[roadkill.]

fable name:

res

[retro]

This is insanely beautiful omg

[chupacabra!]

fable name: leshy

He is dying. Always, always, he is dying. Not in the little deaths of a life long lived, in the deaths of the self, changing from one form to the next. Not in the trifling deaths of small things consumed by larger things, nor the tireless deaths of a god like an ouroboros, made mundane by rebirth and repetition, but one long death. One day, it will be finished, and he will meet his death: unvarnished and final.

There was a time when he'd feared the thought of his own death, denied it, even— the idea that he'd given so much, more than what was his to give, and yet he would still one day die? It was unthinkable. It was he who sustained this wilderness, his great garden. That the roots of each plant should spread beneath his hooves, their shoots breaching the soil to seek the sun, was his deed. So, too, that the hearts of every beast within their bounds should beat was his doing, and surely, he was not like them. He was no god, but surely, he was more than mortal.

He’d first noticed when the leaves atop his proud antlers started to turn; the fresh greens bleeding into oranges and reds, although the thick snow blanketing the trees was only beginning to thaw. He’d waved the thought away at first. As a neonate— a fool— he scarcely would have recognized himself as he was now anyway. He had ascended, honed his strength and his magic through ascetic devotion to the earth, and such things did not leave one unchanged. His flesh had gone first, leaving bones picked clean as if by scavengers. What difference should the color of his leaves make?

Though he tried to shove the thought from his mind, he could feel it keenly now in each pop and creak. He was certain of it when his antlers were bare by mid spring.

He was indignant at first. How could the grove allow him to die? Moreover, how could he allow himself to die? He long should have shed it, this shackle of death, shaking it without effort like so many water droplets from a hound's thick hide. He could do it, he knew he could. It would be easy for one such as him if he simply kept trying, he reasoned.

So he bargained, bartered, tricked, lied, stole. He traded petty boons and magicks to those smaller and weaker than him in exchange for names carved into the soft wood of his breast. Now, the jagged edges were lost in its grain, worn smooth by time and swallowed by lichen; the power and influence tied to them faded just the same. It wasn’t enough. He'd ceded pieces of himself in his clamoring: a memory, a limb— anything and everything to delay it just a moment more.

For the garden's part, it accepted these gifts in earnest. These were things that could be replaced, and the cost was outweighed by what power he stood to gain. All of it could be supplanted with new growth, sinew and synapse root-bound like a Gordian knot. It was simply pruning what was spent, like removing a withered seed head, he'd convinced himself.

Still, in the small hours of the evening when even the night birds and scavengers went quiet, he confronted it, and he could not keep fooling himself. He'd avoided looking at himself in the glassy mirror of the lake, but he knew his antlers to be leafbare now. He'd pretended to ignore their slow falling, but each one felt like a grain of sand in an hourglass. And for all that he'd lost in his grasping, what did he stand to gain, but a life of emptiness?

It wasn't worth it, he could see that now. For all that he was, there were things he still was not and could never be. Even at the height of his power– now that he had given nearly everything– his heart still beat as it always had, animal, pitiful, sphexish. It was the one of the few things untouched, entirely his own, and he would not give it up. He'd lied to himself, that same old lie he'd always told, that he was above it all; that the heart that fueled him was from somewhere else, another world, perhaps.

He does not presume to know how it will happen, he tells himself, though he swears he can see it so clearly these days. He imagines the soil, warm and waiting, as if rushing up to catch him when he finally falls. He will be tired, but at peace: the sound of his collapse like a great tree felled, what remains of him bequeathed to the garden at last. It's fitting, he thinks, that a god of living things should, too, share in their impermanence.

In his mind's perfect image, it did not look like this, this small man come clad in armor like a sarcophagus. It did not look like his own wet, heaving breaths fogging the air, or his stumbling through first the underbrush, then clear-cut stumps: his once beautiful movements made clumsy and dumb with pain. He'd forgotten the feeling after all this time, to the point he nearly expected it might instead excite him with the novelty.

The air was acrid with woodsmoke and crushed pine. Thick, amber sap welled where the man's sword had split mossy bark, and he turned, planting his hooves in the peat and fixing this intruder with a gaze wild-eyed and feral. He knew now his death was no longer some looming possibility, nor a soft and formless eventuality. It was sharp. Immediate. A tool, a weapon. And he knew he must be the one to wield it.

