>"At this point, it would not surprise me."
>Pick a tree and touch it.
>Muttering to yourself about the bizzareness of recent events, you walk apart from Lily's tree to one with a slimmer trunk, obviously a younger one. Slightly uncertain of what's about to happen, you reach out your hand tentatively, and lay it upon the bark of the tree. And the result is... profound.
>In your mind's eye, you see the forest as it is around you, but different somehow. The trees aren't as tall, and there aren't quite so many. A small sprout forces its way up through the ground in the springtime, green and tiny against its brothers and sisters, but you can sense the potential contained within it. Animals wander by, deers and skunks, but they leave the sprout alone, for they know it for what it is, and are not hungry enough to consume a young tree. Spring fades to summer, and the heat and rains beat down upon the sprout, but it endures, growing slowly, patiently, but growing yet. Summer fades to autumn, and the rains come harder, and the temperature drops now. The chill threatens the sprout, and others around wither or drown under too much water, but this sprout endures, growing slower, but strengthening. It knows what is to come. Autumn fades to winter, and the temperature plummets. The ground chills, and snow blankets the ground. The sprout endures, somehow. You can sense it's desire to endure, to live. And spring returns, and the snows melt, and the ground warms, and the sun touches the sprout again. And it grows as life returns around it, after the long sleep of winter.
>Time passes. The sprout continues to grow. Spring gives way to summer, summer is rained out by fall, fall is frozen by winter, and winter is thawed by the coming of spring. And though it all the sprout grows, growing a trunk out as years roll past. What was a simple plant sprout is now a young sapling, around two feet high, and growing yet. It has survived many winters, and will survive many more. As do many of its brothers and sisters around it. Other have perished, but that is the way of things.
>Time passes. The tree grows heartily, and becomes part of the life of other beings around it. Moss sprouts from a crack in its trunk, a part of its growth now. Its bark does not remain solid, but chips and peels in places, its sticky sap flowing and stopping. Insects land upon it only to take off again. A spider crawls up into its branches and spins its web, catching its prey and growing its own. It thrives here, until a storm passes through one autumn, blowing away the spider and his web. That is the way of things.
>Time passes. A bluejay lands in a branch near the crown of the tree. She builds her nest, and lays her eggs within, four of them. One does not hatch, but the other three do. The mother cares for her young, feeds and protects them, until they grow enough to leave the nest and fly away. The mother leaves the nest behind, abandoning it in the tree. Another spider spins her web under a branch, this one surviving long enough to spin an egg sack sheltered in the nook where branch meets trunk. This spider does not survive an encounter with a robin, becoming sustenance for that creature, but the sack eventually splits open, and the young spiders begin their life in the tree, eventually debarking and traveling elsewhere. That is the way of things.
>This then is the simple life of a tree in the forest by the shrine of the Metal Tiger. It is of the land, of the creatures, and enduring. Strong. A survivor. It has seen many springs, endured many winters. It will see more springs to come. It will endure many winters to come. That is what it is. That is the way of things.
>Your hand falls away from the bark of the young tree, and you return to yourself, the tree's story told. Decades of life revealed unto to you in... no more than a handful of seconds. The winged woman standing before you smiles, and nods in understanding.
