For the next few days, on into her second week in Garrett's custody, Gwenevere dedicated herself to the art of picking locks. She opened every door, chest, and cabinet she could find, until her fingers were raw and red from her efforts. Blisters and callouses began to develop upon her once flawless fingers, her nails chipped and worn down to the quick in some places. But if the young woman had learned anything over the course of her short, yet harrowing life, it was that physical pain, was often temporary. It was the emotional suffering, which one had to be cautious of.
Upon an otherwise uneventful afternoon, Garrett left to collect some information from Basso, leaving his boisterous ward in charge of the clocktower. Dedicated and eager, Gwenevere took the opportunity to explore, and hopefully, discover more locks to pick. The elevator jangled and protested as she rode it down into the forgotten bowels of that place. It made her heart race, and for a moment, she was certain the entire lift would plummet her into the abyss. But the Hammerites lived up to their ingenuity, and despite the metallic groans and worrying jerks which accompanied her decent, Gwenevere made it safely down into the depths of the clocktower.
The aspiring vigilante did indeed find much to do down there. Dust and cobwebs had overtaken much of the lower levels, and many of the once sophisticated mechanisms were water-logged and ruined. Because of the baron's decree, the means of repairing and restoring the clocktower were nonexistent. Thus, standing water from rainstorms long since passed had corroded much of the tower's impressive organs beyond repair.
She waved hello to a foraging rat, as the creature stopped to clean its whiskers atop a rather large machine. A faded metal plaque reading, COAL DISPENSER, hung precariously from loose, rusty screws. Another plaque, this one reading, FOREMAN'S OFFICE, hung to her left. Gwenevere ventured into the forgotten area, only to discover a series of moldy volumes littering the remains of a decaying wooden bookcase. Those she could still read were squishy in her hands, their pages turning to mush when she attempted to turn them. The entire area smelled of very old stone, and wet dog.
Using her trusty new lockpicks, Gwenevere sprung the door at the far end of the room. But unlike the others before it, this door bore extra locks and chains around its handle. A part of her began to wonder why Garrett kept these doors locked to begin with. Surely he'd been down here before? So what lurked beyond these sealed passages, and why did he want her to discover it? Was it some sort of test, or another mindless errand meant to keep her exuberant mind occupied? Gwenevere felt herself shrug as she started through the liberated doorway. There was only one way to find out.
"Oh wow..." she heard herself gasp, as she entered this new hallway.
Though it was impossible to tell how or when, it became instantly apparent that a great explosion had once taken place. Everyone, from the most influential noble, right down to the most ludicrous fool, had heard the stories. Of how the magnificent clocktower of Stonemart, had simply fallen over one night, fifteen years ago. Since then, the Hammerites had endeavored to both rebuild their cherished monument, and to bring the miscreant responsible to justice. After all, clocktowers don't just collapse on their own. Sabotage, although never proven, was the most widely accepted theory regarding the tower's destruction.
Fortunately, very few onlookers were hurt by its collapse, and none had been killed. But the same could not be said for those unfortunate Hammerites who'd dedicated their very souls to maintaining the impressive structure. The worst carnage occurred in the control room, the deepest part of the tower. And Gwenevere, was now gazing at the remains of that tragedy.
The Hammers had done a fantastic job of restoring the obliterated core back to its former glory. Surveying the area beneath her, Gwenevere couldn't see any evidence of the past disaster. The entire area, had an air of stoic peace about it. But it was the tall, dignified pewter tombs that caught her eye, and a tear of bereaved lament soon followed. Before the baron's detested decree, before their banishment from this place, the Hammerites had constructed a memorial for their fallen brethren.
Now, as her verdant eyes took in the profoundness of it all, Gwenevere too found herself wondering just who could have been responsible for this terrible tragedy.
But something glinting within her peripheral vision distracted her mind from such morose speculations. Slowly, she turned her head and glanced down the opposite hallway. There, situated atop a moldy alter, sat a familiar sword.
Gwenevere's eyes narrowed at the sight, crestfallen woe warping into a chilling sensation of unease, as she made her way towards the weapon with reluctant, heavy steps. As she reached it, a most horrible sensation of dread swept over her. Gwenevere felt her heart leap into her throat, as her eyes confirmed that this was indeed, her father's stolen relic. It was ironic-blasphemous even-to see that odious blade atop a Hammerite alter.
