endbook_rogue_3_4_3

Magallan climbs up from the mushy vines.

Caught in their surprisingly sturdy lattice is the rockhorn she is still riding, along with the Sami shaman steering it. The beast had started charging wildly in its fright, the accompanying wooden doll now slumped in a forest clearing because the shaman was momentarily unable to maintain its Arts.

Magallan pushes aside the branches obscuring her view, and notices someone standing curiously in front of the massive wooden doll. After thinking for a moment, the man reaches out and carefully touches the doll's dangling arm.

As soon as he makes contact with it, the doll creakily rises up in a farcical posture and makes a gesture somewhat akin to a salute, but Magallan cannot tell what tribe's custom this is.

She assumed the shaman was simply trying to show courtesy, but when she turns her head, she finds that the shaman is even more astonished than she is. The doll is moving on its own, not by means of any Arts. When the stranger notices them, he and the doll both turn their heads in unison, as if they are mirror images of one another.

Magallan surmises that the lifesaving vines beneath her feet were also woven by this person's Originium Arts, so she reaches out to express her gratitude. However, the other responds with nothing more than a kind smile.

After a brief spell of silence, the man then looks inquisitively at Magallan and the shaman, a few syllables bubbling up from his throat.

The two exchange hesitant glances. If this is some language, then it is one that neither of them understand.

The man pauses for a moment, then seems to switch to a different language. It is as if he patiently combing through every language he knows, like some sort of probe, or a proof of the historical record's evolution over time.

Suddenly, Magallan catches on to a few relatively familiar syllables, and the shaman repeats the words back.

As if in confirmation, the man raises his hand, and guides the vines into a shape. It is one of the fodartals that Sami gives shape to upon the trees, the denotation of the Sami language from his lips.

''Arrival.' Yes, arrival.' The shaman nods in approval, expecting this to be the start of a dialogue.

But the other side simply shows a satisfied smile, and speaks no more.

Magallan comes to the sudden realization that this person was not looking for a way to communicate with them, but rather used those changing languages to determine who they were. With his question answered, his interest in them also ends.

A number of conjectures form in her mind.

'What about you?' She addresses the man. 'Who are you?'

She believes that the other side is capable of communicating in words, but he sets his sights on the wooden doll and reaches out towards it again.

—Magallan had heard from her good friend Muelsyse that the elves of Sami have been living in the embrace of the Great Tree for thousands of years. They have formed reclusive communities in a unique manner, studying their own history so long that the answers now twist into the riddle itself.

The elf begins to make the plants around her grow. Magallan thought that perhaps he would weave a manifold just like Muelsyse, as a way of expressing his self-awareness.

He ponders. The plants first form the figure of an upright human, which then bends down like a beast running on all fours. The slender stems and leaves gradually form more complex images in the air, shifting like a kaleidoscope that dazzles and bewilders both Magallan and the shaman.

The elf seems to be retracing, searching for something.

Finally, he looks over at the rockhorn saddle to the side.

The plants slowly congeal into a very irregular shape, one obviously not born from nature.

The elf bends down and almost reverently scoops up a handful of soil, sprinkling it on his plants.

'Is that something you're used to doing?' Magallan asks hesitantly. 'What is that?'

The elf does not stop to explain.

Then, the vines hold up his tiny handiwork and deliver it into the wooden doll's broad palm.

The elf wants the wooden golem to take it.

Is that his answer, or his gift? Magallan thinks as she looks at its hands.

For whatever reason, she suddenly feels as if the wooden puppet holding the little arboreal craft in its hands is like a small child holding on to a paper airplane, imagining it flying through the air.