The Bargain of the Wilds

The wind shifts as the whisper reaches you, threading through the leaves like a fragile thread of silk. A mortal has spoken your name.

You are old as the roots beneath the earth, as the rivers carving through stone. You are the breath in the leaves, the hush in the underbrush, the unseen force that watches from the canopy. Few remember you now—few dare. But tonight, someone has called.

You follow the voice, slipping unseen through the mist, past ancient oaks and tangled brambles. At the forest’s edge, in a moonlit clearing, a figure kneels before a weathered shrine, hands trembling, breath unsteady. They have come seeking a gift—protection, knowledge, vengeance, something their world cannot provide.

You have granted such things before. The forest does not give freely, but it does give. The question is not whether you will answer.

The question is what you will ask in return.

The air grows still. The mortal shudders, sensing your presence. Their lips part, their voice raw with desperation.

"Spirit of the Wilds… I offer myself to you. Name your price."

And thus, the ancient woods stirr once more.