Chapter 1 - Vast Open Space
The footfalls of Evoker Kalo were uneven, each step a whisper of weight upon the shifting ground. The path beneath his feet was no true road—more a wild animal’s track, forged by countless generations of creatures who knew the land better than any man could. The earth ebbed and flowed in irregular undulations, at times sloping gently downward, at others rising in jagged, rocky outcrops, where the hand of time had chipped away at the granite stone. Between the uneven stretches, thick grasses, mosses, and tangled heathers rose from the soil like a blanket of green, soft and secretive, alive with movement. The soft crunch of the earth beneath his boots spoke in quiet reverence to the land that had known his family for countless centuries.
The Heath—wild and untouched—whispered in the breeze, and Kalo followed the path of the snaking stream, its waters winding through the landscape like a silver ribbon, meandering and elusive. The stream played hide-and-seek with the landscape, appearing and vanishing as it cut its way through the thickets, chiseling its course through stubborn boulders and scattered granite stones. The ground was alive, and though his feet felt their way through the thick underbrush, there was a palpable sense that the Heath itself was watching, listening, and remembering.
Around him, life thrived in its untamed forms. The speckled heath deer, slender and quiet, nibbled idly at the purple thistles that burst in vibrant clusters through the green, their eyes distant and calm. Weasels slinked between the undergrowth, hunting their prey with the practiced silence of creatures who knew the land’s secret ways. The rabbits hid in the deep shadows of the heath, concealed beneath the thick blanket of grass, unaware of the hunter’s gaze.
Above, the sky stretched endlessly, dark and foreboding, tinged with the soft promise of rain. A lone falcon circled high, its wings cutting through the air with a grace that seemed to belong more to the heavens than to the earth. It was a silent sentinel, a spirit that had taken to the wind as naturally as the wind itself. The falcon wheeled and spiraled, dipping lower until, with an effortless turn, it shot upwards and out over to the west.
In the crook of his arm, a green asp coiled, its smooth scales glistening faintly beneath the dimming sky. Its head rested in the warmth of his arm, eyes half-lidded, soaking in whatever rays of sunlight managed to pierce through the heavy clouds overhead. There was something peaceful in its lethargy, a stillness that Kalo admired. It, too, had become part of the land, as unhurried and timeless as the rocks and the winds.
Kalo stretched out his arms, letting his fingertips brush lightly against the tall grasses that swayed around him like an ocean of green. The feeling was as intimate as a prayer—his hands sinking into the soft blades, his fingers catching the subtle, fragile vibrations of the land beneath him. Each touch grounded him further, pulling him deeper into the pulse of the Heath, and in those moments, he could almost hear the voices of those who had walked this earth before him. His ancestors, the Kooplings, who had come to this land long ago, who had founded their homes in the shadows of the stones and the wind, who had left their legacy etched into the very soil he now walked upon.
The wind stirred, carrying with it the chill of the coming autumn. It was a warning, a harbinger that the summer, in all its golden glory, was slipping away, and soon the landscape would change once again. The air grew colder, biting at his skin, and the Heath, for all its beauty, became a place of shadow and foreboding. Kalo felt it deeply—this land was not merely a refuge; it was a living thing, always changing, always in motion. And yet, as the seasons turned, it held firm, a constant in the tide of time.
He moved forward, his boots sinking softly into the earth, now scanning the brush for what the Heath could offer. He had long since learned to live off the land, foraging for what nature provided in the moments before the frost came to claim the wilds. The sweet berries that clung to the branches, the tender roots buried in the soil, the herbs that smelled faintly of spice and warmth—these would soon be gone, as the first frosts of autumn began to creep over the ground. It was a time of preparation, a time to gather what would be needed for the coming winter, for the Heath was not a land that easily gave up its bounty, and its gifts were fleeting.
The green asp coiled tighter in his arm, its body pressing gently against his skin. He could feel the way the world held its breath, the way the land itself seemed to lean into the stillness of the moment. And as he moved deeper into the heart of the Heath, he could not help but feel at home.
