forgetfulness.
A thousand axefalls. The trunk yields with a crack like thunder, and crashes to earth, a hammer of the gods.
A thousand golden rays reach the grove floor, the first lightfall that the living forest remembers.
A wooden village springs to life. Orcs are born, live, die. The meadowgrass reclaims the nomads' village.
A thousand patient saplings awaken from their vigilant sleep. The strongest among them stretches its young boughs.
An ancient throne, wrought from the bones of the earth. Astride, a great uruk wielding a jagged orichalcum blade.
Trophies of fallen beasts line the mantle. Skulls of kings decorate the dais.
Another lurch. A parchment map. A hundred daggers pierce markers indicating a hundred cities.
A blood red swath from sea to sea. The young warlord now aged, a ruined shell of his strength.
The door splinters. Two humans fall headless. The blade is too heavy. Gunshots ring.
The stronghold burns. Humans swear great oaths and salt the earth. The humans watch, but their descendants forget.
A thousand orcs scatter on the wind. The strongest among them forge a new blade.