She plucked up the sword, feeling as its weight pulled at every sinew and tendon in her arm. It was heavy, cold and cruel within her tiny hands. Gwenevere was no warrior. Truth be told, this was the first time she'd ever so much as held a weapon of any kind. But the sword, was a long-lost, and cherished family possession. Somehow, she had to return it to its rightful owners. The girl creature shuddered. Doing so, would indeed be dangerous.
She had no intention of going back to that mystical place so soon, even though it called out to her every day. Pleading for her to return. Her green eyes glistened in the musty darkness, as she eyed the sleek black sword. Now, at the very least, she had an excuse.
But something still troubled the girl, lingering at the back of her mind like a sinister pair of hungry eyes. Why was her father's sword here of all places? The Hammerites would have recognized it, surely. Cleansed away its perceived wickedness with holy water, before melting it into nothingness with fire and forge. There wasn't any conceivable excuse for the weapon's survival within this place. No divine templar of the red cloth would wittingly keep such a malevolent relic.
A chill, raced down Gwenevere's spine, before being burned away by feverous rage. That was, unless the person who found it was a heretic. A thief. The thief, who had been occupying this tower for years. The runaway ground her teeth, as the realization finally dawned on her.
"That night...it was you who took it..."
The warm tickles of enchanted sunbeams danced and played upon her cheeks, as Gwenevere looked up through the verdant green treetops, and smiled to herself. She had always adored the spring portion of the Maw, because it granted her a solace not found anywhere else. Though the frigid gales of impending winter howled, the world dismal and frostbitten, this place remained forever green. Forever warm, and joyful. It had been many years, since last she'd come to this place seeking refuge. Few cityheads dared travel this far into the woods, and even fewer survived the trek. But this place was no more dangerous to Gwenevere, than a placid meadow of poppies.
However, even the serenity of this magical woodland world could not keep the remorse and heartbreak from the child's mind. It had been fifteen years now, since she'd left this place. Not of her own volition, but rather the wicked promises of man's lying tongue, and the cruel iron chains that bound her still. Ever since then, there was no nature, no song. No warmth of bonfires, nor raucous and familiar bouts of song that always lasted long into the night. Even now, the forest was still, demure. The Pagans, were hiding. But to what end, the girl could not decipher.
Trembles found her hands, as Gwenevere gripped her father's blade tighter. How would they respond, when at last they saw her again? The girl creature had long ago come to the disquieting conclusion, that they must have proclaimed her dead. If not, then what had the woodsie folk made of her disappearance? After all, she was but a child when Lord Simmons had spirited her from this place.
Gwenevere ran her hand over the cool moss of a decomposing log. The forest had healed beautifully since that horrible night. An outsider would never have suspected the bloody terrors which had overwhelmed this place more than a decade before. Screams of both animal and man, rock and tree. Distorted mineral, shaped and corrupted to destroy the very earth which had first given it life.
The canopy above shifted, sending a flurry of petals down into Gwenevere's ruby tresses, as she continued her stroll. Birds and small rodents darted amidst the shadows of the brush, picking at berries and fretting over their colorful plumage and coats. Their chatters and chirps resounded throughout the lower half of the spring village, filling the ligneous greensie kingdom with song. But all creatures fell silent, when they spotted the estranged girl making her way ever forward upon placid toes. When she at last reached the mouth of an ancient spring, Gwenevere too began to startle. Breath caught in her throat, while something akin to dread began to creep up her spine like nocturnal insects. Bracing herself for the unspeakable, the girl clutched her father's sword tighter against her chest, and turned around.
What stood hulking yet hunched before her, was neither man nor beast. But rather, ligneous in nature. Twisted roots, near black in coloration made up most of its frightening frame, thorns curling over ligaments and branches darting outward like sinister claws. It leaned towards her, its body creaking and groaning beneath the heavy bulk of boughs and roots. Beneath a tangled mass of rotted moss and cobwebs, Gwenevere could see two eyes gleaming a vibrant yellow in the shadow of the tall trees. Though logic demanded otherwise, recognition prevailed. For the young woman did not fear this creature. His kind were a warm and reassuring sight, like relatives from afar who were seldom seen, but always anticipated. Reaching forward without hesitation, Gwenevere touched one of the great wooden horns jutting skyward from the earthen nightmare's head. And slowly, its eyes began to close.
