Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals
Let Sleeping Soil Lie
"Welcome," Zorko whispered, as if the mist might listen. "To the twilight beneath Dream Master Lake."
He stood not on the shore, but beneath it: a forgotten aquifer cloaked in moss and roots. Light filtered in from cracks in the lakebed above, shimmering like spilled moonlight across algae-veiled stone. The air tasted like copper and clover. Something croaked once, far away, and then stopped, as if it had remembered it was being listened to.
Zorko moved between the gnarled roots with reverent caution, phoenix feather raised.
"Few dare to journey into the Dreamroot Hollow," he intoned. "It is said that beneath the lake's dreams, the lake forgets its name."
He stopped beside a small stone dais, no larger than a soup plate. Upon it sat a bundle of sinewy, dark-brown roots, twisted like an angry fist, yet pulsing with a faint green glow.
"This," Zorko said solemnly, "is today’s artifact: Madrake Root. Not a madrake root. The Madrake Root."
He turned to the orb. It flickered once.
"Alchemists seek it. Apothecaries whisper of it. Children fear the sound it makes when it is pulled from the dirt. And yet it hums. Oh, it hums."
The stone beneath the root gave a low, steady vibration. Zorko knelt.
"To hold a madrake root is to hear the land scream. To plant it again is to ask for forgiveness. And to brew it properly?"
He touched the root with his feather. It quivered.
"To brew it is to dream with your eyes open."
A rustle. A breeze.
Then, stepping from behind a curtain of luminous vines, came a wizard clad in deep forest robes embroidered with wandering vines and symbols older than weather. A rabbit perched on his shoulder, completely unimpressed.
Zorko rose.
"Druid Merlon of Dreams," he breathed. "And Bun-Bun of the Dirt."
Merlon smiled. The rabbit did not.
"Zorko," said Merlon, his voice warm as compost. "I hear you’re meddling with roots you don’t understand."
Zorko gestured to the root.
"Then perhaps you’ll teach me."
Merlon stepped forward. Bun-Bun sniffed the air.
The appraisal had begun.
Merlon approached the dais, his gait slow and sure, like a tree deciding where to grow. The moss seemed to perk up beneath his boots. The glowing root pulsed brighter, as if it were recognizing something familiar.
"Ah," Merlon murmured. "Still fragrant. Still faintly annoyed. Good."
Zorko tilted his head. "Annoyed?"
"Madrakes dislike being removed from their dreams," Merlon said. He pulled a small copper tin from his robes and opened it. Inside were dried lavender petals and what looked like crushed moon bark.
Bun-Bun sniffed. "That’s not going to help."
Zorko blinked. "Did the rabbit just—"
"Speak? Yes," Bun-Bun said, licking one paw. "I only do it when things are about to get loud."
Zorko turned back to Merlon, intrigued. "This root. It came from the Vampyre Mist, didn’t it?"
"It did," Merlon said. "From a Golden Treat Box, one of eleven. The Imp gave it to me himself."
"Willingly?" Zorko asked.
"Not quite," Bun-Bun muttered. "He lost a bet."
Zorko blinked. "What sort of bet?"
"A joke duel," she said, inspecting her paw. "I told him rabbits are always late because they have too many hare-ends to run."
Zorko’s mouth opened, then closed, reverently. "A worthy exchange."
Zorko leaned in. There it was, barely visible in the grain of its bark: a small looping signature, burned in with impossible precision.
"The Imp's hand," Zorko breathed.
"His mischief, more like," Bun-Bun muttered.
Merlon reached out and cradled the root with both hands. The orb dimmed. A low hum filled the chamber.
"This root," he said, "will not scream. Not here. Not while I hold it. But you must not wake it fully."
Zorko hesitated. "Why not?"
"Because if it wakes," Merlon said, "the dreams start dreaming back."
Zorko went still.
The mist pulsed. A faint melody, not music, not quite, rippled from the root.
And then it began to breathe.
Zorko stood tall, arms lifted in ceremonial flair, phoenix feather quivering.
