Niflheim's abode
patreon
KoW - Chapter 51
🕑 Added 2025-05-05 21:47:05 +0000 UTCRobb stared at the green man.
“Follow me.” The druid turned around, ignorant of their threat, and walked deeper into the island.
Robb would have shrugged, but he settled for simply following the man.
And as they advanced deeper, he noticed a lot more wooden statues resembling the first one, some had despairing expressions, others had a peaceful countenance, and others –much like his guide—wore masks.
The Green Man walked with a surety to his steps, a general knowledge of his surroundings that made him seem almost glide through the forest.
And as they advanced even further, Robb finally caught glimpse of the first difference in scenery—civilization.
It was a village, composed of deformed weirwood trees hollowed out into shelter-like structures. The bark was pale, and the sap had the usual red hue associated with the species. Openings were formed where knots or limbs had once grown, making functional entries and vents. The interiors were not visible, but several showed signs of ongoing habitation—tools laid near roots, fire pits smoldering with heat, animal pelts drying on branches.
Heart trees were spread throughout the area. Each had a carved face, and each face emitted a slow stream of red sap. Green Men moved from tree to tree collecting the sap in containers made of stone or carved wood.
He wondered as to the utility of the sap, sensing the force sensitivity innate to all heart trees. Perhaps, much like the Uneti Trees grown on the Jedi Temple at Coruscant –force sensitive trees whose leaves were used for meditative tea and incense, or herbal remedies, the Heart Tree’s sap has its own mystical effects.
Animals were also present. Sheep grazed along defined edges of the clearing. A few elk stood tethered near the huts, fitted with basic harnesses and small wooden platforms used for load bearing.
In the center of the settlement stood a humongous tree. Its scale was abnormal—possibly ten times the height of any nearby hut. Its branches had no leaves and its bark was visibly darker, and the carved face on its trunk displayed exaggerated features, possibly the result of erosion or deliberate design.
That central tree was so large that a large stream burst out of its roots, it stretched all throughout the village in many branches, some natural and others man made, and a smell of dry aged bark wafted from its reddish water.
And finally, right under said tree, was a strange being, a Child of the Forest.
He resembled others of his kind in stature and features—short, slight of frame, with bark-like skin and wide, amber eyes—but he displayed several anomalies that suggested significant age. His head was bald, the scalp mottled and bare, devoid of the mossy growths common to younger children. A long, shaggy beard extended from his chin to his chest, the strands darkening with age rather than whitening, the inverse of human aging. The hair appeared coarse, some parts stained by dried sap or soil.
He wore a set of bright red robes, a strange sight among the pale trees and green moss. The color matched the errant weirwood leaves that floated across the stream nearby. Robb considered, briefly, that the robes may have been crafted from those very leaves—pressed or treated somehow into fabric.
What drew the eye most was the configuration of seven bronze spikes, driven straight through his torso in symmetrical alignment. Each spike was etched with narrow, twisting runes—worn but still legible in the gleam of the diffused light. The script resembled the runic carvings occasionally seen on old First Men relics, though these appeared deeper, more precise, as if inscribed by something that understood their meaning.
Each spike was connected to a chain—bronze as well—that stretched back to the trunk of the weirwood tree behind him, anchoring him in place. The metal showed signs of age and tarnish, but the structure remained intact and taut. The chains did not rattle. They held him upright, possibly supporting his posture or restraining him.
At the center of his chest, replacing the heart entirely, was a crimson shard, pulsing faintly. It appeared crystalline, though its surface fluctuated slightly, like it was semi-organic. The glow it emitted was constant and subtle, radiating a sinister red hue that mirrored the sap of the surrounding heart trees. The shard was fused directly into the bronze network, positioned with precision.
It matched the other green men in that final detail—each bore the same embedded crystal, though none as prominently or as visibly exposed.
The creature’s amber eyes held a dark gleam as they bore into Robb’s ice cold, and his jagged teeth morphed into an almost sinister smile, one that aimed to feign gentleness and failed.
“A guest, after so long.” The child’s voice was aged, and seemed to almost resemble the screech of metal meeting its match. “I suppose an introduction is in order, for humans such as you, you may call me Thorns.”
