Whispers of the Woods

[Zaxar]

[OOC: This thread is something new that I have wanted to try for a while now. It is a collection of (very) short stories. Not just any stories though, these are the final moments of existence for these characters. Death is the great equalizer. There is not a king nor a slave across the globe that can escape it. One can run from it, but death catches all eventually and the stories of these souls is never told because those who are dead often find difficulty in talking to people. In Greater Zaxar, the primary religion is Totemism. This is similar to real-life totemism but with a unique Zaxar flavor to it. One aspect of the faith is the belief that the trees are always listening and always knowing. The stories that these trees hear are then transferred throughout the whole forest in the form of language.]

Whispers of the Woods

The language of the trees is that of the creaking of an old oak or the rustling of the leaves of a great maple or perhaps the dropping of a small pinecone to the forest floor from the proud spruce. People will rarely understand this subtle and divine language, though there are some who claim they can. I have seen many such fools rise and fall within my time. They claim to hear the gods but could not hear the strong sound of death as it reached for them. These people know not that the words of the gods cannot be interpreted. So allow me to reveal to you all, their stories, their knowledge, their whispers. The voices of the trees, the songs of the leaves, the murmurs of the wind, the whispers of the woods...

Edited December 5, 2021 by Zaxar (see edit history)

[Zaxar]

As he scuttled across the floor, several thoughts whispered through his mind. Most people think of roaches as simple and yet here he was, thinking. Thinking of food. He smelled it. He saw it. He tasted it. A day old piece of cheese. Just sitting here with a fine layer of blue mold gracing the surface. Delightful. The roach, his comprehension levels were beyond that of using simple names, why have names when they are but figments of the imagination, kne- the food. So tasty. Divine. Anyways, the roach knew this room very well. There was almost always some sort of FOOD here. Food. He lived for food. Who didn't love food.

A light pitter-patter behind him and he jumped. He ran. He must survive. That could be trying to eat him. Eat. Food. He must survive. But to survive, one must eat. Eat food. The cheese.

He scuttled back to the cheese and resumed his dining.

Pitter-patter... maybe the wind. Pitter-patter. The rain perhaps? Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter. Should he run? Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, CRUNCH!

He was the food. Food. He lived for food. He lived for himself. He is the food. Food... His thoughts faded.

Larry threw his head back and swallowed. A delectable treat he must say. A nice fat juicy one. Roaches were one of his favorites. And he zipped away, pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter...

 

The young maple looked on as the Emperor's pet Sheesh zipped out of the building. All roaches may not be the same, it thought, but they sure are similar when it comes to food. As the next breeze blowed, the maple released the story to the wind...

[Zaxar]

A dark night, an unusually quiet one. There was not a breeze on this summer night and a lone owl was the only noise that could be heard.

The lone pine sat in a small courtyard in an old inn. The inn went by the name The Drunken Cod and was an ancient place, nearly as old as the old bristlecone pine itself in fact. The inn was by and far the most popular on the island, though it rarely had more than 5 of its 8 rooms filled. The small island in the Wampanoag Sea was not exactly a tourist destination and its biggest claim to fame was being home to some of the largest fisheries in Zaxar. According to legend, the primordial tree was planted by the gods themselves to house the spirit of the inn's founder who was killed by a pine lance to the heart.

Through the window of the courtyard the pine saw all. From lovers to soldiers to the occasional tourist the pine had seen it all. Tonight there were six men in the inn. Four sat a the small round table by the window while the other two stood by both exits. What they did not know though was that there were six more men just on the outside of those old oaken walls.

Snippets of the conversation of the men inside could be heard drifting out the small cracks in the wall.

"get at least 50 in Sandrica itself."

"I have 324 sworn men in Malinsk and..."

"you agree... trust..."

"they will find out... treason." "I can't... can't trust them."

It was at this point that the conversation suddenly went silent. One of the dark men outside gave a quick hand signal and the doors of the inn flew inward off their hinges, throwing one of the guards to his knees and putting his fellow out of commission with a glancing blow to the base of the skull. The men at the table no sooner stood up than they were dropped again as the dark squad streamed through the door. The apparent leader of the few surviving inn guests, a middle aged bald man by the name of Yahto, moaned quietly on the floor before a dark man gagged him and threw him over his shoulder. The remaining survivors were quickly dispatched before they were all dragged out to the dark truck now idling in the drive.

The old pine had seen it all. All of the nothing. For nothing unusual happened at the inn on that warm summer night. Nothing had happened at all.