No Questions Asked

[victorianflorist]

You approach the clearing, examining the gnarled bark of the twisted grove. You could easily scale the trees but something about the shapes and forms of the bark profoundly disturb you and you feel apprehensive at the thought of scaling them.

You use your blade like one would a sickle, mowing down a neat wedge of grass. The grass you severed withers before you, both the root and fell blades fading to a dun brown, crunching as you step on the clippings. You feel something as the blade TAKES something from the grass.