Nature Exaltation: Forgotten Glades

This article covers only one possibility for dragons exalted to Nature.
The moss clasps the bones of a dead world retreating,
now buried ‘neath carpets so lovely, so deep
that call me and calm me, forever entreating
I sit and forget, I lie down and sleep.
-Entry in a journal found in an abandoned lair; owner presumed exalted.
Many hear the whisper as they walk the Labyrinth's byways, cloaked in moss and leaves and the canopy's fractal sun. I belong here. They may dismiss it. But sometimes, as flowers lose their petals. leaves change, new buds swell and burst, it returns a little stronger. Something sets roots in the skin, comforting sometimes, or maddening, quiet, certain. I belong here. Or in the deepest, softest nights, when the wind dies down but the trees keep shaking, in a voice felt but never quite heard: You belong here.
How many ignore it as they go about their chores? In the open places, with the sky and sun and wind, it's easier to dismiss. But the depths of the Labyrinth are different, dim and close. Green, too, overwhelmingly green, growing and whispering to themselves through the sounds of flowing earth and sap: You belong here.
Most know about the glades, of course. You can't travel too deep in The Rootbed before running into one, feeling the way the moss clasps your talons, seeing the buds unfurl to face you. And there's the feeling of being watched--sized up, maybe, for how cleanly your talons could snip deadwood, how many plants could nestle between your shoulder blades. That's when you pull yourself away, walk a bit faster, try to drive the voice from your mind...
Folks don't talk about it much. Still, they know. Instinct, maybe. You wake up one night, and your father, spouse, friend, daughter, is standing up with that strange look in their eyes and staring off into the wild green. Sometimes they can be talked out of it. You can convince them, with sheer force of love or desperation, to forget the dream they just had. They'll be a little more sorrowful after that, quiet and regretful, but at least you'll still have them, right?
It's not always so easy to dismiss it, especially not in the deep places, where the Labyrinth's flesh folds tight around you. Some day you won't talk them out of it, and they'll walk, trance-like, to their appointed glade. It's a holy role. Exalted, even, with prayers to say and practices to observe, but we can't pretend we don't cry, only point out how hard we worked to smother the tears...
Once they've reached their glade, it's best to forget them. Some can't. Some return, day after day, sitting in that garden, begging for the same call as their lifemate stares right past them. They look so happy. Is what they've chosen that much better than anything you gave them? Is it any kinder if it's not a choice at all? If the familiar shape--less familiar by the day--is a mindless, smiling husk, a nurse-drone piloting your beloved's body?
The forgotten glades stretch endless and inviting. They are the Behemoth's many organs, her bellows and furnaces, her nurseries and shrines and secret wounds. Her chosen are called to tend them, their movements guided by wisdom known to Her alone. Still we see them, our forgotten loved ones, drifting through Her garden, and as their scales fall away at the sound of Her voice, they look like they truly belong.
Category:Communal Traditions
Category:Nature