Tamren

the undergrowth crackles, twigs snapping and leaves rustling. the envoy leans over a bush, the long stemmed roses tilting faces up towards them as if in the presence of the sun. a smile tugs at their lips as they carefully brush a finger over the petal of the closest rose. the colour leeches out instantly, drawing together to form a brilliant red orb hovering in the palm of their hands. they hum to themself, eyes drifting close. this will do, yes.

tamren places as many roses as the bush would give into their bag, the stems splitting away with the barest tug. they murmur a thanks as they leave, and the forest sighs its goodbye behind them.

later, tam burns the stems. it makes a merry fire, eagerly burning until all that is left is ashes and dust. the leaves will be grounded into pulp, shaped with gentle hands until flat and smooth. the colour is drained from the petals and left in separate bowls, the red glimmering darkly in the light of the fire.

they watch and listen. in the smoke of the fire, the roses find their voice at last. stories bubble up, the flowers eager to tell what they have seen and what they have heard. it was a chance to speak, and speak they did. tamren tugs a feather loose from their headwings, and carefully starts penning the stories on paper made of leaves and ink made of petals.

the forest has many stories to tell, and tamren listens to them all. they are written down and kept, a chronicle of history.