"Elder Treebeast...I have returned," she whispered, as the tears filled her eyes.
Time slowed to a stagnant crawl, as the sentient tree opened its menacing eyes and faced her. There was something horrific and ancient within that sickly saffron light. Gwenevere felt petrified, wooden herself in lieu of what she was witnessing. Before her, stood a creature older than the City itself, or any of the other great marvels the Hammerites held claim to. This was a creature who had seen much death, and even more destruction. He had been there during the first cataclysm, fought alongside her ancestors as they slaughtered their sanguine-clad enemies. And now, he stood before her, wrought with a sensation of utmost betrayal and heartache. Only four guttural words echoed beneath the gnarled mass of branches and vines, but they caused the girl before him much unrest.
"No. You have not."
Gwenevere recoiled from the treebeast, her father's blade beginning to rattle against her chest in response to her constant shaking. She knew what this ancient sentinel meant, and she regretted that he was correct. How long, must they have been waiting, only to watch as she chose manfools over the Vine?
"That is to say, I have come to return father's sword to the people," Gwenevere corrected her previous statement. The treebeast made a strange gurgle within his chest, the sound reminiscent of growing roots crumbling stone. Silence permeated the forest for a moment, as the creature pondered what should be done next.
In truth, he hadn't expected her to return at all, and certainly not like this. Fifteen years, she'd been missing from this paradise, and the consequences of living amongst the disbelievers, was staggering indeed. Already, she had learned to lie, and far better than any of her kind before. They were allowed to lie, even encouraged to do so. But always in service of the Vine, in service to him. Never, directly to the forest. What was worse, the child apparently had no plans of even returning to this place.
The treebeast groaned again-a loud, resounding outcry, before looking Gwenevere over. The luster of the Woodsie was still luminous within her eyes. Within her soul. In time, perhaps, he could convince the child to reevaluate her ambitions.
Feeling nervous by this tension, Gwenevere proceeded to offer the blade to the creature.
"H-here...go ahead and take it back to them. I know your kind guards them, and protects my mother's temple. M-maybe you could put it in there? I think she would want that..."
Again, a twinge of optimism prickled at the treebeast's timber heart. If she still aspired to fulfill her mother's wishes, if the legacy she held within her quaking arms still posed value to her, then perhaps...
Wood creaked, as the guardian of the forest lumbered towards her upon heavy, root-like limbs. His form was more menacing beneath the shadows of the ancient trees, many of them his distant ancestors. But unlike they, he had been given sentience through the Woodsie Lord, a purpose beyond that which his leafy brethren could ever understand in their mindset of perpetual silence. Thin brown tendons extended from the treebeast's fearsome boughs, and took up the macabre ebony blade. Gwenevere's eyes widened in stunned surprise, as he pressed the hilt against her palm, before closing her fingers around the base with genuine candor. She stared upwards at him, true confusion evident within her frightful and innocent features. But the great beast, merely smiled.
"Keep it close, and learn to wield it," he ordered. "There is a great deal more power within that blade than you realize. In time, it may come to do more good outside the forest than within. And the same holds true for you, young seed."
"W-what?" Gwenevere shuddered.
The beast's great bulk heaved and creaked, as he contorted himself forward. Leaning his great head down, until it was level with her own. So large and formidable was he, that his mighty horns could have impaled her without a moment's difficulty. Thankfully, the treebeast's only intentions for this girl, were benevolent. For this was his instructed duty. The very reason for his creation.
"Though I do not yet understand why you choose to remain within that Hammerite graveyard, I can see that your intentions are pure. Your heart longs for retribution, though not through blood or murder. There is something clever about you, child."
Gwenevere blushed.
"Gee, thanks," she shrugged her shoulder, brushing a strand of ruby hair from her eyes. "Nobody's ever called me that before. Most people think I'm stupid-or worse."
"Manfools often mistake that which they cannot understand as dangerous, or foolish. This has been so, since the dawn of time," the treebeast clarified. "But we, are not so easily tricked by outward appearances or pretty words, child. I see what you really are. Who, you really are. A creature born of chaos and tree, you alone choose what to be."
"W-whatever do you mean?" Gwenevere crooked her head. "Why are you rhyming?"
