Rules and Explanation

Taking some inspiration from Mis' work with Verve, this is an interaction and request blog. In short, your character can come and ask Seed to compose or recite a work of writing, along a theme or a topic, about a subject, or to answer a question or the like, of the character's choosing. While they may take some time to compose, Seed usually won't ask for anything in return -- unless you offer, of course. Seed might ask a lot of questions, to get a good idea about what it is he's writing about: the trouble he might hope to sooth, or the subject your character wants him to write about. Writing is about the details, after all.

Seed will either answer within the scene, or come find your character when he's done with the request, depending on the context, but it'll probably take me a while either way, so please be patient. He'll show it both in interactions, and I'll post it up in this main topic for easier viewing pleasure... I'm not sure how yet, but I will. You're welcome to do what you like with the work, as long as you don't claim it as yours.

Seed's specialties lie in poetry, but he's very interested in short works of fiction or in small fables, feel free to ask for whatever, and we'll see what can be managed!

To-Do List
+ Seed's considering writing something about the Oak to try and assuage La's fears, but isn't sure what.

Completed Requests
The Tale of the Two Sorcerers for La [Story]
The Songbird in the Tree for Daryl [Story]
A Dream of Her For Cian [Poem]

I was told a story of La's own -- an unusual way to begin a request; it was a tale of an imposter, some deer wearing the Pelt of ones of the gods. While perhaps she expected a more chilling tale, my mind turned instantly to those casters of strange spells and warpers of the world, good and bad, big and little, I had known. And from them, and from her tale, arose this little fable.

The Tale of the Two Sorcerers

The forest is a place of magic; everyone knows this, from the time they are small. Magic to change shapes, magic to hide your face, and smaller, subtler magics: the enchantment of a summer evening, the fireflies bobbing across your line of sight; the chill of the snow falling on your skin, and melting there from the warmth of your body. The smile of a friend you thought long lost, too, is a magic made by this place.
“The forest is a place of magic,” however, does not mean any of those things. It means that there is magic, too, to the making of it. The magic of the gods, that tell each thing in this world its place, its nature, its law. That is the magic of The Forest, written in a language as sublime as our own pictograms, and far more tensely guarded. For to share the practice of this magic, outside of perhaps the smallest spells of protection, now lost to our kind, is forbidden by the gods. Those who investigate it risk madness, and must do so in secret.

The forest is a place of magic, and once upon a time, there were two sorcerers who were practiced in this secret magic, a Laughing Sorcerer, and a Proud Sorcerer. The Laughing Sorcerer knew many tricks, both of the Deep Magic, and of lesser magics, many of which he’d discovered himself: those the Twin Gods said he might share, he delighted in showing to all the young fawns, until even the clumsiest could perform them. The Proud Sorcerer’s knowledge was a closely-guarded secret, and it was hard to say what he knew or did not know: hidden away for hours, he studied. He saw that the magic of the forest was fit to make him a very fine and powerful stag.

One day, when the Proud Sorcerer was studying the deepest, darkest magic he could muster, he heard a lot of noise outside his cave. When he poked his head outside, he saw the Laughing Sorcerer practicing his trick: he sank into the ground and became very small, smaller even than a fawn, and as he looked about from the soil, he laughed.

“What are you doing, playing silly games?” Asked the Proud Sorcerer. “There’s no greatness to this work! Quit bothering people who have real magic to perform!”
“Real magic?” Asked the Laughing Sorcerer, very curious. He straightened himself out and, like a plant growing, grew to his proper size once more. “What makes your magic more real than mine?”

“Why, it is magic that exalts me alone amongst all deer; it is magic that the selfish gods do not want anyone having, and are the tightest secrets. My magic is important and beautiful, and not some… Toy,” He said, for he scorned the Laughing Sorcerer.
“That may be so,” said the Laughing Sorcerer. “But I don’t think that makes it more real. In truth, I know a magic more real than any other, the greatest magic, practiced by the Gods when they made this world.”
At this, the Proud Sorcerer paused. He’d never heard anyone say that they knew the greatest magic; certainly, he’d never heard anyone praise any magic as beyond his own. But, because he was so proud, he could not believe such a thing existed.

So he puffed out his chest and said to the Laughing Sorcerer , “You must be a fool, or a liar, because there is no sorcery greater than mine, and no magic of the gods I do not know. And I will prove it to you! On pain of surrendering our arts, we shall have a contest.”
The Laughing thought about it, because, after all, he knew that the Proud Sorcerer ’s magic was forbidden, and it would please the Gods if he stopped. And because he thought perhaps the Proud Sorcerer would understand it this way, he nodded.
“Very well. We shall show our finest magic to the world, and whoever can impress the most people and draw the largest crowd shall be declared to have the finest magic in all the Forest.”
“And the loser shall practice no more sorcery, as long as he shall live,” insisted the Proud Sorcerer. For, to his heart, it could only be winning if someone lost.