Kalo walked onward, the wind rising around him, carrying with it the scent of the earth and the promise of change. He was here, in the vast open spaces of his birthright, and here, beneath the canopy of shifting skies and unspoken memories, he would stand. This was his land—his inheritance. And though he had no answers for what lay ahead, there was no place else he would rather be.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
Chapter 2 - Home
Smoke drifted like a shroud over the charred heath. All around, the vibrant greens and purples of life had been consumed, replaced by embers and ash. Death hung heavy in the air, and the rolling expanse of the land seemed hollow, bereft of its song. On the crest of a barren hill, Evoker Kalo knelt, his head bowed in silence. Beside him, a lone patch of white heather swayed faintly in the dying breeze—the last emblem of his family, a fragile echo of their memory. But even this sacred bloom was stained, its petals darkened by soot and blood, fading to a murky, lifeless brown.
Kalo dug his hands into the earth, the soil clumping between his fingers, blackened but still cool to the touch. From the depths of his cloak, he withdrew a single acorn. It nestled in his palm like hope itself, fragile yet eternal. With a trembling hand, he placed it into the scarred ground. Gently, he brushed the soil over it, murmuring a prayer—not for the past, which was lost, but for a future that might yet be born. As he covered the acorn, he whispered, “Let this be a beginning and not an end.”
Four hundred seasons had passed.
Where once a barren hill stood, there now rose a mighty oak, its vast canopy spreading like a king's crown against the sky. The tree's arms reached skyward, stretching over a hundred feet, each branch thick and gnarled, laden with age and strength. Its trunk, ancient and formidable, bore the scars of time—a hide as rough as the skin of some great beast. At its base, the oak had grown so wide it measured eighteen feet across, and from its roots rose an archway, as though nature itself had carved a door for Kalo.
Twisting roots curled and dipped into the earth, forming a staircase that spiraled down beneath the hill. The roots, thick and sinewy, framed the descent, where the land fell away to reveal stonework cobbled together from the ruin of another time. There, among the roots and the soil, the remnants of a dwelling had grown alongside the oak, its walls molded into the embrace of the great tree.
This was Kalo’s sanctuary, his kingdom built upon ruin. A home not given, but made. He was king to himself and no other.
The Koopling descended the staircase, his footsteps light upon the cobblestones, as though careful not to disturb the quiet sanctity of the place. At the base of the steps, a sturdy wooden door stood framed in the gnarled arch of the tree’s roots. On either side, two arched windows filtered the dim light of the fading day, casting soft amber hues across the threshold.
Inside, the air was warm and welcoming. The walls were sealed with lime to hold the earth at bay, and thick oak rafters jutted overhead, giving the space a sense of strength and permanence. Sprig, the green asp who rarely left Kalo’s side, uncoiled lazily from his arm and slithered into the shadows, seeking some cozy corner to curl up in. Kalo lit a lamp with practiced ease, its flickering glow spilling across the room.
He moved through his home, passing a sturdy wooden table in the dining room, its surface worn smooth by years of use. Beyond that lay a library, the heart of the house. Books lined the walls, their spines a patchwork of color and age, while shelves and cupboards brimmed with curiosities—objects gathered from the heath and beyond. It was a space of quiet wisdom, filled with the echoes of stories yet untold.
Kalo moved to the hearth, its stone base blackened by countless fires. He stooped to gather kindling from a neatly stacked pile and, with a flint, coaxed a flame to life. As the fire grew, so too did the room's warmth. All the while, Kalo spoke softly, his voice filling the space as though addressing an unseen audience. He spoke of the rains that were surely coming, of the creatures he had seen on the heath that day, and of the whispers of the wind through the grass. His words were half to himself, half to the room, which seemed to listen in quiet companionship.
In the center of the room stood a great padded armchair, its surface worn and comfortable. Kalo slumped into it, his body weary from the day’s toil. The chair faced the hearth, but only partially—angled ever so slightly toward a corner. There, leaning unobtrusively, stood a simple wooden broom. It seemed ordinary enough, save for the small circular emblem at its base: a branch of white heather carved into the wood.
As Kalo spoke, his eyes grew heavy, the fire’s warmth lulling him into rest. His final words were a quiet, “Good night.”
And though no one was there to hear him, the broom in the corner shifted ever so slightly, as though to nod in reply.
Entered by: 0xe9a1…78d3
