The Story of the Marcail Treant

[xxWhisperingWindsxx]

[COLOR="Plum"]Year 160 : 1382 DR

I tell you the true story of the Marcail tree.  For I was there the day the tree was planted.

Long before me, there was a ritual done by those of nature along with the Watchers that planted what is known as the Heart. They formed a symbiotic relationship with it in order to help purge the lands of the Withering.

But in time it was discovered that those who had participated were more of a draw on the Heart than anything else. And so it was decided that another would be planted.

What we did not know until right before it was time, was that a sacrifice was needed. In order for a tree of such magic to take root, it needed a lifesource when it was planted.

No one was forced to do such. If no one had volunteered, the tree would not have been planted. It is that simple. The Watcher Skald Marcail volunteered. She chose to give her lifeforce and her blood, because she believed in our cause. Because she believed in the rightness of what we were doing.

I was there at the ritual. I was there as she stood proud and strong before the Great Druid, giving her life so the Tree may live. She did so willingly and with no coercion.  She smiled bravely, gave me her precious songbook of the songs she’d taught me, sent a prayer up to Tempus and bade Fury to commence with the ritual.

 The gods were with us that day. We planted the saplings gifted to the Watchers to prepare the grounds.  As we planted the last one, Great Druid Fury did the ritual planting.  After she was sacrificed, her spirit stood there resplendent in white robes trying to protect those of us that fought H'bala's minions and The Agony so that the trees roots would take hold.

Such a horrific battle it was, undead and withered creatures pressing in at us from all sides.  Even The Agony itself assaulted us.  Sister Raff held that bridge against it for so long until finally she fell.  It was not until later I was told the absolute horror of what The Agony had done to her.  After he felled her, he picked up her poor body and used her as a club.  Finally we heard the shouts of Marcail.  So full of the righteous anger of Tempus and the rage of Fury was she, gleaming and bright with the blessings of the gods upon her.   Finally we heard her telling us to leave.  She alone stood brave and battled The Agony so that we could get away.

There were many that lost their lives that day; Sister Raff, Brother Arton, Aberdenn, Caermyn, and nature folks. We almost lost Brother Sa'ar, Brother Leopold, and myself.  The very grounds where we had planted her were soaked with the blood of her allies.  The gods willed it that the very blood spilled in planting her would feed her for a time.

There were many of the nature folk who tended the tree for a long time. Because of how the tree was planted, it was believed that she needed blood to survive. So they would leave animal sacrifices. Water, foodstuffs, amulets; All was left and given in the hopes that Marcail would thrive and grow strong.

This ritual that happens now ... It seems it is my doing. For it was a personal ritual I do because of what Marcail meant to me. To honor her, to honor her ties to Tempus, to honor the sacrifice.  But others saw it.

When I was able to get out to the Tree again … I opened my skin and gave of my blood. I could do no less.  Marcail gave her life for this island, how could I not give of my blood? If that is what was needed, then that was what I would give. I opened my hands and placed them on her trunk

So no, it does not surprise me a bit that a face can occasionally be seen in the tree. It is imbued with the spirit of one who wished to protect us.

As for the blood root. That came about because another chose to follow the path of Marcail. The Great Druid willingly gave his lifeforce and his blood so that Marcail Tree would be strengthened.

No one has been forced to do anything. Nothing profane is given. Those that tend her, do so with a reverence for the land and the innocents that live here

If aught else is said, it is because people wish to profane that which is sacred. They say it to bring dishonor to those that would tend her.

There is another thing I do when I am out there that worsens the Withering within me. There have been times I have been gravely ill because of it. But again, I do it because I can do no less.

It is a vow I made to Marcail, to the gods, and to the ancient spirits of the Watchers. I ask no one else to do what I do. I do it because of the vows I made.

I know many do not understand the rituals and the ways of nature. I myself do not understand them all.

It has been asked if the Marcail Tree lessens the Withering. I do not know.   She is bombarded continually by the forces of H'bala. She stands there alone, in the midst of so much that would destroy her. But yet she stands. Can anyone do the same? Stand alone, no reprieve and fight continuously? I do not think so.

So even if it has not gotten better, it has definitely gotten no worse.

She holds back the Withering. Is that alone not enough?

