"1062 days left" by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

The darkness seemed to swallow Jericho and Claramae while they lost themselves in the dense forest that bordered the Magi camp, their trail illuminated only by the glow of a frail oil lantern.

Jericho's steps were cautious while Claramae moved with a fey-like grace, her form occasionally flitting through the air as she searched for signs only she could discern.

The cold air bit into their skin, the night sounds of the forest muted. Time was slipping away, and with each passing moment, their task seemed increasingly daunting.

Finally, they reached a small clearing, a gentle hollow in the heart of the forest that felt oddly apart from the encroaching trees. "I think we are good here," Claramae announced, landing beside Jericho with a soft thud of her boots on the leaf-littered ground.

"Good? I can't see anything," Jericho complained, his gaze sweeping across the dark expanse of the clearing, finding nothing that suggested they were any closer to finding a Spirit.

"But it has the smell."

"Smell?" He inhaled deeply, his lungs filling with the cold, damp air, rich with the scent of wood, dew, and moss, but nothing more. No mystical aroma, no hint of the supernatural. Was he missing something?

Undeterred, Claramae turned towards the seemingly empty air of the clearing and called out with a melodic cadence that felt both enchanting and eerie in the quiet of the forest. "Vem raus, vem raus!"

A rustle of foliage answered her call—a subtle, promising disturbance. Then, silence reclaimed the forest, deep and complete.

"Vem raus, vem raus!" Claramae raised her voice, infusing it with more melody, her song piercing the stillness with a haunting beauty. Yet, the forest remained unmoved; if any Spirit was present, they were seemingly indifferent and ignoring their pleas.

"Maybe it needs more than just a call," Jericho suggested.

Claramae paused, considering his words. She nodded, "Perhaps you're right. Spirits are not summoned easily. They choose when and to whom they reveal themselves."

But Claramae's action didn't match her words. Instead, she filled her lungs and shouted, "Come on, you lazy sprinkles of old fart dust, I'm asking nicely! At least you could say hi! You... you... old sweaty dung hag, I know you are there! I can smell your mouldy breath! Show yourself, you poor excuse of a Spirit!"

"Maybe there are no Spirits around."

"Lolth said there are a few around, but when her Spirit asked them to help us, they said no. So we will ask nicely again; it always worked when Noctavia did it," Claramae responded, though her dropping shoulders betrayed her dwindling hope. "Maybe we can try again tomorrow and—"

"Noctavia? Did you say Noctavia? My little Sunbeam?"

The interruption came as a whisper, an echo that seemed to originate from nowhere and everywhere all at once. The sudden voice in the quiet forest caused both Claramae and Jericho to start their heads whipping around in search of its source.

"Noctavia was a friend of mine," Claramae responded, loud and clear.

"How do I know you speak of the same? Prove it!"

Claramae, taken aback, began to ramble. "She was Yeso's Hexe, the Commander."

"Everyone knows that!"

"She was very beautiful, with golden hair, I mean hair made of gold."

"Do better. Everyone knows that, too," the Spirit retorted.

"Let's see; she could make really pretty dresses; she was very good with a bow... hmm, she was the Master of the Howling Night, and..."

"Do better!" the voice insisted, more sharply this time.

"Well, and I heard she gave one of the best belly rubs, or was it Yeso? I don't know, but that wolf would turn upside down waiting for them," Claramae added, turning to Jericho with a slight smile. "I never saw any creature so obsessed with belly rubs than Howl."

"You called him Howl?" the voice interrupted, a note of interest finally creeping into its tone.

"Yeah, calling the Howling Night all the time is tiring," Claramae responded casually, her tone light but her eyes scrutinising the darkness for any sign of the Spirit's physical manifestation.

Suddenly, the quiet rustle of the forest floor intensified into a cacophony of shifting leaves and roots being unrooted. Without warning, a huge trunk with wooden veins and wrinkled bark loomed over the human and the faerie. The Spirit had taken a form as massive and imposing as the sadness it carried in its voice.

"You really knew Noctavia?" The trunk leaned in, its voice now a deep rumble that vibrated through the air.

Claramae, slightly taken aback by the sudden appearance and overwhelming presence of the Spirit, nodded hesitantly. "We were friends. Really good friends."

"She was my friend, too. Such a good and dear friend." The Treant recoiled as it confessed a burden too heavy for its ancient shoulders. "I killed her. I killed my dearest friend."

