Rory Ni Coileain

I’m playing with a totally new magickal race — would this pique your curiosity?

He was alone, in darkness.
Which was more than he’d known a moment ago. For there to be darkness, there must be awareness, and a memory of light; to know one’s self alone, there must be a knowledge of self, and a memory of others. He had had none of that, until now.
How long had it been?
Ah, now he remembered time.
Time passed, alone in the dark.
He could feel his heart, beating. Or was it the heart of his darag, his oak?
The ancient tree was around him, was part of him. As he was part of it. It, too, was awakening, whispering to him in the old language of leaf and sap and wind. Whispering of the passing of centuries, centuries during which the darag had stood sentinel overlooking the loch far below, nothing more than mute wood.
That, too, was changing.
Magick, the darag whispered. Magick returns to the world. Felt first in root, and now in trunk and branch and leaf and bark.
He would have nodded, had he been real enough, yet, to move; the places where his eyes had been and would be glowed, alive with magick and memories. He remembered when the magick was taken away. Remembered what it had felt like, to become nothing.
He wept, in the heart of the oak, thoughts of tears falling from eyes as yet unreal. His darag murmured to him, with the breeze that stirred its leaves; caressed him, with the water welling cool from the earth; consoled him, with the magick rising from some unknown source.
Soon, it whispered. Alive soon.