-----

Upon one occasion that I tended her with my own rituals, she raised her voice amongst the leaves and sang with me.  Her branches softly embracing me.  And from the very heart of herself, she gave me a gift of such beauty.  An amber harp, swirling with her very own energy.  I could nigh feel her within it every time I touched it.

I had thought for a long while that Marcail's story might somewhat end there.  That she would stand strong within WyldWater to combat the Withering from a singular spot.  But the gods had more in mind for her.  

The gods spoke to our Elders and told them specifically what was needed for Marcail.  The blood of howlers and the blood of a giant.  These things we were to collect and feed to her.  One by one the howler's blood was collected and fed to her.  And then came the gathering of the giant's blood.

My dear friend and Steward Guardian Dagul gave his life in collecting it, as did Brother Alex. Brother Bryndan and Mister Jano came damn near to falling as well.  So much loss for one vial of blood.  It near broke my heart.  If it were not Brother Bryndan picking me up off the ground, I may well have laid there in tears when there was much yet to be done.

Out we went to her.  It was a difficult journey for me. I went through most of it in a daze.  My mind clouded with misery yet thinking only of the task ahead of me.  As we approached her, H'bala sent wave after wave of her minions to try and stop us.  Swarming us, trying to fell us.  And while we battled, yet more of her minions went at Marcail.  Trying to harm her, to damage her, to kill her.

Thank the gods and swords and magics, we prevailed.  Finally we slew the horde that had come at us and reached Marcail.  How strong and beautifully she stood.  A monument of hope in the middle of so much death and disease.

I alone approached her.  The others stood guard around the circle.  Each taking a place in the spaces of the stones.  The time was at hand.  As always, I greeted my sister with song and with my own blood.    Letting her hear and taste me so she would know it was I that was there with her.  Know that it was I that called to that which was the spirit of my Sister Marcail.  Called vines to tangle around us so that we may embrace in some manner.

I kneeled at her trunk, carefully pouring the giant’s blood on her exposed roots and trunk.  As she absorbed the blood within her, the exposed blood roots slowly receded and her voice called out to me.  Quietly, pleadingly at first, gaining in volume as the very ground around her trembled and was disturbed.

As the last of the blood was absorbed, I stood, playing the small amber harp, asking her to sing with me once more.  Calling softly to the spirit of Marcail so she would remember her purpose as she changed once more.  All at once there was a great rumbling and spewing of ground and where the Marcail Tree once stood now stood the Marcail Treant.  Bold, strong, beautiful.  Overcome with a sense of awe I dropped to my knees, singing to her the songs of Tempus as she once taught them to me.

I watched with a sense of almost possessive pride as she became aware.  Watched as she looked around like a babe newborn seeing her world for the first time.  It was then that I gave her a gift that Praise-Singer gifted us with the ability to give.  But it was to be at my own peril.    Because as she saw what was around her, it all but broke my heart to watch the rage of Fury rise within her at the sight and feel of so much withering death around her.  And by giving her my gift, it brought the Withering further within me.  As her rage grew, she screamed “Withered!” and she turned on everything that had the taint within.

It was then that I again became aware of those around me.  For as she raged and fought, she turned on them as well.  Thankfully they had the presence of mind to run from her.  But I stood there.  Calling to her, singing to her, trying desperately to calm her.  But it was in vain, for she turned on even me, the one who had nourished her time and again, the one who could touch the spirit of Marcail within her. The others had to drag me away before she felled me.  

But what they did not understand is that I would have gladly given my life there at her hand.  For she had become everything we had hoped for.  Our greatest creation.  Our Marcail Treant.  Our hope, our sister, our weapon against H’bala.  She was doing exactly what she was created to do.  

-----

And her story continues on.  I fear she will yet be the cause of my death.  For there have grown such awful rumors about her.  She does as she was meant to.  She destroys that which is withered.  She roams the lands, cleansing them.  But there are those that wish to see only that she has ended a life.  They approach her in the withered lands with their bodies, hearts and souls filled with taint.  They approach her with intent to harm her.  And then cry foul when she does her job.

She is like an innocent pure child, learning her world, finding her way, roaming the clean forests to replenish her soul and roaming the withered lands to cleanse them of the taint.  If one wishes to approach her they must be pure of body and soul.  

She was born of love and hope.  On the strength of our convictions and the soul strength of Watcher Skald Marcail MacCullen, Tempusian Bard.

She is my Sister and our hope.  Gods grant that she will live on, pure and strong.
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