"There are a myriad of crossroads and paths in this lifetime, and answers are such precarious things. Rarely easy, and often difficult to discover. But I encourage you to hunt for them, young seed. Take the lonesome path into the abyss, child. For it is only through our determination, or desperation, that we discover life's most well-guarded answers. And when at last you have reached your decision, I will honor it."
In all honesty, Gwenevere was awestruck. It hadn't been the treebeast's imposing size, or formidable appearance which unnerved her, but rather, his chilling composure. The elder beast knew full well who she was, yet he courted her interest in returning to the city with optimum decorum. But the green-eyed maiden was not oblivious to the dire situation here, however. Even as she stood there beneath that lush canopy, Gwenevere could sense that the forest was suffering.
She could smell the stench of terror and rot all around her, like a noxious vapor, rising from a foundry smokestack. The Pagans, needed her. The Woodsie itself, cried out in muffled whimpers for her return. Yet the stoic ancient before her, gave the girl creature's own desires precedence. But whether this was out of respect or obligation, she could not say.
"Know this, elder spirit: I have not forgotten what I am, or where I come from. And I promise you, I never will," Gwenevere clarified, her tone meek yet somehow adamant. "I may yet return to this place one day. But right now, there are still things in the city that I need to do."
Her fair response seemed to placate the creature.
"Then I shall pray for a satisfactory conclusion. One, that shall benefit both our causes," he affirmed. "Now come. You should see your mother's magnum opus while you're here."
Shimmering like a beacon through the silver leaves, stood the decaying remains of an old Pagan temple. Gwenevere stared up at the enormous moss-covered ruin, completely breathless. She remembered the structure as being quite large, but that had been so many years ago. Standing now beneath the majestic dwelling, the young woman could now see that it was monolithic. Its coal-black sandstone design was illuminated by the gentle sunlight, while thick beds of moss and ivy tactfully went about preserving the sacred monument. Gwenevere pressed her hands against the large stone doors, smiling at how cool and comforting they felt. Behind her, sauntered the elder treebeast.
"Forgive me, greensie seed," he apologized, his ligneous body moaning under pressures both physical and metaphorical, "this place will be in a state of chaos upon your entry. None has come here, since the night your mother died."
Gwenevere offered nothing in response, save for a shrill and hitched little sob which she suspected only she could hear. Pain and lament flooded his sappy innards, as the creature watched her frail hand falter, sliding down the door like that of a lifeless cadaver. Even if this estranged daughter of the Green no longer called this magnificent world her home, she apparently still held precious memories of this place. Perhaps, there was indeed still a chance to call her home. With another loud creak, the treebeast proceeded to press upon the weathered doorframe, and ushered her inside.
"Please, young seed. Pray follow."
The inside of the temple was a remarkable sight for either man or beast. Not an ounce of magic had been spared in the creation of this marvel. Thick, green vines arched and coiled around the ceiling like living art, while rare carnivorous flowers of diverse colors accentuated the outlines of these thick, creeping greens. A dim, natural light flooded down through a carved eye in the ceiling, casting a rather haunting design onto the great stone altar below. Similar patterns dappled the walls around her, giving Gwenevere the alarming sensation of being forever watched.
Built as a conduit for earthen magic, and secrets of the Vine, Gwenevere's mother had constructed this place after the death of her cherished friend and teacher. A place, where she could always come in her darkest hour, and pay homage to all he had done for her. All he had taught her. From the ashes of tragedy and heartache, grand things can arise. This was the lesson passed down from mother, to child. Gwenevere wondered, if her devotions to Garrett would result in a similar demonstration of fealty and gratitude in due time. Though she doubted herself capable of ever constructing him any sort of temple.
But after learning that Garrett had indeed been the one to pilfer her father's sword, she wasn't exactly ecstatic over the possibility. Gwenevere knew her mother had endured terrible disagreements with her own mentor, though the details remained unknown. Furious and hurt though she was, neither the young woman's respect nor appreciation for the thief or his teachings had been tarnished. Perhaps it was her abundant naivety, but Gwenevere still held to the belief that she and Garrett would eventually overcome this. Then, perhaps one day, he too would become a cherished friend. Bestow upon Gwenevere great wisdom and confidence, as her mother's teacher had once done for her. That, was the hope which kept the girl going, moving ever deeper into darkness.