[wolfhaunt]

oohhh mark

[hugs100]

Mark

[Cammeraugepony]

Res!
Fable name: Yew

[Miavinn]

Rohan
The Knight of the Witchwood
The Hands of Fate
The Wayfarer

Roaring surrounded him, the clash of metal on metal filling his ears. Rohan took in the carnage, illuminated by weakly fluttering fires and long discarded torches. The starry sky above was his last sight before the darkness claimed him, too.

When his body had been laid to rest, the Earth had cradled him in her embrace, and it was left up to Fate what would befall him next. There was nothing but the darkness now, a void of rage and sorrow. With every passing moment in this place, Rohan felt another shred of his soul drift away…

────✦♢✦────

The Forging


Kismet had been quite taken by Rohan’s life, the young dreamer clambering to save his herd. At nearly every path she’d woven for him, he’d chosen to serve and protect. Kismet, since her awakening, had tried to present her creations with as many options as she could, allowing them to choose their own destiny. Rohan’s life had not started easily, so many shadows looming over him. Her other creations had not chosen compassion when it came to the weak little boy. But the little boy grew up and had fought so hard to protect the home he’d made for himself.

It took decades for Kismet to find the tatters of his soul, some other being of her creation having ferried it into a miserable pocket of the universe. She whispered to the fragments of light, told it stories of who it had previously been, the dreams it had. She also told it of the peace it could have, should it wish. But should it want to be reborn, she would forge it a new body, one of immortal strength and the heart of a blazing star. In exchange, it would act as the hands of Fate, to help and aid those who were lost or in need. To guide them towards a path where they would be happy or at least assist them in their chosen journey.

Even in pieces, his soul agreed, the part of him that wanted to serve and protect still intact.

Kismet crafted the promised form. She carved the names of his cherished comrades onto his very body so he would remember them, despite the lost fragments of his soul.

As Rohan emerged from the Earth’s embrace, he clung to the last tendrils of the shadow that had been his savior. In the dim light of dawn, Rohan took in the world around him, not feeling any familiarity towards his surroundings. The feelings of loss and longing were etched on his very soul, as was the weight of a promise made to help and to aid. Rohan rose on stiff limbs and made his way into the neighboring woods, struggling to remember where he was going, struggling to even remember his own name.
────✦♢✦────

The Fall


The first few decades of his existence brought novelty and fulfillment. He encountered many mortals who were fickle and vain, but for those who were open to it, he aided them in finding a better life, in creating a better world. At some point, the mortals had caught on to his aid and influence, calling him the Wayfarer. Just another name, another title for him to go by.

As the years turned into centuries, Time wore on him. While his body had not aged a day, his mind grew wary and short tempered. How could these mortals still be making the same mistakes as their brethren hundreds of years prior? There’d been so much useless suffering, tragedy used to justify more tragedies. Rohan poked and prodded at their minds, trying to usher them down the righteous path.

Kismet grew dismayed at Rohan’s own choices. She’d reincarnated him not to control the will of mortals, but to assist those who were faced with insurmountable odds. Like Rohan himself had faced. It was a millenia into his immortal existence that Kismet realized he had no true recollection of his old herd, of his own mortal life. The names carved into the wood of his body meant nothing to him. Too much of his soul had been devoured by the darkness.

Rohan grew resentful of his task to aid the mortals. Kismet was silly to think anyone could will them into a better life–or that they even deserved it. He became a witness to their lives, a watcher in the woods. His body began to crumble to dust as he stopped fulfilling his end of the bargain. Rohan knew that with time, he would fall apart and fade completely. So be it. This was not an existence worth having.
────✦♢✦────

The Friend


For days now, Rohan knew he was being followed. He was used to the curiosity of mortals, but this presence was different. It felt older. Perhaps as old as Rohan himself. He rounded a corner of the rocky mountain pass and ducked behind a large boulder to see who made the corner next.

A winged gray fable with depthless black eyes stepped around it, head sweeping looking for his target.

“Soul stealer,” Rohan hissed, a gleam of violence in his eyes as he stepped out from behind the boulder and took up a defensive stance.

Luce rolled his eyes.

“Please, spare me the dramatics, Rohan. The ones I shepherd are at rest, unlike the ones that end up with our dear friends above,” he said with a snort. Rohan tensed, narrowing his eyes. He could feel the fractures in his own soul aching.

