I killed a tree this morning.
I realize that's an unusual way for a Druid to begin his journal.
It was an unusual morning.
Before anyone gets upset, I should explain.
I'd been caring for this particular tree for eleven years.
It grew beside the eastern walkway on Zephras Isle, where the stone was thin and the wind occasionally behaved as though it had a personal disagreement with architecture.
The tree was never supposed to grow there. I was told this repeatedly.
At first, it was barely a twig. Then a sapling. Then a rather handsome young tree.
I was very proud of it.
The maintenance council was less enthusiastic.
Apparently, its roots had begun pushing apart the stones beneath the walkway.
I explained that roots are supposed to grow.
They explained that walkways are supposed to remain walkways.
We appeared to be approaching the problem from different directions.
I proposed reinforcing the stones.
They proposed removing the tree.
I offered several alternatives.
They offered me a shovel.
I found the discussion unnecessarily hostile.
So I did what any reasonable person would do.
I sought a second opinion. Then a third. Then several more.
In hindsight, I may not have been looking for advice.
I may have been looking for someone to agree with me.
There's a difference. An irritating one.
The Trouble With Asking a Dwarf
The first person I consulted was Alldez Crossweft.
Alldez is a Dwarf Shaman who believes the world makes considerably more sense when you listen to it. Especially stone.
I've occasionally suspected he prefers its company to people.
I described the tree, the walkway, and the damage its roots were causing.
His reply was brief.
“What's the stone telling ye?”
I told him the stone was cracking.
“Then perhaps ye should listen.”
This was not the advice I wanted.
I informed him that the tree was alive and the stone was not.
That was a mistake.
Apparently, one should never tell a Dwarf Shaman that stone isn't alive unless one has several hours available.
When he finally finished explaining pressure, movement, and the importance of balance, I asked whether he was suggesting I cut down the tree.
“No,” he replied. “I'm suggesting ye stop asking which thing deserves to win and start asking what happens when one of them does.”
Annoyingly thoughtful.
Especially from someone who once spent an afternoon arguing with a gust of wind.
He claims the wind started it.
I believe him. Mostly.
Alldez understands balance better than anyone I know. Unfortunately, he's also remarkably stubborn when convinced he's right.
I wondered whether my tree and I had developed a similar relationship.
I decided not to pursue that thought.
The Problem With Curious People
Next, I consulted Adorevil.
Adorevil is a Warlock.
That usually makes people uncomfortable, which is unfortunate. She's compassionate, brilliant, and genuinely interested in making the world safer.
She simply has a somewhat unusual definition of research.
I do wish she'd stop treating forbidden books as a recommended reading list.
She wanted measurements.
How far had the walkway shifted? How quickly were the roots growing? Were the cracks getting larger?
And had I considered that my desire to save the tree might be affecting how I interpreted the evidence?
I found that question unnecessarily personal.
I explained that I was investigating ways to preserve both the tree and the walkway.
She was interested. Very interested.
For a moment, I thought I'd finally found an ally.
Then she asked, “Suppose you find a way to keep the tree standing. How will you know it's safe?”
I said I would examine the roots.
“And if you miss something?”
I'd examine them more carefully.
“And if the walkway collapses before you're finished?”
I told her she was being difficult.
She agreed. Cheerfully.
Then her expression softened.
“Rylaan, I study things that can hurt people. I don't get to pretend that being interested in them excuses what happens next.”
I knew she wasn't just talking about my tree.
Adorevil has crossed a few boundaries herself. She knows how easily curiosity can become an excuse to continue.
I thanked her.
She offered to investigate several experimental methods of root stabilization.
I declined.
Not because I doubted her abilities.
Because she sounded delighted.
And I've learned that when Adorevil sounds delighted, it's wise to find out what she's planning before agreeing to participate.
Brixie Had a Better Idea
Naturally, I then consulted Brixie Boomwhistle.
This was probably my third mistake.
