[color=green][center][h1]A meeting between Mushroom and Elf[/h1][/center][/color]
[center][sub]Collab between [@Timemaster] & [@Wernher][/sub][/center]


People began to mass at the walls and towers of the town and of the castle. When the gruesome display began, wailing echoed on the wind as mothers, wives and daughters saw their sons, husbands and fathers hoisted and impaled while fathers, brothers and sons raged with anger, spitting curses at the ‘invader’ and swearing bloody revenge on all their kind. Meanwhile, the elves of the castle stood silent, disinterested. Amused?

Inside, one of the Mycend youth was brought up on the wall, hateful shouts echoing in his path as they rose him on the battlement, their intent obvious. However the eyes of the giant human brandishing his axe crossed that of an elf who had arrived at the gate and a single look was all it took to persuade him to lower the juvenile and bring him back to the others.

The doors opened to the emissaries.

This single elf led the walking cadavers through the town while warriors surrounded them. On their path mothers ushered their children inside while some looked at the two dead-but-walking and made religious signs, supplicating gods to deliver them from this evil.

Through the village and through the gate of the castle, the scenery suddenly changed dramatically. Inside the walls, a paved road led them to a central marble building which was under construction. All around, beds of flowers and young trees planted in an orderly but asymmetric fashion. A deliberate design that would see its vision accomplished in many years, decades even.

And a gentle singing.

The mycends hadn’t yet absorbed a Tacenian corpse into their collective and so the words were lost to them, but it was undeniably a calming and soothing sound. They arrived at its origin, a large throne room with at its center sitting in an oversized throne the elf they ‘remembered’ as Varion. The dead humans had feared him, he was harsh and uncaring. Sitting alongside him was another elf, the one who was singing.Loriel, the dead didn’t see her often but they appreciated her, if only because when she was around Varion seemed more calm, less volatile. 

This whole place… the Mycends would easily notice that its polygon shaped structure was made with acoustics in mind, giving Loriel’s singing an even more otherworldly tone. Finally as the envoys were brought forward, she stopped, giving them a disinterested look.

Varion did not waste a single second.

“Did you bring me my tribute? Can you even understand me or is you parading the dead in front of us just a joke of some kind?”

The two Reclaimers walked with an uneven sway that came from trying to pilot flesh built nothing like their own. Every step felt imperfect. Still, they followed the humans without resistance.
They kept turning their heads, studying every face and gesture they passed. They watched how the thralls moved through fear, anger, reverence. They noted the barricaded doors, the trembling hands, the way children hid behind adults. All of it was fed back through the link to Prime Lethan.

When the castle gates opened and the stonework shifted into something cleaner, brighter, Prime Lethan connected. His awareness slid into them instantly. He saw through their mismatched eyes, absorbing the sight of a place shaped not by desperation, but by design. Flowers, young trees, a building rising in marble. Intent. Patience. Ownership. These were the leaders. The people who ordered the attack.
Music drifted across the air. Wordless or not, it softened the edges of thought. Lethan lingered on it, surprised by the simple pleasure of sound shaped so carefully. He did not understand the meaning, but he appreciated the feeling all the same.

By the time the Reclaimers reached the throne room, both were fully under Lethan’s connection. He watched the elves. He watched their stillness. He watched the one called Varion speak.

The first body tried to speak, but its throat was a ruined channel. Only a wet churn came out, a grinding of air through blood. Each attempt pushed more dark red down its chin. No shape, no word, just a pulsing gargle that made the humans around them recoil.
The second body held together better, though its voice was still wrong. Hollow.. As if the sound came from behind the ribs instead of the mouth. The jaw worked a second too late, like the words were chasing the movement rather than causing it. Every syllable dragged, scraped. Alien.

“Give. Back. Our. Kin. No. Attack. Us. You. Attack. We. Brought. Back. Dead. Cycle. Reclaim. Them. No. Kin. Back. More. Dead. More. Join. Cycle.” 

Varion had an annoyed look as he raised his hand toward his ‘guests’ as if asking ‘what the hell is this?’. It looked like his answer would be dismissive, but Loriel’s touch of his arm caused him to pause for a moment as he moved his own hand on her shoulder.

“There is no negotiating about this, just like there is no negotiating with fire. When fire burns, you either accept its destruction or you quench its thirst with water. When a Tacenian commands you, you either accept your own destruction or you give them the tribute. They. Ask!”

He rose from his throne with anger in his eyes.

“Your disgusting forest will provide something useful to me, or I will have it burned! I will uproot every tree and I will salt the earth itself so nothing remains, nothing ever regrows after I am through!”

With an imperious movement, Varion turned to the side exit and stormed off the room. There was a moment of silence as the elves present looked at each other and began moving to escort their ‘guests’ out. Before they could however, Loriel raised a hand to interrupt them as she moved to sit upright on the throne.She gave the mycends a saddened smile.

