God’s Tree

As Argolaith stepped gingerly over the threshold of the ancient ruins, the tremors beneath his feet grew in both frequency and intensity—as if the very stones of this long-forgotten place shuddered in anticipation of a force awakening from an age past.

The ground vibrated with a deep, resonant pulse that seemed to herald the approach of a massive primordial beast.

An entity so old and powerful that even the ruins themselves whispered of its coming. Argolaith paused for a moment, his keen eyes scanning the cracked stone floor and splintered archways.

"I think the food I made must have drawn the attention of whatever that is," he murmured to himself, his voice low and cautious.

"But I should be fine in the ruins. For now, at least."

He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword and ventured further into the labyrinthine corridors, where the echoes of his footsteps seemed to mingle with the soft rumble of the earth.

The ruins stretched out before him—a sprawling complex of moss-covered stone, crumbling columns, and intricately carved bas-reliefs depicting deities and heroes long lost to memory.

As Argolaith wandered the silent halls and open courtyards, he discovered more than mere rubble.

Here, etched into weathered tablets and hidden behind shattered altars, lay the ancient knowledge of a long-forgotten race.

The texts spoke of rune smithing, of alchemy recipes lost to time, of arcane arrays and formations that could channel raw magic, and of mystical artifacts imbued with the power to reshape destinies.

He knelt before a massive stone slab, its surface worn smooth by the passage of countless years.

Carefully, he traced his finger over the faded runes, marveling at the delicate artistry. "So this is how they did it…" he whispered, his voice reverent.

The intricate symbols detailed methods of forging runes—how to imbue metal with ancient power, how to create arrays that would hold spells for centuries.

Every stroke and curve spoke of mastery and wisdom beyond the ken of modern magic.

Argolaith pulled out a small notepad and charcoal from his satchel—tools he had acquired during his travels—and began to copy down the diagrams and inscriptions.

His mind absorbed every detail: the way a certain symbol for "eternity" intertwined with that for "life," the subtle differences between runes used for protection and those for destruction.

The secret incantations that had been lost in the sands of time.

He spent hours studying an inscription that detailed the process of crafting medicinal pills—a delicate art of alchemy that transformed rare herbs into elixirs capable of healing the gravest wounds.

"Apothecary," he murmured with a small, amused smile, "has a rather noble ring to it."

The soft echo of his scratching brought him to look up.

Across a partially collapsed archway at the far end of the ruined courtyard, he caught sight of another figure—a man about his own age with long, unruly red hair and golden eyes that shone with an inner fire.

The red-haired man moved with deliberate care as he entered the crumbling sanctuary of knowledge, his expression thoughtful as he studied a weathered tome held carefully in his hands.

Argolaith cleared his throat and, speaking softly so as not to disturb the sanctity of the ruins, "I wonder what I will find in these ancient ruins?"

His tone was half a question and half a statement, as if the very stones were promising him secrets beyond measure.

The red-haired man paused, then muttered to himself in a low, measured tone, "Well, whatever I find, it should be good—and I'm here for knowledge, anyways."

His eyes flickered across the fractured mosaic of the floor, as if he were piecing together the lost history of a civilization that had once revered these hallowed halls.

Argolaith returned his attention to the texts before him, yet his curiosity was piqued.

"What's this?" he mused aloud, sensing another presence, even before he saw it clearly. "I sense that someone else is already here."

He looked up to find the red-haired man now drifting silently through the corridors, seemingly more interested in the faded inscriptions along the wall than in meeting another wanderer.

A faint smile tugged at Argolaith's lips as he resumed his studies. "Ah," he said to himself, "I suppose we all come here seeking something."

He delved back into the ancient texts, copying diagrams of runic arrays and transcribing recipes for potent alchemical brews.

Every now and then, he would pause to consider the wisdom of the ancients. How did they harness such power? What lessons could he glean from these cryptic instructions to aid him on his journey to the Five Trees?

As the hours passed, Argolaith became increasingly absorbed in his work.

The silence of the ruins was punctuated only by the scratch of his charcoal on parchment and the occasional rustle of the wind outside the shattered walls.

He discovered a section devoted to the art of array formation—a method for constructing magical grids that could focus and amplify one's innate power.