Gwenevere continued to keep pace with the hardwood behemoth, her shoes sinking into the supple carpet of moss with each step. The treebeast swayed on ahead, dead leaves crunching beneath his tangled wooden toes. When he reached the leaden stone alter, he paused, and waited for the girl.
"The cityfools treat these structures far differently than we, do they not?" the treebeast asked over his shoulder, his tone nonchalant. "Always filled to capacity and sound, rather than a place for diminutive gatherings, and silent memory."
"Well, you know what they say," Gwenevere grinned. "Humans are pack animals."
"Indeed..." the treebeast sighed.
Leaves rustled in the wind outside, as a warm breeze wafted its way through the spring village. Gwenevere stared down at her feet, then directed her eyes upward to admire the patchwork of vines and flowers covering the temple ceiling. A squirming from deep within her stomach, prompted the redhead to eye the ligneous beast once more.
"Why did you bring me back to this place, if you don't want the sword back?" she inquired. "I mean, don't get me wrong-it's wonderful to see mother's memorial again. But...why share such a beautiful memory with me, when you know I'm not staying to do as you wish?"
The treebeast remained hunched over the alter, his back facing her. It was coated in a thick layer of hairy brown moss, and strange white mushrooms. Deep growls began to rumble from somewhere deep within his throat, as the ancient one ran his talons over the base of the stone. A horrible screech resounded throughout the temple, and Gwenevere cringed, nearly dropping her father's blade.
"Forgive me," the creature apologized for his outburst. "I know what was said. I admitted to making my peace with your decision, even encouraged it. But in truth, I am still very troubled by all of this."
"All of what?" Gwenevere asked.
"When first I spied you galivanting through this place, your father's forsaken weapon in tow, I believed you here to liberate us from the scum Hammerites."
"I'm sorry, but I am nothing like my father," Gwenevere admitted in a disquieting tone, "and I could never lead anyone to freedom. I wasn't even able to procure my own freedom without help. Even now, I am being hunted."
"By he who first stole you from this place?"
"Yes. He holds power over me still. A relic, which prevents me from taking form and slaughtering him where he stands," Gwenevere explained, an obvious dread coating her words. "He wants my blood-my very life-for...something. I can't quite wrap my head around what his end goal is. But rest assured, it's really, really bad."
"Then why, child? Why remain within that stony world at all? Come home to us!"
"If I came home, Simmons would bring his wrath and violence in here after me."
"Let him come. We are ready this time."
"Then why do you need me to liberate you?" Gwenevere retorted, a glint within her eyes. "No. I said I have work to do in the City, and I meant it. You said you respected my choice, yet all you have done since bringing me here, is try and dissuade me!"
"For that, I am grievously sorry. But perhaps if you understood your role in all of this, then-"
"-I never asked for this!" she screamed, tears streaming from her eyes like blood. "I never asked to be born as this...this thing!"
"Woodsie one? Whatever do you mean?"
"What do you think it means?! Why do you think I hide so, behind this human skin? It's because I want to be one of them! I want to help them," Gwenevere sobbed. "I hate what I am inside!"
"But the Pagans-"
"-The Pagans have you. They have apebeasts, craybeasts, and many more powerful creatures to safeguard them from future harm," she countered. "The city goers have a corrupted government and unfair living conditions. Many don't even get enough to eat! Tell me, creature: When was the last time you've ever seen a Pagan go hungry?"
Her words rendered the proud beast just as mute as his oak and sycamore brethren. Gwenevere continued to preach, though in a much calmer voice.
"The forest and its people are strong, diligent. They can survive without my help, at least for a while. But the poor who remain trapped within the darkest places of that city...they won't."
"Forgive me, Woodsie One. Far be it from I, to attempt to shift your decisions," the wooded sentinel croaked.
"Thank you, for understanding," Gwenevere nodded, gratitude lustrous within her deep green eyes.
"Make no mistake, child. I do not understand," the treebeast corrected. "But I accept your decree, all the same."
Gwenevere remained silent, feeling as the ground began to shift with life beneath her feet. This encounter had become uncomfortable, and the girl creature wanted to flee. But something held her there, rooting her down and preventing her mouth from screaming. At last, the branches of the elder tree came down, prying her fingers open. Then, the ligneous beast deposited something spherical and cold within her palm. As his great boughs pulled away, Gwenevere's pupils contracted in wonder as they acknowledged the forgotten object within. The grand creature of wood and magic leaned forward, until the jutting edges of his deadly maw brushed against Gwenevere's brow, ruffling her messy red bangs.
