at least two dozen at a glance, though certainly there were more. Frost signaled for calm. He raised his hands and closed his eyes while Rosivok, Sharryl, and Madia took up their defensive positions.
“Feel my presence,” Frost told the air, the trees, the bog itself, in the language of life. “Feel my touch!” A gentle breeze, warm and moist, began to drift through the trees and plants, carrying a scent so sweet that it could almost be tasted on the tongue. The plants swayed gently, then began a movement separate from the touch of the wind, a shivering. Colors grew deeper before the eye, leaves grew full; from a fallen trunk just to Frost's left, tiny leaves sprouted up, here, then there, and began to fatten.
“I come without tricks, without malice, without deception!” Frost shouted to the world.
Fresh green life swam up from the bogs. Vines twisted and clung to everything as they sprang up and headed in all directions. The forest air grew thicker as it filled with a wet mist, cool and fresh and organic.
“I bring truth, and the power of the ages. I take nothing but that which I must, that which I need.”
Flowers bloomed on small plants and large bushes, even on some of the trees. The moss beneath Frost's feet grew thicker and darker, a carpet that raised everyone up two fingers. The canopy above grew more dense, and on the dead limbs out on the bog itself, new growth sprang forth.
“I will do no harm unless harmed.”
Everywhere the swamp lived, thrived, sang. . . .
“But what I do for you, I can do against you.”
The breeze died away as Frost brought his arms back down. The mist slowly cleared, taking with it the sweet, herbal scents.
Frost turned and glared into the reeds again. “That one!” he snapped. Rosivok spun half around and leaped into the brush. Something howled, a thin and jolting sound not possible from any man, then the Subartan emerged with one arm carefully wrapped around the chest of a kicking, o
“Feel my presence,” Frost told the air, the trees, the bog itself, in the language of life. “Feel my touch!” A gentle breeze, warm and moist, began to drift through the trees and plants, carrying a scent so sweet that it could almost be tasted on the tongue. The plants swayed gently, then began a movement separate from the touch of the wind, a shivering. Colors grew deeper before the eye, leaves grew full; from a fallen trunk just to Frost's left, tiny leaves sprouted up, here, then there, and began to fatten.
“I come without tricks, without malice, without deception!” Frost shouted to the world.
Fresh green life swam up from the bogs. Vines twisted and clung to everything as they sprang up and headed in all directions. The forest air grew thicker as it filled with a wet mist, cool and fresh and organic.
“I bring truth, and the power of the ages. I take nothing but that which I must, that which I need.”
Flowers bloomed on small plants and large bushes, even on some of the trees. The moss beneath Frost's feet grew thicker and darker, a carpet that raised everyone up two fingers. The canopy above grew more dense, and on the dead limbs out on the bog itself, new growth sprang forth.
“I will do no harm unless harmed.”
Everywhere the swamp lived, thrived, sang. . . .
“But what I do for you, I can do against you.”
The breeze died away as Frost brought his arms back down. The mist slowly cleared, taking with it the sweet, herbal scents.
Frost turned and glared into the reeds again. “That one!” he snapped. Rosivok spun half around and leaped into the brush. Something howled, a thin and jolting sound not possible from any man, then the Subartan emerged with one arm carefully wrapped around the chest of a kicking, o