Nine Realms Around a Dead Tree (1st Draft)

It had been a hundred and fifty years since they had last tried to call a fellowship. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when only three showed up.   The pilgrim had a kicked dog look to him. He was young, hadn’t spent enough time eating. Tattered blue robes hung loose on his wireframe of a body. Calloused hands worried at his walking stick. Too often, he would shoot a gaze back at the branches he'd come from. He rolled his shoulders, trying to loosen the knot between them. His pack lay open beside him, rumpled from his last panicked rummage through. The trident caught the caught late afternoon glow that permeated the forest. He tore his eyes away, mumbling a pray, before laughing at the uselessness of it. He took sip from his canteen, tried not to notice how the water had risen to reach his lips before the ceramic, and settled back to wait.   The drifter had a bloodhound look and bar brawl stink. He pushed his way through the branches, one hand holding a spear that wasn’t a spear, the other pushing a wide brim hat lower on his head. He carried himself with a confidence honed by years of bad company. A black fog hung around his leather duster, snapping any branch it touched. The one eye not covered by his hat was rimmed red, but it shone like an eagle’s. He said nothing as he reached the clearing. Just pulled two badges from his pocket and showed them to the pilgrim. The first, a golden shield embossed with a five-pointed star, flanked a by laurel wreath made of thunderbolts. The other, a silver triangle with the words, “Spectare, Praesidio” inscribed around the All-Seeing Eye. All the credentials he needed shown, he leaned against the trunk to wait.   The wayfarer burst out from the roots like a terrier, in full senatorial dress, complete with the pointed hat. Eyes wide, she spun in a circle, black skirt flaring around her, loose papers trying to flutter free from an overstuffed pack. From her belt, she pulled a swamp oak stake, studded with blue crystals and pricked her finger. A light bloomed into the shape of a heron’s head and she began telling it everything she saw. The shape of the leaves, the texture of the bark, the grass beneath tree. When she swung the stake like a whip, the blue light followed suit, clinging to whatever she had pointed at before snapping back to her, assuming the shape of whatever it had touched. It babbled back to her questions in an indescribable tongue. She had just turned the light towards the terrified pilgrim when their wait ended.   “Is this all?” The god had entered the clearing unseen, unheard, and his voice was too soft for anything that size. It still took the pilgrim like an electric shock, and he dropped to his knees in genuflection. After a moment, the wayfarer swept off her hat and followed suit. The drifter lit up a cigarette and said, “’Fraid so.”   “Then I will not waste our time.” He clasped his hands behind his back, drew a breath, and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were no longer human. “The Dream Time comes once more.”