“I see now,” he proclaimed, “the truth hidden in bark and bitterness!”
Merlon arched a brow. Bun-Bun turned slightly away.
“This is no mere root,” Zorko continued. “It is a cocoon. A dormant seed of something older than forests. Look closely. Do you not feel it? That buried lamentation?”
He leaned near the root and whispered, "You are not wood. You are prophecy, disguised as mulch."
Bun-Bun made a small noise. A noise that might have been a cough or laughter.
Zorko circled the stone dais, voice rising. "Not flora. Fauna in disguise. A botanical lie. Perhaps even... a wizard, cursed by hubris and compost."
Merlon opened his mouth, paused, then closed it again.
Zorko tapped the root with the feather. The root twitched. The mist sharpened.
“Aha,” he shouted. “Reaction. Confirmation. I have awakened the echo within.”
He pulled from his robes a bowl of salt, a feather from something clearly extinct, and an acorn carved with a smiling face. He scattered them around the root.
“The Spiral of Unsleeping Clarity,” he said. “Used for gnarled sentient objects, or judgmental fruit.”
The root pulsed once. Then again. Then opened a single green eye.
Zorko recoiled, then leaned in, delighted.
Merlon remained still. Bun-Bun tucked herself behind Merlon’s boot.
“It is watching me,” Zorko whispered.
“It’s dreaming through you,” said Merlon, quietly.
Zorko nodded solemnly. “Then I shall dream back.”
He raised both arms. The orb flickered. Twice.
The mist parted.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward, unhurried, unblinking, already mid-thought.
"Stop chanting." Uvlius of the Belfry.
Zorko froze. His arms stayed raised, one foot hovering in mid-pivot.
Uvlius stepped closer. His robes carried the dust of old libraries and moonlit ledgers. He gave the root a brief, appraising glance. Then, with one finger, tapped the glowing green eye.
It closed.
Bun-Bun sighed with relief.
Uvlius turned to Zorko.
“It is not an egg. Nor a cocoon. Nor a cursed wizard. It is a Madrake Root. It dreams, yes. But it does not watch. It listens. It stores.”
Zorko lowered his arms. "Stores what?"
Uvlius glanced at Merlon, who gave a small nod.
"Sound," said Uvlius. "Specifically, screams. Madrakes evolved in regions plagued by silence. They absorb anguish like roots absorb rain. In the right brew, they replay what was once forgotten."
Zorko blinked. "That... sounds awful."
"It is also how we recovered the Lament of the Broken Tower," said Uvlius. "And the Names of the Nine Veiled Queens."
He turned to Merlon.
"Have you already steeped it?"
"I have not," Merlon said. "It prefers dusk tea. We still have time."
Uvlius looked around briefly. Then turned to leave.
"One more thing," he said. "If the root opens again, do not speak to it. Dreams spoken aloud can become memories. And memory, in this case, is contagious."
The orb flickered. Then steadied.
And Uvlius was gone.
Silence returned, soft and full, like moss regrowing over disturbed soil.
Zorko stood, one hand smoothing his robe. “Well,” he said, voice hushed, “that explains the whispering hydrangeas. I thought they were just being dramatic.”
Bun-Bun rolled her eyes. “They were quoting you.”
Merlon knelt beside the root. Its glow had faded to ember. The eye remained shut.
Zorko stepped forward, feather lowered.
“Today’s artifact,” he said quietly, “was not a weapon. Nor a curse. Nor a prophecy in disguise.”
He looked to Merlon. Then the orb.
“It was a vessel. A listening place. A garden for grief too old to name.”
Merlon did not interrupt.
Zorko paced once around the dais, slower now.
“The Madrake Root is not to be feared. Nor pitied. It is to be respected. Tended. Buried, if one must. Or brewed, if one dares. But never, ever awakened in jest.”
He turned to the orb, lifting his phoenix feather.
“Final appraisal: A scream held in root form, twenty-seven gold in resale, and one vessel for grief too old to name.”
He tapped the feather gently to the stone.
“Let sleeping soil lie.”
