Quoted By:
Though your senses may have failed you, there exist other means by which a Child of Yggdrasil such as yourself can track someone through the depths of the woodlands. The roots of the trees spread wide and deep, intermingling with one another to share in the memories of life, and carry them into the depths of the earth that they may return to Yggdrasil and be recorded forever in the veins of the World Tree. Not a sound goes unheard and not a sight goes unseen within the forest, for every knot is a watchful eye that misses no detail in its sight and every leaf is a keen ear that catches the whispers upon the wind. Observing but never taking action, recording everything it sees without prejudice nor bias, lacking awareness despite being aware of everything that happens within it.
The forest remembers.
The forest always remembers
You lay your hand upon the bark of an old willow weeping over the stream, your mana laying a gentle kiss upon the river of dreams that flows through the elderly tree as it lazily drinks its nourishment from the sun and moon. Compared to the nearby flowers - which were too sparse and scattered to form a rhizome of memory - it will have seen and remembered far more... even if you know trees tend to have a dour disposition compared to their more bright and cheerful neighbors.
"Hail, venerable willow by the stream," you take a formal tone as you speak the tongue of plants. Just like dealing with a prickly member of the Hume nobility who take themselves far too seriously compared to their ability to impact the world, you do your best tor remain respectful. Perhaps most importantly, you don't <span class="mu-i">lead</span> with your question. "I am Lagneia, Child of Alfheim and Daughter of Irminsul. How goes your watch along the riverside?"
"Bah!" the willow harumphs. "<span class="mu-i">Another</span> two-legged menace come to harass me while I sunbathe? And one that can <span class="mu-i">talk</span>, so I can't just pretend that I didn't notice her... alright then, what do you want?"
You blink at the grumpy old tree, making sure to keep your expression neutral and not show any irritation that might have begun to blossom in your heart. This is why you prefer talking to flowers. Mother Irminsul is so far beyond you in scope that only the most abstract thoughts can be communicated, and when you think about how her little brothers and sisters act, you are rather <span class="mu-i">glad</span> for that. "Well, if we're getting down to business-"
"We are," the willow interrupts you, tutting you as if you <span class="mu-i">weren't</span> of an age with her. "Out with it, girl."
You suppress the urge to snap back that you are a woman grown, or to take a deep breath that signals how much the tree is trying your own patience. "I seek a woman wearing a red dress and riding a distinctive white horse. Her hair falls in black curls, she has brown eyes, and her nose is large and somewhat beak-like. Her figure is otherwise unremar-"
"Bah, I know that menace," the tree grumbles, cutting you off again. "What's that worth to ye?"
