Dread Beneath the Tree of Tribute

"The only reason the size of this tree is remarkable..." Gryffudd mused, the stretch in his throat aching his voice as he stared up into its twisted branches. "...is because of the size of the trees that border it." He turned around to gaze out into the forest. The thin pines scattered about them creaked weakly, easily bent until broken by stormless winds. The Yellow Pines and White Aspens of the Mountains that birthed these sickly children in the foothills were still nothing compared with the tree behind them, left to weather its days alone, the last of its kind. "Making them worried is not enough," he swore, shifting his hand from the pommel to the hilt to grip, like squeezing out a blood-oath. "We must learn to make them dread our very name."

Burgweard offered the man's back a wolfish grin. "If poetic words could make them soil their saddles you'd have them pushed back to the Entwade by now, Prince Gryffudd." He stepped alongside him once more, hand dropping from his belt. "I was always a piss poor poet, but dread, now there's something I know a thing or two about."