Merlon smiled. “You’re learning.”
Zorko bowed. “I never stop.”
Bun-Bun sniffed the air. “Time to go.”
The mist thinned. The hollow dimmed.
Zorko stepped back into the shimmered light beneath the lake, feather flickering red.
“This has been Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals,” he said quietly. “Today’s artifact: quiet. Complex. Possibly still listening.”
He paused. Then added, even softer, “And as always, tread gently.”
The orb flickered. Then faded to black.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
Zorko’s Arcane Appraisals
The Tusk of Winter, Cut into a Crown
“Welcome,” Zorko said, his voice warm and ceremonial, “to a den stitched from quiet, where the rafters have learned to sleep like bears, and the floor keeps the secret map of every boot that ever tiptoed across it.”
He tapped his phoenix feather against the worktable, and the blue glow climbed the quill like dawn learning to stand.
“Here, the air is slow, the light is patient, and the walls have claws only for memory.”
The orb in the corner hummed once, as if clearing its throat, then went still.
A large man ducked through the canvas flap and stood with a careful weight, as if he knew every board’s complaint by name. He had a black beard, sea-thick and stubborn, and a massive brown cape thrown about his shoulders. In his right hand, he carried something bundled in fur. His eyes were the color of river stones that had never minded the current.
“Good afternoon,” the man said.
Zorko lifted the feather. “Yes, yes, an afternoon indeed, citizen of bread and errands. Place your parcel here and present your ordinary problem in an extraordinary way, that I might improve it.”
The man smiled. “Appointment under Homer of the Villa,” he said. “Though I’m not surprised you don’t see it.”
Zorko waved gently, as if clearing fog off a loaf. “We have a glut of Homers this week. One delivered onions. One recited a poem about onions that made the onions blush. I edit the registry for onions in my sleep. Sit, anonymous Homer. I will discover your truth.”
“That’s the point,” the man said, amused. “Most don’t discover it. Makes errands easier.”
“Charming,” Zorko said, scribbling air. “A nickname is a leash for a story. We will remove it and let the creature run. Your beard is impeccable, your cape commits to a mood, and your package smells of mountain winter.”
The man’s mouth tugged like a rope on a bell. “Go on then. I’m curious what you’ll make of it.”
He placed the bundle on the table. The fur in the wrapping had a heavy brown sheen, the kind that made a room behave.
Zorko leaned in. The fur prickled once, then settled. The orb remained indifferent, a dull eye on a cloudy day.
“Without this, I can shop, mend roofs, walk the streets without a word,” the man said, tapping the bundle. “With it, well, you’ll see.”
Zorko nodded, as if he had just heard a recipe that began with thunder. “Aha. A fragile domestic situation. Do you collect eggs for sport, sir? Are the eggs symbols? Place your parcel properly.”
The man hesitated, then unwrapped the bundle. The bear’s head unfurled, glassy eyes staring past them both. The hide draped over the edge of the table as though it wished to continue to the floor and keep going. Teeth clicked once, an absentminded greeting.
The orb did not react.
Zorko peered into the bear’s mouth, then into its eyes, then into the idea of its eyes. He took a steadying breath and pressed the feather’s glow down into the throat.
“No frost in there. Good. Speak your request.”
“It’s no mystery to me,” the man said, resting a hand on the fur. “I live with it every day. What I’m curious about is how you’ll dress it up with that feather of yours.”
“And your name, one last time,” Zorko said, already distracted by the texture of the fur and the way the light along its guard hairs turned thin as icicles.
“Homer of the Villa,” he said easily. “Though some insist on Bearsnake. You can decide which you prefer once you’ve seen.”
“Very good,” Zorko said kindly. “We will assign you a better nickname once the object stops pretending to be an animal. For now, you are Homer. This is a hat that became a rumor, then became a hat again.”
The man lifted the bear head carefully. He held it, then glanced at Zorko in a way that asked for permission and forgiveness in the same look.
“Do as you will,” Zorko said, and then, because the feather throbbed once against his palm, he half-whispered, “This will be interesting.”
