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The leafy husk of a monster’s temple is invaded by an army of flaring, blaring pain, its sanctity of ideas and dreams utterly ransacked and burnt by the all consuming sensation of universal discomfort. The Sapling grabs at his head with eyes that have clear signs of a crows inhabitants on his eye bags. His eyes open to the familiar messy sanctity of his room. The non negotiable pink stripped wallpaper lined his walls. Shelves of various bric-a-brac lined the shelves collecting dust as the pastel statues makes poses of imitated life.
The boy yawns and stretches, the bark of his body creaking a bit as he does so. Getting up from the bed the boy looks into the mirror of course is met with his bark mask of a face. Mask is an appropriate term because at first glance he has no mouth ears or nose, just two black eyeholes that blink occasionally and a pair of wooden horns that sprout from his head. He sighs showing his jagged triangular and blocky teeth that perfectly clamp with his upper jaw.
They blend perfectly together like a puzzle and once more his mouth seemingly disappears. His arms are entwined, thick, branches with his fore arms being protected by a covering of bark like “gauntlets.” which protect the skinny part of his limbs. Brown pointed fingers of bark and twine make up the young saplings fingers. His feet are pads of strong roots that act akin to hooves.
Of course he is also wearing his “I Grow Where I Want” shirt showcasing the dandelion, the most stubborn and patriotic of weeds.
He….why are you calling yourself in the third-
