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I return to the ginko grove as I promised. The sickness has grown even in a single day! The leaves, just yesterday turning, now all curl inward like fists clenching in agony. Most of them already have fallen to the ground. Even though it is the season for their fall - they look far more brittle than the should be. Each step sounding like cracking bones as I walked on them. More troubling is that the white threads at the roots have spread. They now knit their way across the soil as if they were weaving a death shroud. They crawl from tree to tree. I land my hands upon the ground and I felt a faint drumming. It felt almost as if it were a heartbeat. But it felt wrong. It was too hurried. As if fueled by adrenaline. I brought along a few things for my ritual. A soup bowl from Yunsil. Some freshly gathered salt from the Dae Shore. And fresh water gathered from the northern part of the river that runs through Kugnae. I recalled an old chant I was taught long ago that was to bring about cleansing. I walked circle arounds the largest tree. No wind stirred. My voice felt weak, and my ears felt deaf, as if the grove was trying to resist my chant. I cut my hand with my golden scythe and let my blood mingle with the salted water. I poured it at the roots and hoped that whatever spirit dwelled within would speak to me. For a moment my hopes were raised as I thought I felt the tree shiver as if it were trying to speak to me. But no, no green returned to the tree. Instead, more of the dark blood ran from it's bark. This time thicker. And more heavily. More glossy. And this time... I saw my own reflection in it. But it was twisted, and my eyes were hollow. I fear that this is not an ordinary rotting. It feels as if the entire grove is being consumed. Consumed by something far more dark than we have seen in many Hyuls. I do not know if fire will cleanse or spread this blight. To burn the grove might erase hundreds, if not thousands, of years of memory. It has provided our kingdoms for so long. To leave it though might result in same fate. Tonight I sit at the brink of making the decision. The trees will judge me as the silent sentinels they are. I will try to listen to the earth one more time before dawn. If the trees speak, I will obey. If they don't - I may have to end their suffering. Zenath, the Buffalo of the Mists | |