“Explain.” Rohan bit out. He’d known of Lucerne’s existence for centuries and had given up on hunting the fallen deity after the first few decades. Funny how Fate worked.

“My lot,” Luce said, pointing skyward, “Dine on the souls that make their way to them. Deities, my ass.” Rohan blinked once, the only sign of shock he let show. “Wasn’t expecting that were you,” Luce chuckled, sitting on a boulder next to the path.

“Lies.” Rohan said, staring down at Luce. Luce just shrugged.

“Believe what you want. But I think your soul bears the scars,” he replied, resting his chin on a hand. Rohan’s blood boiled at the casual gesture. He made to swipe at Luce with the dagger he’d palmed a moment before, but Luce just dissipated into shadow before reforming a few feet away.

“Oh come on Ro, that’s no way to treat a friend,” Luce said, a glimmer of light in his eyes despite their blackness. Rohan groaned.

“I don’t have any friends.” Rohan said, sheathing the dagger.

“And I believe that is part of your problem,” Luce replied, a grin tugging at his lips and settling onto another boulder. “Well, unless you count that bird,” he added, nodding to Rohan’s shoulder.

“What do you want, Luce?” Rohan ground out, his eyes flat. Luce’s face fell and he hesitated a moment before responding.

“I want your help,” he said, sighing. “I want your help keeping souls out of their clutches. To help them reach a better place than the miserable pocket they stick them in until devouring them.”

Rohan considered everything he knew about Luce, the world, the Universe itself and the Creator. What kind of beings had Kismet forged before him? He did not know, but the wounds his soul bore ached for him to consider.

“I’m going to need the full story.” Rohan replied, sitting on a boulder across from Luce.

“That might take a while,” Luce winced, leaning into the rockface behind him before launching into a tale for the ages.

The unlikely pair became as close to friends as either of them was capable of having. Decades of traveling the world, Rohan typically observed but exerted his influence when necessary. The legends painted Lucerne and the Wayfarer as monsters, as a cautionary tale. But, Rohan supposed, that was the Deities’ goal. His body stopped decaying, but didn’t rebuild itself as the years trickled on.
────✦♢✦────

The Fable


The woods had been very quiet today. Some force had been restless again, a presence Rohan was familiar with, but could not quite place in the depths of his memory. Ahead was the flickering light of a fire. Rohan could scent the meager group gathered there, no more than three Fables. He made his way closer, the longleaf pine needles that littered the ground muffling his footsteps. Voices reached his ears, murmurs between them with one rising above the rest. He could just make out her figure, seated nearest the dancing flames.

Luce was somewhere nearby, equally as silent as Rohan. The pair had been ghosts traveling through these woods, searching for any willing to bargain their souls. They of course didn’t come to collect early, but folktales painted such people as fools, but those who accepted the deal were given the gift of truth. The truth about this world and those that leached off it.

Rohan twitched his ears and closed his eyes, listening to the female’s voice. She was telling a story that had been passed around hearths for generations. Her voice wove its way between the trees to him, speaking about the Knight of the Witchwood. His valor, his strength, his courage against the invading herd of dark mages. How he fatally struck their general, but took an equally fatal blow from the dying mage. The Knight's final gaze skyward before falling into the Earth’s embrace.

The words filled his ears, everything inside him going still.

“The fables of the Witchwood did not win this battle,” the female continued, taking a moment to catch her breath. “But with the loss of the dark general, they did win the war. They were now free from their shackles and could study their magics, travel, and lead their lives as they chose.”

“After a few years, the Witchwood’s denizens split off into different factions. The healers and gifted fire mages traveled far and wide before settling on this continent, founding our Herd Cindara. Their souls have long since passed on, but their blood continues to run within our own houses. All thanks to the Knight of the Witchwood, his true name lost to Time,” she finished with a soft smile to her companions.

Rohan blinked slowly, something in him straining to reach the surface of his consciousness.

Luce let out a breathy laugh, having snuck up behind him.

“Well, she certainly knows how to tell a story,” Luce whispered, gesturing towards the figure. Rohan didn’t even spare him a glance before turning away from the flickering fire, heading deep into the forest’s depths. He’d come back to this band of fables later, without Luce. Her story had struck something deep within him, gnawing along his very bones. Rohan hadn't bothered speaking with mortals in years, with how chatty Luce was, but for this he'd make an exception. He had to know more.