Brixie is a Gnome Mage, an Engineer, and Chief Sonic Kaboomologist of the Gnomish Mods Bureau.
She believes explosions can be judged by their acoustic qualities.
I generally judge them by whether everyone survives.
Brixie considers this a disappointingly narrow definition of success.
Nevertheless, she was delighted by my problem.
A growing tree. A cracking walkway. Both needing to remain exactly where they were.
Wonderful! An engineering challenge.
She designed a system of adjustable braces that would redistribute the pressure from the roots.
Flexible joints. Compact supports. Pressure measurements.
A mechanism that could adapt as the tree grew.
It was elegant.
She hadn't even included explosives.
I complimented her restraint.
She informed me that this was an unfair characterization of her work.
Then admitted the original design had included a small explosive release mechanism.
Purely for emergencies.
Fizzwick had insisted she remove it.
We tested the braces.
They worked beautifully.
For the first time in weeks, I felt hopeful.
Then Brixie asked about the winds around the eastern walkway.
I told her.
She checked her calculations. Then checked them again.
Her expression changed. Not into embarrassment. Into concentration.
Several minutes later, she put down her tools.
“I've built an excellent solution to the wrong problem.”
I protested that the device worked.
“It does,” she said. “Exactly as designed. But we haven't proved the walkway can survive the wind.”
She could make stronger braces. Add sensors. Design something more elaborate.
But people were using that walkway every day.
It wasn't a laboratory.
“Don't mistake a successful test for a safe solution.”
That sounded suspiciously like something Chief Inspector Boomcheck would say.
I pointed this out.
Brixie asked me never to repeat it.
Then, because she's Brixie, she began designing a smaller device to monitor the cracks.
Not to save the tree. To understand what was happening.
I appreciated that.
I was also beginning to run out of people willing to tell me I could keep my tree.
What Vesharra Noticed
Vesharra Crossweft approached the problem differently.
Vesharra is a Skyborne Hunter.
We both grew up among the Skyborne, but our relationships with the living world are rather different.
I study how things grow.
Vesharra watches what they do.
I can examine a tree and tell you whether it's healthy.
Vesharra can watch a bird for thirty seconds and notice something I've missed for eleven years.
Which is precisely what happened.
She pointed out that several small birds had stopped nesting near the walkway.
I said birds move their nests all the time.
She agreed. Then asked why they'd all moved away from the same place.
I suggested the weather.
Vesharra suggested I stop explaining observations before I'd finished making them.
I found this rather rude. Also familiar.
Apparently, everyone I know has recently developed an interest in questioning my judgment.
We watched together.
The wind shifted. A branch bent. The roots moved slightly beneath the stones.
A tiny crack opened near one of the supports.
I'd never noticed it.
Vesharra had.
“They're not leaving the tree,” she said. “They're leaving the danger around it.”
For some reason, that hurt more than anything the others had said.
Perhaps because I couldn't argue with it.
The birds didn't care about my intentions.
They simply knew where they felt safe.
And I'd stopped paying attention to that.
Onno Asked the Obvious Question
The last person I consulted was Onno Crossweft.
Onno is a Gnome Warrior.
He's small, knows he's small, and is astonishingly confident that whatever tries to kill him will eventually regret the decision.
He's also easily distracted.
Ore deposits, suspicious levers, unexplored passages.
Onno is capable of investigating all three while we're supposed to be fighting something.
But when real danger reaches his friends, something changes.
The distractions disappear. He becomes remarkably focused.
I explained the tree and the walkway.
Onno listened.
Then asked how far the walkway would fall if it collapsed.
I told him.
“People still using it?”
“Yes.”
He frowned.
“So why's it still open?”
I began explaining that the situation was complicated.
“Right. Complicated. But people are still walking across it?”
“Yes.”
He considered this.
“I'd close it first. Figure out the tree afterward.”
That was so obvious I almost became angry.
