Not too long after the first frays, a Queen sought to establish a fortress to better quell her more rebellious subjects. After a day of wandering, she found the perfect place besides a shimmering lake at the edge of her kingdom. All was well, aside from a grove of willows standing in her way that were being protected by a nurturing tree spirit.
"Move." The Queen commanded.
"We cannot, your highness. Our bodies are rigid, fragile, and our roots are planted deep within the bedrock." The tree spirit pleaded.
Upon this refusal, the Queen hacked away at their trunks with a bitter righteousness before commanding her soldiers to set the Willows ablaze. The tree spirit shrieked with each blow to its body, sending streaks of toxic black smoke and ash into the cold and indifferent nightly air.b
Once the white of the flame had died out, when all that remained were twigs and embers, a rebel king approached the charred and deformed spirit with an offer. Accept his gift of strength... or remain and let their existence fade into oblivion.
Craving vengeance, the spirit rose with its new ashen form, bolting solid black metal plates onto whatever was left of its former, weak, and feeble seared body. Never again will they be commanded to move, for as long those responsible draw breath, the charred fortress will be approaching.
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