"Do you remember?" his voice rumbled, vibrating against the girl's forehead, tickling her repressed memories.
"Yes...of course I do. I could never forget..." her voice was muted, sorrowful. As if the very sight of this luminous round gemstone had awakened a world of lament within her very soul. And, in many respects, it very well had.
Flashes of green light, augmented by the flutter of dark leaves and twining branches. Laughter, as she bobbed and chattered upon the burly shoulders of a painted huntsman. Watching as her tears collected upon lotus petals, when word had reached her ears of that trusted friend's demise. Vines softening from deadly, blood-stained branches to hold her close to a wild, yet nurturing mother. A cacophony of shrieking apebeasts and feral roars, as that mother lead her strongest warriors against metallic demons.
Tears streamed from Gwenevere's eyes like sappy blood, as these faded recollections were loosened from the darkest recesses of her mind. She hadn't forgotten, like some hapless maiden in denial. She had locked them away, purposeful in her intent to never again return to that horrible time. But after finding her father's blade, fate had demanded her return to this place. The treebeast gurgled, caressing her cheek with one of his mossy tendrils.
"I did not mean to upset you this grievously, dear seed," he apologized. "But you must know why my need for your return is so great. The Mechanists are still about, as are the Hammerites. The baron himself now wishes to exterminate the forest, razing both its people and this land to the ground if necessary."
Gwenevere wiped her eyes, and clutched the stone tighter within her hand.
"I will help you. I promise," she whispered. "Mother would want that, too."
"Indeed she would, child," the twisted creature confirmed with a deep moan.
"After I help the humans back in the City, I shall return to this place and help you," Gwenevere promised, tucking the devious blade away within her belt.
Gwenevere emerged into daylight, clutching the glimmering orb within her trembling hand. In a past long since forsaken, she had known this object as the Woodsie Emerald, although its attributes were more of glass than gemstone. There had been several others, used as protective conduits by the Pagan folk. Glowing green spheres brimming with an enigmatic, calming green light. This, was perhaps one of the largest surviving.
Before the Mechanists had come, spreading death and destruction throughout the forest, these artifacts had been numerous. However, most were smashed on that awful night, or otherwise lost in the heat of the chaos. Those which managed to survive, had been carefully locked away within the temple depths, only to be retrieved for certain spells or ceremonies. The tree beast's gift, had been an attempt to safeguard Gwenevere from that treacherous realm she longed to return to. But whether the orb's ancient magic was enough to do so, only time would tell.
The vivacious green nature magic within the, 'emerald' bloomed and danced at her touch, as Gwenevere continued to stare at the object with discerning, wondering eyes. The sword loosely tucked between her belt and dress jangled as she walked, the wicked curves of its stark silver hilt the only thing keeping it from slipping free. The elder treebeast, believed she was stronger than this. He must have, to allow her to not only keep the blade, but to also offer this rarified stone for her protection. One as wise and primal as he, did not invest in a weak soul. Such as the way of most Pagan creatures and humans. Nature herself dictated this attitude of dooming the weak or foolish to death, in favor of more aspiring life. But Gwenevere, did not view herself as worthy. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps once Garrett had trained her, perhaps once she had saved the City-
"-What am I going to do with you?" a miffed voice called from above, causing Gwenevere to stumble. She felt a rush of warm air sweep past her face, and felt as the Woodsie Emerald was ripped from her hand.
"H-hey!" she exclaimed, grinding her teeth as she surveyed the forest for her treasure.
She spun around, and nearly collided with Garrett. The thief stood before her, his face empty and dark. The verdant orb was clutched within his gloved hand, and a firm look of unpleasantness was spread wide across his face. Gwenevere covered her mouth to stifle a shriek, only to fall backwards into a berry patch.
"G-Garrett?! What are you doing out here?" she stammered, berry juice coating her hands and legs from the fall.
Garrett smirked at the absurd scene, as he bounced the green orb within his hand.
"I'd like to ask you the same question," he muttered, his smug expression crumbling into a scornful sneer.