The man raised the bear head, settled it over his brow, and let the hide slide down his neck and shoulders. The jaws came to rest above his forehead like a frozen shout. The room shivered. The fur stood up along the spine in a ridge. The orb woke with a bright pulse that threw a short shadow of the bear’s snout across the wall.
Zorko stumbled back and nearly sat on a stool that was not there.
“By the Marsh,” he breathed, clutching the feather like a polite spear. “You are the Bearsnake! You are the tusk of winter, cut into a crown. I have seen your name written in snow that refused to melt. I have heard your footsteps argue with avalanche.”
He blinked rapidly and then bowed, awkward and sincere. “I am honored. I am also nauseous. Heroic objects have that effect. Please excuse me for a brief internal whirlpool.” He steadied, swallowed, and smiled too widely. “Proceed.”
The man tilted his head, the bear jaws creaking. “Proceed? You’ve already answered your own question. People see this, and they fill in the rest. I don’t change. Only their eyes do.”
Zorko circled him, careful to keep the feather’s glow just short of the bear’s teeth. “It is a conduit for the Testament of Beasts. It invites a soul to borrow an animal’s public name. You keep your words, but the world hears claws inside them. Splendid. Terrible. Splendid again.”
He crouched and tried a low growl. The growl sounded like a kettle trying to be brave. The bear hat ignored him. Zorko cleared his throat and tried again, only to wind up coughing until his eyes watered.
“You don’t need to speak bear,” Homer said with a grin. “That’s your job, not mine.”
Zorko hopped to his feet and tapped the feather twice against the tabletop. “I disagree with your despairing common sense. There is more than costume here. The hide hums with kept promises. Look how the hairs align when you think of danger. Look how the teeth close when you speak of children.”
The teeth clicked once, as if to punctuate the point. The orb blinked, either approving or amused.
Zorko squeezed his eyes half shut, the vision he reserves for internally dramatic measurements. “This is a crown of ursine kingship, a rainproof hymn, a winter borrowed from a river that remembers how to hold stones without dropping any. When you wear it, you are not you. You are a myth piloting you. That is the glorious curse.”
“Inside, I’m still Homer,” he said calmly. “The hat doesn’t make me roar or fight. It just makes people think I might.”
Zorko paused, the feather held midair like a conductor who has become briefly emotional about timpani. “Tell me truly. Do you enjoy the applause that accuses you of greatness? Do you enjoy the boo that believes you caused the weather?”
“Sometimes I like the quiet of being overlooked,” Homer said. “Other times, I don’t mind when a child thinks they’ve met a story. Both are fine.”
Zorko looked at the bear head, then at the man below it, and for a moment his voice quieted.
“Stories help children cross dangerous bridges. Stories also drag carts with the wrong wheels. I respect both outcomes.”
He set the feather gently against the bear’s snout.
“You are a mask that presses its paw on memory. You rewrite nothing, you remind everything.”
Homer chuckled. “You’ve caught up, then.”
Zorko straightened, struck the feather against the wood, and the blue light chimed along the quill. The ritual returned to him like breath. He smiled, the showman and the witness in momentary truce.
“Final appraisal,” he said. “Twelve thousand gold in borrowed majesty, ninety in resale for a hide that sheds responsibility onto the floor, and one durable truth: you are no less yourself when the world fails to recognize you.”
Homer nodded, gathering the bear head with simple care, as one gathers a heavy book that has been read enough for today. He folded the cape tighter around his shoulders, then loosened it again, thoughtful.
“That will do,” he said. “You’ve dressed it up better than most.”
He lifted the hat from the table and tucked it under his arm. The orb dimmed, and already the air began to forget him.
“Careful, Zorko,” Homer added with a half-smile. “Next time I come without the hat, you’ll probably charge me for onions.”
He ducked through the flap and was gone, leaving the faint smell of fur and woodsmoke behind.
Zorko blinked once, then twice, then looked down at the feather as if it might help him remember the man who had just left.
The orb, patient and almost kind, flickered.
Entered by: 0x6424…79B4
