Autumn comes, and leaves decay, and life's vibrancy falls in wait. "This is but a season," the forestals say. "Spring will bloom again."

The next year's crop is modest, and winds run dry, and soil makes bed for broken carcasses. "This is but a larger cycle," preach the forestals. "Nature will rebound."

A forest is gone at mortal hands, the earth lies poisoned by fell magics, and species go extinct the way of unicorns. Still, Nature's priests are hopeful. "The Cycles remain. Though some things are gone, it only makes more room for propagation."

Yggdrasil's branches are cut short, and few sprout unbent and untangled. They remain in denial. "It will regrow. This is how it has always been."

Life frays at the edges, Death breaks its course, and all is eaten by ravaging tides. When the scales are tipped enough to fall down and break, still they see no further than their groves. "Stay strong. Soon we will be delivered."

When the last seed expires, the forestals no longer speak. They joined its fate long ago, blessed with silence they failed to foretell.

Indeed, Speaker, all structures are temporary. This includes Nature.

II

Penned by my hand on the 15th of Glacian, in the year 1010 AF.