The Garden IC

[D20ragon]

In ones or twos, winding down their myriad paths, they reach the signpost.
It weighs on the air around it heavily in the false vastness of its surroundings, and looking away from it takes the slightest effort, a noticeable flick of the eyes. It once had been wood, perhaps, but the wear of time, strange winds, and stranger hands has smoothed and hardened it until it was smooth as polished amber.
The base was easily wide as a giant's cane, and, should you try to walk around it, it would be easy to conclude it was wider still. As ones eyes follow the dark veins and knots upward, forms became evident, drawn seamlessly out of the post by some ancient knife or chisel. Four figures, huge and graceful with humanoid shape, faces upturned, high above the ground.

The first had once been black, and the darkness in the wood lingered, though time had done its steady best to sully it. Hair, carved intricately and impossibly thin, streamed from its head. Long and unruly, swirling around its figure before reaching down past its heels, it seems to shift slightly as you look away from it, never remaining where it had last been seen. A crown circled its brow, and its hair resents being bound, rising and falling most violently around the tines of the crown. One hand, knuckles tight and strained, holds a rod of some dark metal close to its body. Its other arm, outstretched, is strong and lean, as is the hand, long nails tipping the wiry fingers. Along the arms length, letters are burned, black, long cold.

Lose Your Heart

The second holds some of its green hue in the folds of its robes. It leans out, one arm wrapped around the post, hood blown back to reveal a hairless, thin face, sun blasted, eyes pale and wide, lips parted, the beginning of a word forever resting on its tongue. The other arm, outstretched, seeks something. Thrust violently forward, its hand grasps for something only visible to its own hungry eyes. Along the arm, the grain of the wood is curled into the phrase:

Lose Your Mind

The third has red tangled in its hair and cloak, both of which are blown forward by some imagined wind, the motion portrayed so convincingly that one almost feels the stirring of hot air on their cheeks. Its lips are cracked, and its eyes have tears in them, though whether from sorrow or from the force of the gale, it is impossible to tell. Leaves swirl around its ankles, along with torn branches and sprigs of berries. With one hand, it shades its brow, while with the other, it points at some distant object. Along the pointing arm, words have been etched:

Lose Your Way

The final figure was once white, and had flowers spilling from its lips, covering its bare chest. It wears nothing, and leans back against the post casually, head tilted, lips pursed in a whistle as leaves sprouted between them. It covers its eyes with the back of one hand, while the other arm and hand are outstretched, holding a small knife out, parallel to the horizon. On this arm, the words have been inked:

Lose Your Soul

The air was still here, though along the paths that led outward the wind was strong. It smells of the earth after rain, of melting water, of coming frost.


Once one draws their eyes away from the signpost, it is possible to see a small man, half the size of a human, with curly white hair, sleeping peacefully. A heavy amulet lies on the ground beside him, a knot of silver cord, and his breathing is deep and slow. His clothes, though they looked expensive and of good make, are well worn, threadbare on the knees, stains around his collar.
He does not stir as they arrived, and could perhaps go unnoticed. There was something faded about him, and it is somehow easy to believe he is as old as the signpost, though his face shows no signs of antiquity.