Songs like trees
================

We Come, We Come, With Roll of Drum
-----------------------------------

The Golden Sun return to Therunin. It has been less than a year since they escaped the strangling traps of the Druj, their retreat purchased at great cost by the Iron Helms and Isaella's Dance. Since then they have chafed at the bit in Astolat, recovering from the terrible harm done them by the orcs of the Mallum. Now they are back, to fight again in Therunin, to take from the Druj the jewel they have claimed - and to stop the vallorn devouring what the Navarr fought for so long to cleanse.

With them come the Wolves of War, out of Morrow. They, too, have been on furlough this past six months, recovering from campiagning in the west against the Jotun. They have seen the threat of the vallorn first hand, helping the people of Urizen root out its harbingers as its wicked green tendrils probed the defences of Peregro.

The two armies march to Reikos, to High Chalcis, to join their forces. Waiting for them are the heroes of the Empire, the captains who fight where their conscience dictates. Perhaps even the Wolves of War are a little taken aback by just how many are preparing to join them in their attack - and the Wolves are the Imperial army perhaps most experienced in dealing with warbands, mercenary companies, adventuring parties, and champion fellowships. Well over a hundred captains ready to march with the Wolves and the Sun, bringing their soldiers with them, swelling the size of the force crossing to nearly three times the size.

The overwhelming majority are, unsurprisingly, folk of Navarr. Thorns and brands, somber faced and ready to do what is needful to fight for Therunin. Yet they are not the only ones - Dawn, the League, Highguard, and Wintermark are all well represented here, along with a single warband of the Unshackled. All prepared to risk their lives to fight the vallorn and the Druj at the same time.

To battle the Druj is bad enough, but the orcs of the Mallum have worked foul magic to rouse the vallorn of Therunin. It spills beyond Sweetglades and the Greenheart. Scouts say it seems set on devouring the Upper Tarn Valley... but once the armies cross the border from Reikos the vallornspawn cannot help but be drawn towards them, towards the concentrated force of life, towards the metal and leather than makes up the accoutrements of war.

The night before the armies move, the priests of Reikos gather on Chalcis Mount, and move among the soldiers offering the blessings of the Way. Dedication and anointing to those who wish them, whether they fear their courage may falter in the face of the task ahead of them or they seek to strengthen their own convictions. The priests do not judge, offering support to any who need it, and when the dawn comes some of them find their calling urges them to walk with the armies. The vallorn, after all, is the single greatest spiritual threat to the Empire and the faithful of the Way.

Not long after sunrise, though, there is a sign from the east. A pillar of black smoke mounts up towards the clear midsummer sky. A column of ashes. Some of the Navarr in particular, those who know what it must presage, march with tears wet on their cheeks. But there is still a job to be done, and these armies, these champions who march with them, are the ones who must do it.

In the Bitter Rain
------------------

It is not far from High Chalcis to the border. Some of the Highborn, perhaps for the first time, cannot help but ruminate on just how short a distance lies between Therunin and the garden city on Chalcis Mount. In the past this has been a boon, easing trade between the two centres of healing. Now it can be seen as a foreboding of doom.

There are Druj watching the border, of course. Some of these shadowed eyes are rooted out, others manage to escape eastward to warn the rest of the orcs of the Empire’s coming. None attempt to fight, not voluntarily at least. Any who cannot escape, die fast and hard. The Druj will not be a challenge, here, will not be anything more than an afterthought in Peakedge Song it seems. The real threat here comes from the east, yes, but much closer to home.

A short journey, less than a day, to where Peakedge Stead once stood. It is still burning. There are still Druj here, shepherding the flames, revelling in the destruction for its own sake. Beating drums. Some of them are drunk or drugged; others are more alert and give some small trouble to the first Imperial soldiers to arrive. Yet even they flee, denying anyone any feeling to just retribution for what has been done. There is open weeping.