They agreed to rejoin when the sun was high on the longest day of the year, where the deer would be gathering freely to behold. They came to De Drinkplaats, home of many wild miracles, and bowed to each other, naked as fawns. The Proud Sorcerer had a special spell prepared that he had no intention of informing his opponent about, for fear that he’d be copied. He left the meeting-place with confidence burning in his heart, and when he’d left that circle, he stood for a moment in the sun to admire his work.
For he had stolen the pelt of one of the Gods. It glittered like the sunlight, the glow of a pictogram or the crisp blanket of soft yellow light in a winter afternoon spread over him. It was a pelt worn by the Gods, because all the gold in the world was collected in it, and all the softness and sweetness of love. And many who saw him would think: “Oh, it is one of the gods, come to visit us at last!” But many more were wise, and knew him for the imposter he was, and those were frightened of his boldness or coveted his power.
And so he strode through the forest like this, and many trembled in fear of his glory, or bowed before him as they would a god. 3 followed him, hoping to see a miracle. He toured all the grand places of the forest, and all who saw him knew and respected his power. And in his heart, the Proud Sorcerer was happy, for what greater magic could there be, to leave the crowd so impressed?

But then he heard the laughter once more. And louder. And, from some nondescript hill, he thought he heard music. So he came to it with his small entourage, and roared and stamped his hooves and made a racket: for who could be making such a noise, and not admiring his beautiful pelt? He was as grand as a God, so who would be away?

It was a group of perhaps 6 deer, fawns and grown stags and does alike. Some of them hung in the air above the hill, dancing and giggling together – and those who had not managed the flight stood below them, pretending they had a whole tower of deer for a hat. Never had you seen so merry a bunch, or fawns so close to their elders as this: the music and the conversation flowed like the crying idol’s tears, and it was as if a God was among them, they were so merry.
And from the hilltop came flying the Laughing Sorcerer, bounding up as if running on clouds. He cast the spell to seal his place in their midst, high above them all. “See?” He called over his shoulder. “It is just like that.”
He was shortly followed by a little fawn, whose face was wet as if it had been weeping. He landed a little aways – his aim was off, and badly, but he smiled and crowed in triumph.
“Oh, you did it!” said the Laughing Sorcerer. “Oh, I did it!” said the fawn.

“What is all this?!” shouted the Proud Sorcerer, “What do you think you’re doing, practicing this paltry spell? Even the magic you performed before my cave was grander; do you mock me, sir?”

The Laughing Sorcerer flipped up-side-down in the air and looked at the Proud Sorcerer, and he
“Ah, but sir: I have taken the contest most seriously, and have applied all my skills to working great magic. After all, have I not gathered more deer than you?”
“But you said you knew the magic the Gods knew to create the world: how can this little trick make you more like a god than I?”
The Laughing Sorcerer shook his head.

“Oh, but I do: and I have shown it to you. The magic the gods used to make the world, surely, was a love for it, and a love to share something wonderful. To share joy and laughter… is to perform the magic of this world. From nothing, I have made friends. From little fawns, I have made s. A magic that pleases only yourself will never make you like one of the gods.”
And the Proud Sorcerer considered this, and felt ashamed: all he had ever done with his knowledge was try and make himself look good. But, in fact, he had never made anything. Certainly, no one had ever admired his stolen pelt as much as the little fawn who’d just learn to sit on the air admired that Sorcerer of Laughter.
He knew he had been beaten. He wiped away his fine pelt, for he felt he had lost all right to wear it (though, in truth, he’d never had such a right to begin with). He turned and began to leave, feeling very foolish indeed, and sure that, having been such a vain fool, none would ever think him grand.
“Wait, mister!” said the friends and disciples of the Laughing Sorcerer. “Would you like to join us?”
And you know what? He did.

From that day forward, he practiced no more false arts, but instead devoted himself with all his fervor and passion to learning the magic the Laughing Sorcerer had shown him, which is neither secret nor forbidden, but may well be the greatest of all the Gods’ magics.

When Daryl asked me to write him a love story, I admit, at the time, I was stumped. And although I thought long and hard, and eventually chose to write, it still took me a long time to put it all in words. For this, I apologize, but this story is...very special to me. And so I hope he enjoys my sharing it with him, at last.

The Songbird in the Tree

Once upon a time, on a hill in a valley in the mountains, there grew a single spruce tree. The tree had known suffering in its time – here, the knot where a storm had knocked a branch off, up its trunk a little hollow, full of sap, where insects had rotted it for a while – but in those days, then, it was happy. It had sunshine and rain, it had the cool mountain breeze, it had the distant songs of birds. There were no other trees in the valley, but it was not alone. The tree had a friend.

