We do not belong, On this planet of ours
The woodcutter's axe, Doth breech the past
Over seas and green-touched downs
How will you accept the gift that's lent? How will you heed nature's lament?
Upon lost trails do we weave
On unsteady feet, Leeria pressed onward, winding ever deeper into the labyrinth of twisted boughs and knotted trunks. Never had she as a Ranger felt more out of step with the natural world. It was as though the forest around her had become detached from what was natural, what was real, transforming more and more into a world of its own the deeper she delved. Her world.
“Come to me, sweet child. Come. Drink of my font, nourish yourself at my stream.”