“...My people are unfortunately not mindful of death. They are especially not mindful to send others to it. Enemies or thrall. Our pride will not allow it. But this needn’t be difficult for either of our people. To return your kin can be done, yes, but for me to convince my kin to do so, we require something of you.”

“You… are not like us. I am sure we do not have the same needs or wants. Perhaps in your forest there is something that is abundant and of little use to you but that Tacenie would desire?”

Prime Lethan’s focus narrowed, threads of awareness knitting through the two reclaimed forms. His presence pressed outward, assessing the marble chamber, the elves, the strange acoustics that made their music ripple through the air like warm light.

Lethan followed the logic the Tacenians demanded, weighing the request with patience. Their “tribute,” their hunger for something useful, something pleasing. Something they could take without stepping into the Cycle.

The speaking reclaimer’s head tilted, the voice grinding out through torn vocal cords.

“Offer. We. Have.”

A pause. The dead lungs strained, catching on dried blood, but the words came.

“In. Forest. Grow. Fungi. Make. Calm. Make. Dream. Make. Sound. Sweet. To. You.”

The gurgling one twitched, a wet hiss leaking from its ruined throat.

“Spore. Drift. Soft. Cold. Mind. Still. Music… Loud. Bright.”

The second stepped forward a half pace, jerking like a puppet pulled too fast.

“Give. You. This. Fungi. Abundant. To. Us. No. Loss.”

A beat. Prime Lethan let the bodies speak the final line in perfect unison, glitching in two different tones.

“You. Want. Beauty. We. Give. You. Beauty. Give. Us. Kin.”
“But”

The reclaimer lifted its head with a bird-like jerk, empty eyes fixed on the elves. The other body beside it twitched, still leaking that thin line of blood from its throat.

“No. Tacenian. Step. In. Forest. No. Thrall.” Its voice was calm.

“You. Enter. Again.” A hand shot out with sudden precision, gripping the other corpse by the jaw and crown. The movement was fluid and casual. “Cycle. Take. You.” The reclaimer twisted.

A clean, sharp crack filled the throne room.

The second host collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, limbs folding in on themselves. The speaking reclaimer let the corpse drop, then turned its gaze back to Loriel and the silent elves.

“We. Return. All. Who. Trespass.”

Another pause.

“Dead. Join. Cycle.”

Then it went still again, waiting for their answer.

Loriel watched in silence but her general displeasure was not hard to discern, toward the threats, the form of those she was talking to and… their offer. It’s not like they could know of course, but at the height of Tacenie, nothing could have prevented them to use their magic to simply… have pleasure. In its purest, most corruptive form. There were spells to alter the mind of people after all, but it was seen as taboo, cowardly. To fight, that should be one’s pleasure in life!

Loriel had never quite enjoyed that, but she had enjoyed other pleasures. Even for her however… but. There could be uses for what the Mycends offered, if not for them, for their neighbors in exchange of coin, for their thralls, as long as it didn’t affect their work.

“...Perhaps. I do not know much about spores and fungi. I do know you use them to animate the dead however, so I will admit I am skeptical on if this is a trick, but, perhaps… Actually, I also have a… suggestion in mind.”

She rested her head on her hand with a raised eyebrow.

“I have heard of a type of tree… one who’s core dies at it grows older, and so it doesn’t rot, the tree floods its dead flesh with sap. This… amber-wood thus becomes highly resilient to insects and fire. Tell me, is there something similar in your forest?”

It might be a long shot, but, maybe…

The Reclaimer’s borrowed lungs hitched, the words scraping out in that disjointed rhythm as the Mycend mind behind them weighed Loriel’s request. The concept of carving into a living tree was already a denial forming in the Collective before the thought even finished. 

Heartwood was not lumber to them. It was the still-beating memory of elders, the slow pulse of those that passed to the next stage of the Cycle. To carve it while it lived would be maiming the Cycle itself, tearing open what must remain whole. The Reclaimer’s head twisted with a stiff, unnatural creak as if listening to something far away, then the voice answered, warped and halting, yet firm in meaning. 

“Core. Trees. Needed. For. Cycle. Living. No. Cut. Harm. Forest. Harm. Kin. We. Not. Trade. That.”

But there were fallen giants, trees claimed by storms or age, their inner cores hardened into dense resinous amber through the forest’s mourning. Those were already part of the Cycle’s return, their spirits gone, their bodies waiting for purpose. 

This the Mycend could spare, and only this. The Reclaimer’s host shifted its stance, bones popping, dark fluid leaking from its unmended wounds as it clarified the thought. Taken only from what the Cycle had already relinquished, never from what still breathed. A trade was possible under that truth.