The tree’s friend was a beautiful songbird, a creature of wind and light. The songbird could hum and sing, chirp and trill with the greatest beauty, demonstrating against the backdrop of the calls of other birds the difference between sound and music. It had landed once on the tree’s branches, and the tree had been awed by the beauty of the songbird’s song – not just the melodic power, like the falling of snow, but the soft sentiment of the songs, singing the beauty of the world.

“Please return here tomorrow,” asked the tree, “And I will tell you about when the valley was new, and the sound like rain made by the fall of spruce needles.”

And this intrigued the bird, and so she returned the next day. And the bird sang, and the tree spoke about the glaciers that had carved out the valley once, leaving it jagged and cold for a time. She lingered in his branches for hours that day, and the next day, and the day after that, and for a hundred beautiful sunny days, and a hundred beautiful rainy days.

For each day, as she was about to fly away again, the tree told her, “Please return here tomorrow, and I will tell you of new things, and the sound like rain made by the fall of spruce needles.” And each day, she came.


And one day, the tree realized something about the songbird. Who always returned when he asked. Who delighted in the old stories he’d tell and the protection from the weather offered by his needles. Here, he had a knot where the storm had knocked his branch off, and here, a little hollow in his trunk filled with sap, where insects had rotted it for a while – and the little bird, who knew nothing of such things, looked with sympathy at the marks and lamented the suffering of the past with him. Who he loved, without wishing to love her. For surely, no bird could ever love something that was not, itself, a bird. He could not take to wing with her, or brood with her over a nest of eggs; surely this was an obstacle to any love between them, and he had no wish to frighten her with love she could not return.

Still, he spoke to her from time to time of love, and asked of her heart in subtle ways. But the bird was an innocent creature, which had never known true suffering, and had thus never known true love (for love is in its measure deep sorrow and deep joy); she was untouched by the earth and all its concerns. And so, the spruce felt, she certainly did not love him. For fear of his heartwood, he hid this from her.


Autumn came, however, and the songbird flew away, southward, for the winter. The spruce tree, who had never before marked the flight of birds, waited. At first, it was patient. But as the days went on, it grew anxious, and at last, it fell into despair. It began to weep. And it wept for 100 days and 100 nights, until the valley around it had filled with its tears. It now stood alone at the heart of a shimmering lake, and still, the spruce tree wept.

One day, an eagle came and landed on the spruce tree’s branches, for it had seen the lake and wondered at the single tree at its heart. “What ho, fine tree! Why are you weeping?”
“I weep, for my dear friend the songbird has left my branches and will never return again.”
“Do you weep because you miss the music of the songbird, which was so beautiful?” Asked the eagle.
“No, although with all my heart, I miss the music of my friend the songbird. I weep for, despite all the things I spoke to the songbird about, she will never know what was in my heart, and she will fly into the world never knowing someone loved her true."
The eagle was moved by the spruce’s story, and when it took to the air, it carried the story in its breast.


The eagle flew very, very far to the South, where the songbird had gotten lost on her way back North. “I have heard the saddest story!” cried the eagle in its shrill voice.
“Oh, what story is this,” asked the songbird, who loved stories. “Is it very sad?”
“I happened upon a lake in a valley high up on the mountain, where a single spruce tree grows. I wondered at the spruce tree at the heart of the lake, and when I drew near, I found it weeping. I asked it, ‘why do you weep,’ and it said, ‘I weep because of all the things I spoke to my friend about, she will never know what was in my heart.’ And for all that weeping, it has formed a great lake.”
“What a sad story,” the songbird agreed. “Perhaps I might see it on my way home, and tell my friend about it if I can return, for he knows great sorrow. Where is this lake?”
But the eagle had forgotten where it was, and so the songbird could not find her way home, or the lake the eagle had spoken of.


One day, a butterfly came and landed on the spruce tree’s branches, for it had seen the waterfall where the spruce’s lake spilled out of the valley, and had wondered at the single tree at its heart. “What ho, fine tree!” said the butterfly, “Why are you weeping?”
“I weep, for my dear friend the songbird has left my branches and will never return again,” the spruce answered through its tears.
“Do you weep because you miss the sympathy of the songbird, which was so kind?” Asked the butterfly.
“No, although with all my heart, I miss the kindness of my friend the songbird. I weep for, despite all the things I spoke to the songbird about, she will never know what was in my heart, and she will fly into the world never knowing someone loved her true."
And the butterfly was moved by the spruce’s sorrows, and when it took to the air, it painted those sorrows on its beautiful wings.


