Dr. Ocsid once related a story to me about why locals in the Chirpwilds avoid a particular path. He and his companions took the route anyway, surmising it to be quick and—most importantly—shady on a rather hot summer’s day. They found that at one point, a tree had grown over the road. Ocsid, who once taught botany, called it a case of spontaneous grafting and fusion between two great old oaks, and I haven’t the knowledge to dispute him.

As they passed beneath its boughs, though, a branch snaked down and stole Ocsid’s back. It did not contain his greataxe, nor his targe, and he already wore his armor. Rather, the satchel contained several books that he had purchased for his personal library at the great Tomery. Recognizing that the act of snatching required an animating will, Ocsid politely requested that the tree return his pack.

“Why should I?” was the response. “You’ve felled my kin and pulped them up to make your silly little books. I, as their relative, ought to inherit.”

Ocsid’s protestation that the paper was made from papyral reeds fell on deaf branches, and the tree tossed its prize from one barky grasp to the next, laughing all the while.

Eventually, Ocsid—faced with the question of losing his books or being forced to destroy a truly remarkable specimen—decided on a gambit. He told the tree that he had already read the books, and that his mind was made up on what to do next. When the tree inquired what the books held—lacking the eyes to read them—Ocsid replied “Woodcarving and lumberjackery.”

The tree promptly returned the satchel and fell silent and still.

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