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Description
Before the voice, they were many. A group of people who sought nothing but peace. All who were amongst them bore scars, wounds that life and fate had dealt them. While others turned to anger or fear, they sought out tranquility. They refused to inherit the savagery that had been given to them, but they instead found something else. As they sought the comfort of company, a voice beckoned them. The tongue spoken was unknown, but the promise it gave was not. The hope of healing and time, a chance to find true peace. They were quick to accept, ignorant to the unspoken cost. In short time, they did find peace, even in the heat of hatred and violence. A calmness came to every one of them, as they understood that time would heal their wounds. But sadly, the world would not wait for such a thing to happen. Those who brought misery to their lives continued to do so, growing bolder and spiteful with each lash and curse. But each strike did not dampen their peace, no beating soured their thoughts. As hatred and injustice rained upon them, breaking their bodies and cursing their lives, they merely took it all and waited. Surely things would get better, they have to. They turned their cheek to every slap, bowed their heads to every wrong. All one had to do was wait, and it would all blow over. They held onto one another and waited, hopeful of the day where the pain would stop. In time, the Roots of Patience came forth, but this dream of theirs did not...

The gnarled monument that stands in the barren forest is what became of the chosen. Their skin has hardened and their minds have faded, leaving behind this malformed entity. Their waiting has turned their legs to roots, anchoring them to this single spot. The only movement they can perform is the gentle swaying of their dripping branches. There is no need to walk, no need to run. They only have to wait. They lie in the heart of an empty land, surrounded by a forest of twisted, lifeless trees. Unlike the others consumed by the infection, they do not walk the lands or hunt for sinners. They just simply wait for the unworthy to arrive. For poor souls and foolish heroes to wander into their domain. Some may seek this forest for shelter, while others enter in hopes of ending the spreading disease. The moment they step foot in this land, though, they will be exposed to the great tree's presence. As one walks amongst the gnarled trees, they shall find a strange peace growing in their hearts. The worries and fears that weigh them down shall start to lighten, and an inner calmness shall embolden in their minds. There is no need for anger or fear, as all will work out. Time shall heal all wounds, all one has to do is wait. While such feelings are calming, they hide an insidious infection. If one does not fight back, if they allow the warmth and peace to take them, then they shall lose their way. The forest will become endless and their mission will be forgotten. They will be lost in the tranquility, and will slowly become one with the forest. The roots that hide beneath the soil shall rise up to accept them, and those who do not flee will find themselves becoming like the great tree. Skin hardening, limbs twisting and thoughts fading. They will join the gnarled trees around them, and the forest shall grow forth. Those who have the mental strength to even make it to the peaceful tree will not find salvation there. The twisted monument will not even react to their presence, even when one tears at them with blade and hate. Every cut brings pain, every chop draws blood, but they will do nothing. To fight back is wrong, to protest is foolish. It will all work out in the end if they wait. Sadly, such mantra proves correct in this instance. For every wound one creates on the tree, their intoxicating power will grow stronger. The bloody sap that drips from their scars and mouths reeks of their disease, and even the strongest of minds may succumb. In the end, the warriors who sought to destroy the tree will instead join it, their bodies joining the many lost to its power.

The tales of this tree have often been confused with another. One born of stone and chain rather than root and peace. A land that devours travelers, where one loses themselves to an alluring aura. Some say that the victims were lost to sin of Sloth, rather than the virtue of Patience. But if such an ideal is mistaken for inaction, is there really a difference?

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A pretty bizarre one, I think. I picked a pretty weird color scheme, but I really like it!

I also hope no one interprets these things wrong or something. I am just making weird monsters here, not trying to make a political statement.

Description
Before the voice, they were many. A group of people who sought nothing but peace. All who were amongst them bore scars, wounds that life and fate had dealt them. While others turned to anger or fear, they sought out tranquility. They refused to inherit the savagery that had been given to them, but they instead found something else. As they sought the comfort of company, a voice beckoned them. The tongue spoken was unknown, but the promise it gave was not. The hope of healing and time, a chance to find true peace. They were quick to accept, ignorant to the unspoken cost. In short time, they did find peace, even in the heat of hatred and violence. A calmness came to every one of them, as they understood that time would heal their wounds. But sadly, the world would not wait for such a thing to happen. Those who brought misery to their lives continued to do so, growing bolder and spiteful with each lash and curse. But each strike did not dampen their peace, no beating soured their thoughts. As hatred and injustice rained upon them, breaking their bodies and cursing their lives, they merely took it all and waited. Surely things would get better, they have to. They turned their cheek to every slap, bowed their heads to every wrong. All one had to do was wait, and it would all blow over. They held onto one another and waited, hopeful of the day where the pain would stop. In time, the Roots of Patience came forth, but this dream of theirs did not...

The gnarled monument that stands in the barren forest is what became of the chosen. Their skin has hardened and their minds have faded, leaving behind this malformed entity. Their waiting has turned their legs to roots, anchoring them to this single spot. The only movement they can perform is the gentle swaying of their dripping branches. There is no need to walk, no need to run. They only have to wait. They lie in the heart of an empty land, surrounded by a forest of twisted, lifeless trees. Unlike the others consumed by the infection, they do not walk the lands or hunt for sinners. They just simply wait for the unworthy to arrive. For poor souls and foolish heroes to wander into their domain. Some may seek this forest for shelter, while others enter in hopes of ending the spreading disease. The moment they step foot in this land, though, they will be exposed to the great tree's presence. As one walks amongst the gnarled trees, they shall find a strange peace growing in their hearts. The worries and fears that weigh them down shall start to lighten, and an inner calmness shall embolden in their minds. There is no need for anger or fear, as all will work out. Time shall heal all wounds, all one has to do is wait. While such feelings are calming, they hide an insidious infection. If one does not fight back, if they allow the warmth and peace to take them, then they shall lose their way. The forest will become endless and their mission will be forgotten. They will be lost in the tranquility, and will slowly become one with the forest. The roots that hide beneath the soil shall rise up to accept them, and those who do not flee will find themselves becoming like the great tree. Skin hardening, limbs twisting and thoughts fading. They will join the gnarled trees around them, and the forest shall grow forth. Those who have the mental strength to even make it to the peaceful tree will not find salvation there. The twisted monument will not even react to their presence, even when one tears at them with blade and hate. Every cut brings pain, every chop draws blood, but they will do nothing. To fight back is wrong, to protest is foolish. It will all work out in the end if they wait. Sadly, such mantra proves correct in this instance. For every wound one creates on the tree, their intoxicating power will grow stronger. The bloody sap that drips from their scars and mouths reeks of their disease, and even the strongest of minds may succumb. In the end, the warriors who sought to destroy the tree will instead join it, their bodies joining the many lost to its power.

The tales of this tree have often been confused with another. One born of stone and chain rather than root and peace. A land that devours travelers, where one loses themselves to an alluring aura. Some say that the victims were lost to sin of Sloth, rather than the virtue of Patience. But if such an ideal is mistaken for inaction, is there really a difference?

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A pretty bizarre one, I think. I picked a pretty weird color scheme, but I really like it!

I also hope no one interprets these things wrong or something. I am just making weird monsters here, not trying to make a political statement.