I'd spent weeks debating whether the tree should live.
Onno wanted to know why anyone was still standing underneath it.
“Are you suggesting I ignore the tree?”
He looked genuinely confused.
“No. Save the tree if you can. But don't make somebody else stand underneath it while you figure out how.”
There was nothing funny about the way he said it.
Onno jokes about charging into things he probably shouldn't.
But he doesn't joke about getting his friends hurt.
I closed the walkway that afternoon.
I wish I'd done it sooner.
The Morning Everything Changed
For several days, I continued looking for another solution.
I examined the roots. Reviewed Brixie's measurements. Watched the birds.
Considered transplanting, pruning, and reinforcing the stones.
Some ideas might have worked years earlier. Others might work somewhere else.
None could make this particular walkway safe without accepting risks I no longer believed were reasonable.
Then, one morning, another section of stone shifted.
Not much. Just enough.
Enough to imagine what the next strong wind might do.
And I finally understood something I'd spent eleven years avoiding.
The maintenance council hadn't been trying to destroy something beautiful.
They'd been trying to keep people alive.
That was irritating.
Not because they were wrong.
Because I wasn't.
The tree deserved to live.
The people using the walkway deserved to be safe.
Both things were true.
And I'd spent eleven years believing that if I cared enough, I'd never have to choose between them.
I was wrong about that.
I cut the tree down myself.
It took longer than it should have.
I knew exactly where to cut.
I just kept finding reasons to wait.
When it finally fell, I gathered what I could.
A few healthy cuttings. Some seeds.
And a small branch I had no sensible reason to keep.
Then I sat beside the stump.
For quite a while.
I'd thought understanding the right decision would make it easier.
It didn't.
It only made it harder to pretend I didn't know.
Three Cuttings
I began writing this account on the morning the tree fell. I am finishing it several weeks later.
I kept three of the cuttings.
One has already begun putting out new leaves.
The second looks promising.
The third has been extremely uncooperative.
I've decided not to take that personally.
I also kept the branch.
I don't know why.
It isn't useful. I can't plant it. I can't repair the tree with it.
Perhaps not everything we keep needs to be useful.
I'll ask Alldez about that someday.
On second thought, perhaps not. We'd spend three hours discussing whether wood remembers things.
But something has changed.
Not just the walkway. Not just the tree. Me.
I'm Rylaan Crossweft.
I'm a Druid.
I've spent much of my life learning how to help things grow.
Apparently, I still have quite a lot to learn about keeping them alive.
And I think it's time to leave Zephras Isle for a while.
I'd like to see forests that grow with real earth beneath them. Meet creatures that don't care what the Skyborne think of themselves. Find people whose understanding of the world differs from mine.
I've heard of a guild called Vanilla Veterans.
An unusual collection of adventurers.
Some experienced. Some returning after years away. Some apparently convinced that most problems can be solved with a hammer, a spell, or a carefully documented explosion.
I suspect I'll like them.
I've also heard there's a quiet Gnome Mage named Nilrem who is rediscovering the rhythm of adventuring.
Perhaps we'll meet. Perhaps we'll have a conversation.
Perhaps we'll simply sit quietly after a dungeon while everyone else argues about whose fault the last pull was.
That sounds pleasant.
I think I'm ready for a little adventure.
I'll make mistakes. Hopefully different ones.
And when I eventually return to Zephras Isle, I'd like to bring something home.
Knowledge. Experience. A few friendships.
Perhaps a better understanding of how to make difficult choices without losing sight of what matters.
And maybe, if I find the right place, I'll plant those three cuttings.
Somewhere the roots have room.
Somewhere the wind can blow without threatening to carry everything away.
Somewhere they can become trees. Proper trees.
I'd like to see that.
And if somebody tells me there's no point planting something because I might not be around to watch it grow—
I'll plant it anyway.
Somebody else might be.
— Rylaan Crossweft
Skyborne Druid · The Rooted Thread