CatCamo Sandbox

Presently there comes a great groaning noise over the hum of the woods as the bark of the elder sage-tree splinters and writhes, peeling away in great husks of wood that thud painfully onto the dense grass of the forest floor. The tree is tearing itself asunder, willing decades of movement to occur in seconds as it sheds back layer after layer. Centuries upon eons of infantesmal growth are laid bare to the Curator as the great flayed tree shudders forth and divests a vibrant gem from its core. It looks like amber, but as the Curator touches it she can feel it resonate with the hum of the forest. See how it undulates and pulses, retaining the echo of that eons-old melody full of wisdom vast and unknown and unknowable.
The Curator holds the stone up to the light before the dead old tree and the forest’s hum swells to a crescendo that causes the ground to tremble. She grasps the corner of her cloak and raises it up to reveal the scintillating surface of the pocket-plane therein, whisking the stone away into stasis among her collection. The trees’ chorus recedes to a gentle rumble barely audible in the otherwise silent landscape. It is a hymn of acceptance.
The seventh of seven runes begins to shine on the Curator’s forearm. The end has come. Miles away on another hemisphere of the forest-world, the first fragments of the ruined moon break atmosphere. Streaks of fire and soot riddle the sky and flames begin to lick at the trees at the edge of a growing number of craters. As the sky darkens, runes activate across the full area of the Curator’s cloak and she begins to shift into a new reality. She closes her eyes and listens to the defiant hum of the remaining trees as it fades away.

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