[Dino Nugget]

fable name: Aevor

[Doglike]

fable name: Víðarr

"Again," the creature hissed, the sound not unlike the hiss and crackle of stoked embers in a hearth, odd and ethereal. Flames lapped at the gnarled, tree-like construction of his body, scorching and tearing across the barky surface—without ever truly seeming to penetrate the material.

A smaller, seemingly lesser creature cowered on the ground, hooves scraping through the dirt, eyes wide with abject horror. Dread seized him so fiercely, so deeply, all he could do was stare up at the flaming beast of wicker and twig, the flames reflecting in his poppy-red eyes.

"Again and again and again, you scorch this earth. You raze forests, you extinguish lives of fae and the fleeting—why now do you falter?" His sentence was punctuated by a huff of air, sending ash and embers raining down over the frightened fable.
"Has guilt finally sunk its fangs into your heels, little firestarter? The ugly head of fate has reared, the sword of Damocles has finally slipped from its precarious perch."

The fable in the dirt sputtered, attempting to push himself backwards, away from the flame-engulfed being. Undeterred, the oaken beast pressed the distance, leaning down closer. The branchlike wings behind his back unfurled, so drenched in fire they seemed to be made of the inferno itself.

"You shed no tears when the willows and wrens alike burned," the beast spat, flecks of ember bursting from his lips, golden yellow eyes seeming to carry the same incensed heat. "Do not weep now, as though it could possibly douse the flames of your retribution." The flames licked across the vermilion leaves that adorned the wooden fable's antlers, adding fierce, imposing spikes of live fire.

Víðarr had died, alright. Over and over again. But justice plunged its hand into the rocky earth and pulled him from it, raw and angry and wanting. Death would claim him no more.

[Furrydogs12]

fable name: Eldrash
Deep in the hollow where mist never quite clears, there grows a tree unlike any other — vast enough that its roots crack open boulders, yet so silent that even the wind forgets its own sound when it passes through its branches.

They call it the Heartwood Oracle, though no one remembers who first gave it that name. Perhaps it was a traveler, perhaps a priest, perhaps the tree itself. It does not matter. What matters are the stories.

And every story begins the same way — with a game:

This Fable tells two truths and one lie.

The heart that fuels it is not of this world.
There are names carved into the wood of its body, but it has forgotten who the names belong to.
It has never died.

No one has ever answered the riddle correctly.

They say the Oracle was not always a tree. Once, it was a creature of motion — a wanderer born from starlight and soil, carrying a heart not made of flesh but of something brighter, colder, endless. It walked across continents before the first dawn. It saw rivers being born and mountains breaking the surface of the earth like new teeth. It watched empires rise, and it watched them burn down to ash.

It carried within it an ancient longing: to remember. It saw too much, too fast, until its mind became a forest of its own — tangled, overgrown, impossible to navigate. One day, exhausted by eternity, it knelt in the middle of the world and pressed its hands into the earth. “Let me rest,” it said. “Let me root.”

And so it did.

From its fingers grew roots, from its arms grew branches, from its heart — that strange heart of starfire — grew the hollow trunk that still glows faintly on nights when the veil between worlds is thin.

The names carved into its bark appeared later. They’re old — older than language, older than letters. Each one hums faintly when touched. Some say they’re the names of those who once loved the Oracle, others say they belong to those who tried to cut it down and failed. The truth lies buried somewhere in the rings beneath its surface.

Once a century, a traveler will come to carve a new name into the wood. Most do not know why they feel compelled to do it; they only say that when they sleep under its canopy, they dream of a voice calling to them — soft, distant, pleading not to be forgotten.

As for death — the villagers say lightning has struck it a dozen times. Fires have devoured half the valley. Yet when the smoke clears, the Heartwood Oracle still stands, its bark unburned, its leaves trembling as though remembering pain it no longer feels.

Some believe it cannot die because it has already done so. Others think it has never truly lived. And so the riddle endures, whispered by those who pass beneath its shade:

The heart that fuels it is not of this world.
There are names carved into its body, but it has forgotten who the names belong to.
It has never died.

One of those is false — but only the tree knows which.

And sometimes, when the night is clear and the stars align just so, a pulse can be heard beneath its roots — slow, heavy, and unmistakably alive — as though the cosmos itself lent it one final heartbeat to remember what it once was.