“Dead. Fallen. Heart. Wood. Yes. Cycle. Already. Taken. We. Give. Fallen. Only. If. Kin. Returned. No. One. Walks. Forest. As. Well.”
Loriel showed a polite smile. She didn’t understand why the Mycends did what they did, but she could grasp the concept behind it. Plus, it didn’t matter to her if the tree where she got her hardwood were alive or dead. In either case it would be a precious commodity, elves were obsessed with the longevity of their craft and this kind of wood didn’t rot and was insect proof.

“As you wish. As a show of good faith, I will allow you to walk away with one of your kin today. If you bring us… core wood, and these spores you spoke about, we will free the rest.”

“From there, for every time the moon in the sky becomes full, we will expect more. Do this for us, and we will set stones at the edge of your wood and insure that no one ever steps foot in it, until the end of times.”

The speaking Reclaimer swayed again, the ruined throat clicking as Prime Lethan pushed the host’s voice as far as it could go. The other corpse lay limp at his feet. For a moment the body’s cloudy eyes fixed on Loriel, then shifted upward, studying the slanted light that fell through the high windows.

“…We. Accept.” Each word landed slow, like the body resented forming them. “Core. Wood. Spores. We. Bring. When. Sky. Light. Full.” The human jaw twitched, struggling to talk.

“We. Not. Know. Time. Like. You. But. We. Watch. We. Learn.” The corpse leaned forward slightly, unsteadily. “You. Give. Kin. Whole. No. Empty. No. Take. Or. Cycle. Send. More. Many. More. All. Of. You.” A wet rattle escaped the throat as blood traced thin ribbons down the chest. “No. Trick. No. Hurt. No. Missing. Or. Forest. Take. All. We. Will. Know.” The Reclaimer’s head cocked to the side, birdlike, as if listening to something far away.

“Stone. Stay. No. Foot. Crosses. You. Keep. Word. We. Keep. Ours.” The body shuddered as the Prime withdrew his focus. “…Trade. Balance. Cycle. Continue.” and as it uttered these last words it fell on the ground, the Reclaimer spent. 

…Trade? Loriel supposed so, security for physical goods. She made a map in her mind, figuring this meant a supply of hardwood… for now. It’s not like she thought these mycends, these children blind to the ways of the world, would try to fleece them, but while there must be some dead wood pilling up now, eventually the supply would be restrained to what died this year. How annoying.

And next time, no doubt the Mycends would be a lot less childish in their perception of the world. Oh well. For now, they had what they wanted.

“... Deliver them one of their young. For the rest, make sure to keep them isolated from the other thralls so no ‘accidents’ happen. When they deliver, if they deliver, we will free the rest and set boundary stones on the edge of the forest.”

The elves around her looked at each other with uncertainty, she wasn’t Varion, should they really obey her?

“...The thralls rely on the forest for firewood, they won’t like it.”

Loriel glanced at the one who had spoken, silently asking if it really mattered what the thralls did or didn’t like? The elf merely bowed in response before leaving to deliver the orders and find servants to remove the disgusting corpses from the room.
With one of the captive juveniles brought back, Prime Lethan nodded towards the castle. These elves thought they had the upper hand but in truth, the goods they would deliver meant nothing to the Collective but a lot to the elves.

Weeks passed and on the night of the first full moon, a rustling came at the edge of the settlement. The Mycend arrived carrying bundles of hardwood, carefully stacked and tied with thin vines. Small clusters of hallucinogenic spores glimmered faintly in the moonlight, drifting a subtle scent through the air. The elves kept their word and all the prisoners were brought back, in good condition as they eagerly returned to the Collective. 

Meanwhile, while waiting for the full moon, the captive Cantor moved quietly among the thrall settlement, in the places where it was allowed to roam. Its limbs brushed against the damp earth, leaving spores glimmering faintly in depressions.
It paused at small clearings, pressing spores into the soil. Then it began to sing to them. The song of Growth. A symphony of sounds that one couldn’t name if they tried.

“Grow deep. Feed your roots. Spread slowly. Remember and watch,” it sang.

It sang and whispered, encouraging the land beneath the thralls’ feet without disturbing it noticeably. Some thralls stirred at first with idle curiosity. Few understood, but all felt the rhythm of the song seep into the ground. Tiny tendrils sprouted here and there, nothing large, nothing immediate, but the seeds of subtle growth began to take root.

[Hider=Summary] The Mycends brought two reanimated humans to the Tacenian castle as emissaries, seeking the return of their captured kin. The Tacenians, led by Varion and Loriel, initially reacted with anger and threats, demanding tribute in exchange. Through negotiation, the Mycends offered only fallen heartwood and hallucinogenic spores from their forest, which could be spared without harming the living trees or violating the Cycle. Loriel agreed, allowing the return of one juvenile immediately and promising freedom for the rest upon delivery of the goods. Weeks later, the Mycends fulfilled their part, delivering the wood and spores, while a Cantor quietly sowed the spores into the thrall settlement[/hider]