Even as he stood somewhat a distance away, Thorns’ voice managed to be heard by Robb as if he were face to face.
Robb assuaged, once again, his direwolf’s worry with an idle ear scratch as he slowly walked up to the Child of the forest, keeping his eyes not at the other’s amber ones, but fixated absolutely at the pulsing red shard he held for a heart.
Once he was close enough, it became unmistakable. That thing… That object, it is an artifact steepled deeply in the dark side, an abomination that cannot have been made through ethical methods.
And so, it must be destroyed.
But, if the old child wished to play diplomat, if he thought he held no knowledge nor ability to sense the evil within him, then he must play along, at least for now.
He was surrounded by men and women, who were all armed and equipped –even if it was simply in bone armor and weapons. People who held a facsimile of that dark artifact that would grant them some sort of abilities, where each one of them held enough strength in the force.
In the Jedi temple, they’d barely be considered for the Agri Corps, but that is still above and beyond the normal human being.
“What is your name, traveler?” Thorns spoke with mirth.
“My name is Robb.” He answered. “Robb Stark.”
Thorns twitched. His smile vanished. With no warning, his body jerked forward—an abrupt, violent motion that sent the chains bolted to his chest clattering and groaning against the weirwood trunk behind him. The sound was sharp, metallic, loud enough to cause several birds roosting in nearby branches to scatter. Grey Wind’s hackles rose instantly, a low growl building in his throat as he stepped protectively in front of Robb, ears flattened and muscles taut.
Then, just as suddenly, Thorns stopped. He exhaled a sound that might have been a cough or a suppressed laugh, and leaned back as if nothing had occurred. The smile returned—wider now, but too forced, too brittle.
“Forgive me,” he rasped, voice calmer but raw around the edges. “A... sickness of the memory. It passes through me sometimes.” He tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing in mock thought. “Stark, you said? A long time ago, I knew a man with the name Stark.”
Thorns moved his fingers in slow, precise gestures. Robb felt the Force shift, the exact manner of which was hidden behind the weight of the Weirwood Network – yet carried no danger to his precognition.
The ground responded. Thick roots from the great weirwood stirred, pushing through the soil with purpose. They twisted together, shedding moss and dirt, until they formed the shape of a chair—broad, uneven, and unmistakably deliberate. Thorns gave a quiet nod, offering the seat without a word.
Without even a gesture from the child of the forest, a green man –or woman in this case, with visible hair made of flowing black locks walked up to them with a tray of wooden cups.
“I made the choice to send for some tea.” Thorns smiles, turning toward the wary Greywind. “How quaint, I thought direwolves were extinct this side of the wall.”
“It is a relatively new development.” Robb lifted the cup, held it to his nose and took a whiff. The smell of the red liquid was quite…. Refreshing? “I aim to bring that tradition back to bear. Although, how it is that you came to know of these facts, looking as you are… locked, perpetually, in this island?”
Thorns’ laugh was dark and sinister.
“You are certainly my first visitor in many years, Magnar Stark” He says. “Yet, there was a time, not even a hundred years ago, where many bid to seek my home for reasons of their own, it is through their tales that I gather knowledge of the outside world. Speaking of which.”
He gestures toward the woman who brought the tray, who takes off the mask.
She was beautiful, in a neighbor next door kind of way, with lovely blue eyes framed by a heart shaped face, there was also some signs of age in her face, which would put her at most at her forties.
But her face was blank, without emotion.
“This is one of my many visitors who chose to stay, her tales were particularly fascinating.” Thorns grin grew wider. “Tales of lizards that fly and spew magical fire, a war like no other between a clan of men who thought themselves to be gods, and a story of the poisoned chalice of love, framed by heartbreaking tragedy.”
Robb stays silent for some time, thinking on his words.
“And what is the lady’s name?” He finally asks.
“I cannot remember, the familiar aches of a long life, one could suppose.” Thorns answers. “Although, she certainly does remember, what is your name, my dear?”
The woman looked back toward her master –for that is what she was, and opened her mouth to speak without an ounce of emotion.
“Alys Rivers.”
