Journey of the Lost

There once was a man who walked all over the nation, planting seeds as he went. As his bare feet crossed over the ground, he fed upon the fruits of the land, taking in their energy and redistributing it as he went. All returned to the earth, except a smidgen of power he kept for himself from each.

As he trod across the invisible lines that made up our land, he sang the entire trip. The song was broken and meaningless to all but he. And seed after seed was planted. His grand trip did not take him from one shore to the next once. No, time and time again he walked the trail, speaking to the moon and the sun on equal terms until days, months, and years were like seeds in the ground.

When it came time for the man to die, he came to rest upon a grand vista atop a hill. With a final whisper of his song, he pushed his last seed into the earth and fell still atop it. In the blink of an eye, the seed sprouted and began to grow, encasing the man's body inside of it's bark as it grew on a day what would take ten years for another tree to do.

From it's branches hung every thing the man had ever planted, and when the wind played among it's branches it sounded like his tune, no longer broken but instead beautiful when played by nature itself.

Now, there were those who knew of the man. Some hated his wandering ways and his babbling. Some treated him kindly thinking he was simply estranged from the world. Others followed him thinking his journey held significance. Most ended their journey before his, but a few devout souls traced his steps to the end.

Upon his death and the growth of the tree, they sat under it's shade and ate of it's fruit while they spoke. Among them, they decided others must know of the man's journey and end, and of the fantastic tree he had created. So together they travelled to the nearest city and spoke to any who would hear of the tree and the man who had made it.

They were killed to the last man, and the tree was struck down by the hands of the city guard using executioner's axes. There would be no tolerances for the actions of witches and wizards. And so as the grand tree fell, it rolled down the hill shedding it's limbs and fruit and foliage until it crashed into the water. From there, the men congratulated themselves and returned to the city, leaving behind only a stump and the ruins of a story.

And there is where the story would end, were it not for cruel fate.

For what else could be said to guide the log through the waters, soaking into it's grains until the sodden thing should have sunk. But it bobbed along, until finally it crossed from the domain of man, into that of a god. For that much of a story could not end so simply.

Instead, the log was captured by careful claws, and collected to the council of the great crustacean we all know. With the touch of a god, the wood was hewn back and shaped. The corpse within, still host to power a normal mortal should not have, was roused from his slumber and given a new journey.

Forrest Best shoulders his bat, and the tortured crack of the wood brings no emotion to his featureless face. He says nothing as he rounds the bases, but sometimes opponents can swear they hear a song just behind him.