For centuries Peakedge Stead has been synonymous with succour, with gentle healing, with santuary. It has tended the worst wounds the vallorn could inflict, offered safety and the promise of wholeness to those exposed to the malice of the Druj. When Reikos fell into the hands of the Stone Toad, it accepted all refugees and stood vigil against attack from the west. When the Great Forest Orcs were driven from their homes, it welcomed them beneath its hallowed roofs. A garden as much as a steading, a place where the battle for the future was envisioned not solely in terms of weapons and armour. And now it is gone. The palisades burn. The hospitals burn. The gardens, and the gentle tree-lined groves, and the memorials built to those who set down their lives to heal others, burn.

It is too late for Peakedge Stead. The moment the last rays of the setting sun faded after the Summer Solstice, the protection of Lord Rain was withdrawn. The unbreachable thorn walls withered and fell and as soon as they were gone the malice of the Druj washed over this place of healing, and the flames followed all too soon after. And then, the majority of the Druj camped here, their work done, seem to have simply left. There is a clear path north-east away from the bonfire that was once Peakedge Stead, toward the Upper Tarn Valley.

Imperial forces secure the site, do their best to fight the fire. It rages until dawn the next day, when it begins to burn out. As the flames die down, it begins to rain. A focused cloudburst that brings with it the soothing scents of Spring. From out of the rain emerges a figure with pale blue skin and a sodden shift. A herald of Brother Harvest. Flanking them are two massive quadrupedal creatures, guardians that until recently protected the steading with their green and growing songs.

The herald is quiet, and calm, and has a message. At great cost, at the request of the Archmage of Spring, Lord Rain maintained the protection of Peakedge Song for another season. He was clear that he did so to allow the Conclave and the Senate to complete their deliberations, before removing accursed magic from Imperial lore. He felt that assurances were given, and he made clear that if they could not be fulfilled he would be left with no choice. The Archmage entered into that bargain freely, with his eyes open, and Ossegrahn trusted that what was promised would be done. It was not done, and instead the Conclave turned away from his friendship. As if blaming him for doing what they asked, and being clear about what it would cost.

So Coomarta of the Rains was left with no choice. In the absence of a sign that the Empire could move away from merciless slaughter, from magic that kills the weak indiscriminately, there is little point continuing. He withdrew his children to the Spring realm as he said he would do. Peakedge Song fell within the hour to the Druj. They looted the place, burned it, would have tortured any left behind… had there been any left behind for them to hurt.

For while Father Tarn is saddened that he was mislead, and let down, he does not blame the healers and the sick for the actions of the few at Anvil. All those who wished to do so were offered sanctuary in the Primal Forest, where they might grow and practice the healing arts for as long as they wished - on the understanding of course that they could never return. While he might have been able to grant them sanctuary in the chamber of a regio the Druj would be able to attack there as well.

Many took that choice, and if there is anything to be salvaged from all this it is that those lives at least have been preserved. Those who would not accept the hand of Lord Rain made a different choice and embraced the Gift of Kaela. A terrible choice, and one that the Cupbearer would have denied them if he could. But it was theirs to make.

And now, as he said he would, Elder Fossegrim will turn his face away from the Empire. There will be no more boons, and he will not agree to parley. Those rituals he has shared with his friends will remain, until their assurances are broken. Any gifts he has given likewise will remain until time claims their power. No more of his heralds will visit the Empire, not to offer their aid to those in need, nor to the Greenwatcher, nor to the fight against the vallorn.

Perhaps in another hundred years, if the Empire survives, they may speak again. But for now, it is farewell.

As the herald turns away, it’s sad message delivered, the rain breaks. As it walks, fresh green shoots burst from the footprints it leaves in the sodden ash. Within a few minutes these shoots have blossomed into bushes and vines, with more and more greenery rippling outwards from the path like raindrops on the surface of a mountain pool. Within half an hour the ruins of Peakedge Stead are gone and in their place, a garden of green leaves and pale white flowers. Where the palisade once stood, a ring of young saplings begin to grow, making the outskirts of the sanctuary.

“The vallorn cannot come here while the trees live,” says the herald in parting. “Let this be a memory and a promise. It can remain a place of sanctuary and hope to those who need it.”

And with that it is gone.

Hew the Stone and Break the Door
--------------------------------

The Druj have fled east, no doubt seeking to outpace the vall