Makot took in air through his nostrils. Through the scents in the pristine air, he felt the trees around him and tasted the light that dappled the ground beside his hooves. Dozens of critters climbed in the branches, hundreds of birds flew overhead, and thousands of insects squirmed about the earth throughout. This was good land.
Shaama nudged his arm, feeling the same beauty he felt and becoming elated. She was a giant leopard of the ancient forests of what the people now called Myreth. Her line was an unbroken continuum from the god-beasts that roamed these lands long before any others. Shaama is a primal power, one so mighty that she could tear this patch of woods to shreds and devourer any creatures she may wish. But this would never be the case, for Shaama was at peace with the ways of nature, and they were with at peace with her as well. She was the perfect example of a powerful being’s place within nature. Often would Makot learn from her in his moments of doubt, in the quiet hours. Even after all these years, he felt blessed that Shaama had been heartsworn to him.
Makot allowed himself to feel his own power. On land as pure as this, it flowed through him untainted. From his horns to his hooves, he wanted to simply enjoy the peace of this place, but this was not why he was here. He took one more breath, this one for a more specific purpose. He held in the air, scented with the flowering plants and the fallen acorns.
He said a silent apology to the lands for the violence in which he would soon partake. Yes, nature could be violent too, but it was violent as a stream after too much rain or violent as a storm of lightning, not violent as a battle between warriors who would kill or be killed. This sort of violence was against nature itself, though now, it was necessary to preserve nature.
A company of these Silversteel hosts had been hired to protect the logging operations outside of one of the most disgusting cities to scar the lands… In another age, the land would have been a simple and beautiful prairie, but now people across the Accordlands called the place Toris Kelt. Perhaps one day more direct action could be taken against the abomination of Toris Kelt, but for now, Makot and many of his strongest allies among the Children of Moss would have to suffice with disrupting their perverse efforts to destroy the forests in the surrounding hills. Such hubris they had; an entire forest, heathy and pure, was nothing more to them than the obstacles between them and woodcrafts.
So it was that this sweet breath would be bent toward violence. He allowed the earthly influences of this air, indeed of the surroundings in their entirety, to coalesce as Calling power within his breast. He glanced to Shaama, and with knowing eyes, she told him she was ready.
He pulled from the world itself and reached out with his spirit to the trees. Distant as they were, these trees were cousin to the very woods that suffered under the butchery of the humans. In his mind’s eye, he traveled from this remote and peaceful place, where his power gathered at its strongest, through roots and fungi, bush and briar, down through the lowlands toward his destination. He saw all the blissfully unaware lifeforms between here and there, and then he focused on the company of heavily armored guardsmen, who patrolled the logging trails. As his vision traveled, tension built within the Calling he held, and his spirit strained to maintain his grip.
Finally, he breathed out the air and a green glow enveloped him and his heartsworn. The Calling was released. As though they were not creatures anymore, but pure energy, Makot and Shaama both snapped through the spirit of the trees like a stretched vine that had been released. And, as they leapt out of a majestic old oak that had not yet met the axes of these people, he roared a battle cry.
Appropriately, the humans looked terrified, as Makot, already twice their size, gripped his gnarled wooden staff in one hand, and with the other, he grasped the saddlery of Shaama, who was twice his size, and settled into the seat before landing on the silvery metal of armor. Claws and teeth and hardened wood brutalized the men beneath them.
Not violence as a storm, but violence as justice being served to those who would besmirch nature so. It seemed appropriate that a thunderclap rolled in the distance as the several dozen other warrior-types turned toward Makot and Shaama with their swords and their spears of perverted metal ore and butchered wood.
Makot only grinned, as several dozen other trees began to glow green around them.
-By Russel Frans