Claramae quickly looked to Jericho for a brief moment before addressing the Treant with a gentle correction, "Xendrix Kaspian killed Noctavia and Yeso... it wasn't you."

The Treant's branches rustled with the weight of its remorse. "I taught that fat, stinky human how to use the earth element. I should have said no and crashed his bone into dust, but she asked me, and how could I say no?"

"It wasn't your fault. And yes, it was really hard to tell her no," Claramae said, stepping closer to the Spirit. "We all trusted Xendrix, and we all were fooled. He looked harmless—just a chubby boy who said he wanted to help."

The Spirit's form seemed to stiffen, the leaves and branches shuddering. "I won't make the same mistake twice," it declared, turning its gaze towards Jericho. The expression on its wooden face shifted to one of caution if not outright threat. "I will not teach another human!"

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Jericho, sensing the escalating fear and misunderstanding, raised his hands in a peaceful gesture, "Oh, hi there! Well… we... I mean, well, I don't need you to teach me anything," he reassured. "We heard there is an Ormsaat... and pirates are looking for it... and we just need the location to protect it."

The Treant's massive form loomed closer, branches creaking ominously, the leaves rustling with anger. "I don't trust you! I don't trust humans! You are the sickness staining land, sea, and soon the sky!" the Spirit thundered.

Jericho, standing his ground despite the towering presence before him, responded with a resigned nod. "I agree," he shrugged slightly. "We could do better. Some of us are trying. I'm trying."

"And what does a human like you can do?"

"Well, first, we need to stop the End of Times and then stop Xendrix once and for all. Or first Xendrix, then the End of Times... I don't know... I'm still learning; I'm just a human. But I'm trying. I really am."

The Treant paused, the rustling of its leaves subsiding as it contemplated Jericho's words. Slowly, the massive Spirit recoiled, its form shrinking into a less threatening posture as it turned its gaze towards Claramae.

"Do you trust him?"

Claramae met the Treant's gaze. "I do," she responded. "He has shown nothing but courage and a true desire to rectify the wrongs of humankind. He fights not just for humans but for all of us—for the land, the sea, and, yes, even the sky. He is a good kid. I would give him a chance."

Finally, the Treant nodded slowly, the movement causing a soft whisper through the leaves. "Then I will help you," it declared, the words falling like fall leaves in the still air. "Not for him," it glanced at Jericho, "not for you faerie, but for the hope that Noctavia had that not all is lost. And I knew her, my Noctavia, she would want me to help. She always saw the best in every creature, even an old swamp Treant."

"He could have harmed me a long time if that was in his nature. I have seen Jericho being good and frail but trying every day his best to be ready and helpful. I trust him," the faerie repeated.

After a moment that stretched like the Long Night itself, the Treant finally spoke, "I guess I can show you," it murmured, a concession wrapped in the rustle of foliage. "But you must promise, no harm will come from this knowledge."

"We promise," Claramae jumped forward.

The Treant didn't reply and seemed to be in deep contemplation until he broke the silence and said, "Follow me; is not far from here."

Claramae and Jericho were surprised. The idea that they might be walking alongside a ley line node without recognising it seemed implausible; unmistakable signs of magical activity or unusual natural phenomena usually marked such sites.

Yet, as they followed the Spirit Tree through the increasingly intricate maze of the forest, there was nothing to indicate the presence of the potent energies that ley lines were known for.

Their journey continued for several long minutes, the only sounds being the crunch of leaf litter underfoot and the occasional distant call of a nocturnal creature. Then, without warning, the Spirit Tree halted.

They found themselves in a seemingly nondescript part of the forest, surrounded by the usual assortment of trees and stones. There was no water in sight, no hint of the mystical star mushrooms that Claramae could usually spot with ease. It appeared utterly ordinary, almost disappointingly so.

However, the Treant had other plans. It reached out with one of its thick, gnarled branches, parting the vines and draping a tall rock face to reveal a small entrance.

The trio entered, their passage into the subterranean world marked by the cool, damp air that greeted them. The corridor inside was narrow and humid, the walls close enough to touch. Their footsteps echoed a steady beat accompanied by the rustling of the Treant's foliage as it adjusted its bulk to fit the confined space.

Finally, they emerged into a cavernous space that opened up dramatically around them. In the centre lay a clear, tranquil lake, its surface undisturbed and reflective like glass. The lake was fed by a spring hidden somewhere deep within the earth.

