Old Rootwarden

Old Rootwarden decides slowly because centuries have taught him that haste is often an axe wearing a crown. Impatient armies mistake him for scenery, then find the hill has opinions older than their banners. Lysvar reveres and fears the memory in him: every guest protected beneath leaves, every oath sworn at a root, every fire set by men who thought trees could not testify. He smells of wet bark, deep soil, leaf rot, rain in hollow wood, and old ash buried under new moss. Birds rest on him before battle. Children leave offerings in his shade without understanding why their elders whisper. When he wakes fully, he does not rage like a man. He corrects the landscape. Wheels split, stakes twist, siege frames groan, and the forest reminds the war that patience is not peace when the old covenants are broken.