The butterfly flew very far to the South, where the songbird was still lost on her way back North. “I have painted the loveliest sorrow on my wings!” cried the butterfly in its quiet voice.
“Oh, what sorrow is this,” asked the songbird, who loved paintings, “Is it very lovely?”
“I happened upon a waterfall in a valley high up on the mountain, fed from a lake where a single spruce tree grows. I wondered at the spruce tree at the heart of the lake, and when I drew near, I found it weeping. I asked it, ‘why do you weep,’ and it said, ‘I weep because my friend will fly into the world never knowing someone loved her true. .’ And for all that weeping, it has formed a splendid waterfall.” And he showed her this all on his wings.
“What a lovely painting,” the songbird agreed. “Perhaps I might see it on my way home, and tell my friend about it if I can return, for he is wise in matters of love. Where is this waterfall?”
But the butterfly had forgotten where it was, and so the songbird could not find her way home, or the lake.



And one day, an owl came and landed on the spruce tree’s branches, for it was wise, and had known the lake was made of salt and sap, regret and loss that no innocent rainfall could make, and had hoped to soothe the single tree at its heart. “I am sorry, fine tree,” said the owl. “But why do you weep so?”
“I weep, for my dear friend the songbird has left my branches and will never return again,” the spruce answered as its roots trailed mournfully in the water.
“Do you weep because you miss the songbird, whom you loved?” Asked the owl.
“No, although with all my heart, I miss my songbird, whom I loved. I weep for, despite all the things I spoke to the songbird about, she will never know what was in my heart, and she will fly into the world never knowing someone loved her true."
And the owl was moved by the love of the spruce, and when it took to the air, it carried the love of the spruce with it, and whispered, “Who, who, who was this songbird the spruce loved so? How might I find her?”


And it flew far to the south, where the songbird was still lost on her way back North. “I have found the deepest love in all the world.”
“Oh, what love is this?” Asked the Songbird, whose heart ached and she did not know why. “Is it very deep?”
“I happened upon a lake of tears in a valley high up on the mountain, where a lonely spruce tree grows. I pitied the spruce tree at the heart of the lake. I asked it, ‘Why do you weep,’ and it said it wept because its dear friend the songbird had not returned. I asked it, ‘Do you weep because you miss the songbird, whom you loved?’ and it replied, ‘No, although with all my heart, I miss my songbird, whom I loved. I weep for, despite all the things I spoke to the songbird about, she will never know what was in my heart, and she will fly into the world never knowing someone loved her true.’ And now I search for this songbird, for whom the sorrow to create a lake was borne.”

“What a deep love,” the songbird wept. And the songbird knew in that moment that the spruce tree the owl spoke of was her spruce tree, and the sorrow to weep a lake of tears, for that loss, was also her sorrow. For she missed the stories of the spruce tree, and the sound of the falling of spruce needles like rain, and she missed the spruce tree, whom she loved.
“Oh, where might I find this spruce tree, so that I can at last go home?”
And the owl remembered, for he’d carried thoughts of their love in his heart, so he told her.


And the bird took to wing towards it, and came at last to the river that flowed from the waterfall that sprang from the lake that the tree had wept for 100 days and 100 nights, for love of her.
“Oh, dear tree! Dear, dear, spruce tree!” cried the songbird. “I have returned! I am sorry I was lost to you!” And the spruce tree straightened in awe at this miracle.
“But how have you returned, my friend?” Asked the Spruce Tree, although it had prayed for all those days and nights.

“I returned because you told the eagle how you’d never told me what was in your heart, and I returned because you told the butterfly how you wish I’d known. I returned because, although you could not say it to me, you knew you’d done wrong, and spoken truly to the owl. I returned because I could not fly off into the world, never knowing that someone loved me truly.”
And the branches of the spruce tree embraced her, and he might never wish for anything more in all his days. But then, she said,

“I returned because, of all the things I’d spoken to you of, I’d never told you what was really in my heart, and you wept a lake, never knowing I loved you truly.”

In the years to come, the valley bloomed with their reunited love. And though the songbird might take her winters elsewhere, as songbirds do, the two were never truly apart again, for they both lived in this world, knowing they had said all they needed to say.

A young piebald fawn came to me the other day, not quite knowing what it was I did -- only knowing that it might be a suitable gift for the young doe he loved, that I might be able to make for him words of tenderness held in his heart. I was more than happy to -- there's nothing, nothing in this world, sweeter to behold than the blush of first love. Except, perhaps, love that's been old and weathered, and endured all time. But perhaps, one day, Cian will come to me and ask me to write something for that, as well... I'd be happy to oblige

A Dream of Her

You merge the lake and the sky
in the rippling waves of your feathers.
I'm enlivened by your sleepy eye,
by your voice like a breeze through gentle weathers.

You're a spring of life in bloom
amidst a world so like a desert,
Pulling me to light from dust and gloom;
Without you, I fall back to the dirt.

And yet, you seem so frail and slight
A whisper, a cry, a wingless lark.
I long to protect you in the night
and keep away nightmares in the dark.

I'd stay in slumber, see visions in streams
to keep beside you, if only in dreams.