Ivern's Dank Adventures

Prologue: Waking up

Disclaimer: I do not own most of the characters in this story nor do i own the beautiful splash art of Ivern, they both rightfully belong to Rito.

The morning rays of light slowly crept through the little, happy patches of leaves and cascaded ever so slightly down the creaking face of the old being. It crinkled its nose in annoyance and merely turned its wooden, long frame onto its side, so as to avoid the light of the rising sun. The leaves, upon seeing this lazy act, whispered between themselves and formed a plan. They played rock, paper and scissors (in their weird, leafy way) and decided that the loser would have to fall down on the sleepyhead in an attempt to wake him up. Billy, being the stupidest leaf, was too dumb to understand the concept of paper and scissors and merely formed a rock everytime (with his weird, leafy hands, in his weird, leafy way). This made him predictable, and eventually, he lost.

Billy was heart-broken. He just got a job at the local, lower tree branch and was going to deliver the needed nutrients to the tree. It wasn't as much of a fascinating job as the work at the higher tree branch, but come on- it was a job nevertheless! He was finally going to get noticed by the leaf of his dreams, maybe get her on a little leafy date and maybe even afford the new Leaf 9000 with the surround speakers and...

Ok. Stop right there. Nobody gives a shit about some dumb leaf (except for our good protagonist) so just continue with the story, you idiot of a writer...

*cough cough* So like i was saying, Billy lost. With a last tearful look of goodbye, he leapt off the tree and, being carried by the wind, landed straight on the stagnant Treant's ear. The half-man, half-tree, still enveloped in his slumber, shakily lifted his long, birchen, yet gentle hand and merely brushed the leaf off, rolled over once again on the comfortable grass beneath him and exhaled a sound of relief.

By now even the small family of Gray Jays was growing impatient. They had settled down on his shoulder two winters ago, near the Boletus mushroom brothers on his neck (the brothers always kept to themselves though, they were a rather discrete pack of mushrooms) and have lived there ever since, occasionally searching the lands for food. Margaret, the mother of the family, knowing just how important the Green Father was to the forest, flew down from her nest to the Treant's belly and began to poke him with her little beak (in her little birdy way) in an attempt to stir him from his sleep.

So far her attempts at waking the lazy-ass were seemingly proving futile. His belly and chest, as well as his back, were entirely made of beech, save from the small patches of oak here and there, so as to protect his most vital parts from danger, as well as the two little bocote twigs that, almost symmetrically, enfolded his abdomen. They protected his belly- the most important part of him. By now the entire forest probably knew the saying: "A hungry Bramblefoot, is an angry Bramblefoot."

Even thought his body proved to be more than helpful and sturdy on numerous, dangerous occasions, it certainly wasn't helpful for Margaret. Try as she might, but she couldn't even make a single dent in his thick layers of wood, at most getting slight groans and huffs from the Green Father. And that is when an idea struck her. When she was a younger bird who was still looking for a mate, and first met the Father, she was awestruck by his tender and graceful, moss buttcheeks. The way they would jiggle and bounce happily to the walking rhythm of the Treant always aroused her for some reason. Now, older and married, she was embarrassed for thinking such things and immediately set off to work.

Flying past his abdomen and to his back, she perched herself on one of the many vines that cascaded down his back. From there she dropped onto one of his buttcheeks and started to jab at his rear. At first there was little to no reaction from the Friend of the Forest, but Margaret was not the one to give up. The bird was always a solid worker and soon after she got into a hefty and systematic routine, the butt was growing weaker. She jumped on, proded, bit and chewed the tender ass and soon it yielded to her relentless assault. At this point, she could hear muffled moans coming from the Green Father, but she showed no signs of stopping, until eventually incoherent words escaped from his still raspy, morning throat. Soon enough, Margaret abrubtly ceased her actions and her face heated up as the words of the almost awakened Treant finally became comprehensible:

"Mmm...those green fingers...oh yeah...that's right Daisy... yeeeah guurl... you know how to pinch back my shrub...oooh"

Every weird story, needs a weird start.