I used to be a tree, a story telling tree. During my woodland life I heard many tales from surrounding kingdoms. Master story tellers would come from far lands to share the narratives of the great deeds of their heroes. Dwarves, elves, tieflings. Even giants and centaurs, when they were peaceful. Once a dragon told me his tale the day before he died, because he knew his time had come and he desired to be remembered. I wasn’t the most famous of the story telling trees, but I was well known in my region.
One day, without warning and with unknown reason, a powerful magician destroyed the wood in which I had spent my life. He spared only me, pulling me from the flames and transforming me into the human form you see before you. He said nothing to me, but only looked into my eyes before he left me on the edge of my desolate home.
In my more than one thousand years, our forest had only ever faced half a dozen serious threats, and we lived though them all. Nothing close to this was in our memory. I was utterly shattered. I would prefer if you do not think you could possibly imagine the depths of what I felt. If it wasn’t for the monastery in the nearby town, I would have just let myself waste away into death. The monks took me in, and patiently brought my mind to reality. Fed me. Listened to me. Taught me what my human body needed to live. And taught me their way of life. The first several years were entirely consumed by grief, and though the grief remains, so do I.
I have been told that it is unlikely I will ever be a tree again. Apparently it is much harder to be changed in the other direction. But truthfully, I wouldn’t want to. I couldn’t imagine going back. I have decided what I want to do with the short few decades I have left. First, I want to find the Butcher, and kill him. Second, I want to write the tales that have been given to me, tales of other kingdoms, and tales of my forest.