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Here rests the grave of an ancient forest.

Where once aged pines had touched the sky and held the hands of divinity, now there is nothing. Ash mixes with the soil underfoot and the air is hot and dry. The land is uneven, craters of varying sizes revealing bedrock. When it rains, there is no shelter. One can only stare at the heavens and wonder: do the gods care? Still the rain will fall. Perhaps a crack of thunder will beg the observer to flinch and flee. Take the sharp winds as an answer. Look at the emptiness, the depravity, and feel the helplessness take hold. If the gods care, it is because they enjoy their power. Why lay waste to a land that none will miss? Why steal a life unless it is precious?

Years passed. Small grasses and mosses have taken root. Wildflowers have taken root, though most are bluebells. On occasion, a poppy will appear, its seed drifting from southern meadows. Distant is the sound of the Maiden's Tears, and north is the angel's throne. So powerful is the looming beast that one can almost feel compelled to kneel and bow.

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