Surrounding the lake, the cave walls were laced with glowing veins that pulsed with soft light, illuminating clusters of mushrooms that shimmered with an ethereal glow.

"This was really well hidden," Jericho muttered.

"What do we do now? I mean, we can ask a few Magis to guard the place, but it will call even more attention to the pirates," Claramae fretted, her gaze sweeping over the serene lake, the glowing veins and mushrooms casting eerie lights across the water.

Meanwhile, the Treant, seeming to bear the weight of aeons, moved slowly to the edge of the lake. Its massive form settled with a heaviness that sent a small ripple across the surface. "I'm so tired; maybe I should join the others," the Spirit murmured, more to itself than to them, "Just a tiny nap. I'm tired, and I'm sad. Why am I still here?"

Its words trailed off into a weary sigh, and its branches drooped, leaves brushing the ground in a display of profound fatigue and existential weariness.

Jericho turned his attention to the Treant, "What's wrong?"

The Treant's form was marked by trails of sap that glistened like tears on its bark, each drop reflecting the muted glow of the bioluminescent fungi. "They all went away. I feel alone... I should have gone with everyone... but I hoped everyone lied and she was not dead. Even Howl left this world to sleep. Why am I still here?"

Jericho, looking for any practical solution to their current crisis, ventured a question, albeit hesitantly. "I don't know... but... would you know how to kill a nightmare perhaps?"

"That is a very silly question; you end a Nightmare by waking up and seeing the light," the Treant answered, a matter-of-fact tone threading through its mournful timbre.

"That is even sillier; we are talking about real walking nightmares!" Claramae interjected.

"Waking up and seeing the light... because when you wake up, it should be daytime. But since the Long Night, we lost the light..." Jericho spoke, almost to himself, a realisation dawning on him. "The whale... it swam away when I lit up the boat... that was the only thing that worked... fire did nothing."

He turned to the Treant, a spark of hope flickering in his expression. "I'm not strong enough; I can only create small bubble light."

"If I show you how, will you let me sleep?" the Treant asked, its tone weary yet willing to impart one last piece of wisdom before succumbing to its own exhaustion.

Jericho, moved by the sadness etched into the Spirit's bark-like complexion, nodded. "Alright."

At his agreement, the Treant's roots began to stir. They grew and spread through the cave's walls, not randomly but in deliberate lines and shapes, forming patterns that resembled alchemical formulas.

As the treant's roots weaved their intricate network across the stone, a transformation unfolded. The ambient light, already gentle, grew warmer, the glowing veins and mushrooms casting a richer, more vibrant luminescence. At the heart of the cave, where the ancient tree's roots converged, the ground itself seemed to breathe and shift, giving way to a modest golden apple tree nestled on a lush carpet of green grass that seemed out of place.

This was the Tree Spirit's resting place.

"I know what to do now," Jericho said. His eyes were fixed on the golden apple tree. As he spoke, a resolve settled over him, born from the revelations that only he knew now the secret.

Turning to him, Claramae noticed tears tracing down his cheeks, reflecting the soft light of the cave. She didn't know that this would be her most cherished memory of Jericho, the Wise.

While I may fancy myself a scholar of many subjects, the world of Spirits remains somewhat beyond my professional purview—'world' might even be too small a term for such domain. My primary source of information on this matter is my own Spirit, my Little Mouse, who has been with me since I was but a mere bean in my mother's womb. Little Mouse has shared that the origins and logistics of a Spirit's existence vary widely. For instance, some Spirits ascend already bound to a master, while others might spend aeons seeking the ideal counterpart. The criteria for this pairing are as diverse as the Spirits themselves: some choose a master for their power, others for their merits, and some—though this is strictly between us—might choose based on a shared affinity for cheese. Of course, that last part is an attempt at humour; my Spirit has never actually divulged why she chose to accompany me. Perhaps it's my undeniable charm or, more likely, my habitual overuse of rhetorical questions in simple banter. Who knows? Indeed, the nature of a Spirit's attachment to their master is profoundly personal. It's as if their existence pivots around this alliance, marking a distinct 'before' and 'after' in their journey. They manifest without a concrete form and lack a clear agenda, existing not merely to serve but to amplify their master's legacy into something legendary. This, it seems, is the singular thread of commonality among them—a drive to transform mere mortal endeavours into tales worthy of legend. Sometimes, I fear that my Little Mouse will end up disappointed. ——The Hexe - Book Two by Professor Edgar O. Duvencrune, First Edition, 555th Summer

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