>>6189214>People, Presence of Unnatural Creatures>Plants or Powerful Natural Beings (coin flip; tails wins for Natural Beings)>Wisdom check average 22; successYou advance on the heart tree tentatively, feeling its mournful eyes on you the whole way. Now that you’re here, you’re certain this tree sits at the centre of at least some of the spells beneath Winterfell. Nowhere is the sense of preservation stronger.
Yet, the tree itself… You are no stranger to powerful trees. You were raised amidst the golden cedars and redwoods of Cuva, walked the orchards of Arcadia, seen the mountain-woods of Arvandor and the Beastlands, braved the Razor-thorn Vale and Wailing Willows of Pandemonium. This tree’s roots extend far into the Unseen. But it doesn’t feel alive.
“Is it just me, or does it look…”
“Undead?” Eva says.
It does not react to your presence. When you reach a hand out, all you feel is bark, cool and solid and smooth beneath your fingertips.
“It’s not, though, not really. It’s more… injured, I think.” Eva looks up at the treetops and extends out her hand. “Just about time. Answers are the clearest when everything’s all unsettled, waking up and bedding down, warming up and moving. Sunset’s like that too, but noisier. Ten minutes… yeah, the sun should hit me right about then.” She finds a good spot in front of the tree and sits cross-legged facing the east, closing her eyes to begin her meditation.
You sit down next to her, eyes open. In the morning breeze a thousand red leaves dance with dawn’s fire, whispering their secret words.
Some minutes pass in silence, but you soon notice the sounds of footsteps. You have one spare Tongues prepared just in case, and cast it now given that you never specifically asked permission to come here, and double it with your Bracelet of Extending for good measure.
You glance in the footsteps’ direction and eventually spot three people in simple white robes. Each has a large blood-red handprint on their chest painted over their hearts. Two are male, one old, one young, and the other a young woman with her blonde hair tied back with a white cloth. The old man has a lined and weathered face, and wears a short-cropped grey beard and a nest of receding grey curls. In his right hand is a long crooked staff of white wood. Weirwood, it must be. It takes you a moment, but you recall that he was among the people present when you first met Lord Stark in the Great Hall yesterday.
His owlish eyes bore into you and Eva. “This is a sacred place, wizard,” the man says sternly, with a voice of gnarled oak.
“And we come to pay respects, if you would teach us how.”
He stares at you for a while, but eventually relents. “I am Keeper Brennan. I speak for the Gods.”
“Alyssa NicNivara, of Cuva.”
“Then kneel, and pray, lady witch.”