His eyes shone with wonder as he realized the potential applications of such knowledge, not only for his own quest but for all who sought to understand the deeper mysteries of magic.

"By the ancient ways," he murmured, "if I could master these arrays, perhaps I could unlock a fraction of the power contained in the Five Trees."

His voice, though soft, carried an undercurrent of determination that resonated with the weight of his purpose.

Just then, from another entrance to the ruins, the red-haired man reappeared. He stepped into the same open courtyard where Argolaith was studying, his golden eyes scanning the surroundings.

"I sense that you are here for the same reason I am," the red-haired man said quietly, his voice carrying a hint of both challenge and camaraderie. "To learn. To gain what was lost in the annals of time."

Argolaith looked up from his notepad, meeting the man's gaze with cautious respect.

"Yes," he replied. "I seek the ancient knowledge that lies hidden in these ruins—knowledge of rune smithing, alchemy, and the secrets of magic itself."

The red-haired man nodded slowly. "My name is Kaelred. I have wandered far to reach these sacred halls, hoping to restore the forgotten arts. It seems we share a common goal."

A brief silence followed as the two studied one another, each aware of the other's determination.

Argolaith returned his gaze to the inscriptions, but Kaelred's presence lingered in the periphery of his thoughts—an unspoken ally in a place where trust was as fragile as the crumbling stone.

As the two men exchanged quiet words and shared insights gleaned from their studies, an ominous rumble began to echo through the ruins once more.

The trembling of the ground grew more pronounced, and the air vibrated with an unsettling energy.

Within the scattered corridors of ancient knowledge, murmurs spread among those few who dared to remain on the mountain.

Rumors arose of a primordial beast—an entity said to stand over a hundred feet tall, with two massive heads, wings that spanned the breadth of the heavens, and a hide encrusted with glittering metals like Orichalcum and Adamantite.

It was said that the creature was reshaping the mountain itself as it moved, crushing those who dared defy it as if they were mere insects.

Argolaith's eyes widened as he listened to the whispered legends carried on the wind.

"I can almost smell it," he thought, a cold shiver running down his spine.

He recalled the lingering aroma of the magic herbs from his earlier stew—a scent that now seemed to have attracted the attention of that very beast.

Despite the warnings, he continued to pore over the ancient texts, his mind unwilling to abandon the treasure trove of knowledge even as danger drew near.

In a secluded alcove near one of the central courtyards, Argolaith carefully unrolled a large, brittle scroll. The script, written in a language older than any he had encountered, detailed methods of creating medicinal pills.

The precision of the runes, the elegant curves of the characters, spoke of a lost art that balanced beauty with lethal efficacy.

"Apothecary," he whispered in awe, "what a noble occupation—if only one could master such art and apply it to heal instead of harm."

As he copied down the delicate instructions for distilling rare herbs into potent elixirs, his mind wandered to the challenges ahead.

The ruins were more than just a repository of ancient lore—they were a proving ground. Each page he studied, each diagram he painstakingly recorded, was a lesson in perseverance and ingenuity.

Yet even in this reverent pursuit, his thoughts could not fully dismiss the ominous tremors outside or the distant, dreadful silhouette of the primordial beast stalking the lower slopes of the mountain.

"Something is coming," Argolaith murmured, his voice echoing softly among the shattered columns. "I must learn all I can before it reaches these ruins. Knowledge is my shield, and wisdom my sword."

His concentration was momentarily broken by the sound of footsteps approaching from the far end of a vast courtyard.

Looking up, he saw Kaelred again, his red hair falling in disarray over his shoulders and his golden eyes filled with quiet resolve.

"It appears we are not alone in our search for the truth," Kaelred observed, his tone measured and calm despite the tension in the air.

Argolaith nodded. "I hope that our shared quest means we can rely on one another, at least until the mountain's trials force us apart."

He hesitated, then added, "I wonder if you have found anything of use among these ruins, any secrets that might aid us in understanding the ancient arts."

Kaelred's eyes glimmered as he carefully unrolled a tattered parchment. "I have discovered a scroll on array formations—a method to harness the very energy of the mountain.

With such arrays, one can channel the raw power of Morgoth itself into a spell of protection or destruction.

It is dangerous knowledge, but immensely powerful in the right hands." He looked at Argolaith intently. "I suspect that you, too, are meant to learn these secrets."