are anything but: they are the children of, if anything, magic. People converted and moulded by magic in order to work in the place of those who refused. “Anyone can be replaced,” they said and they kept that promise.
Person after person replaced with a living, breathing wooden worker. In time the magic faded and these reminders were left behind.
But that is just one story.
Some say they are the work of a local witch, or a wizard’s Helfenschwein, who ended the lives of trespassers and used them to mark their territory and thus help later trespassers avoid the danger area.
Others still say that it was Merlin, converting those who sought his magical tree.
Another story is that they’re dissidents turned to wood. Marched out by the Dark Warrior’s minions to where people gathered kindling and frozen in time as if carved from a tree where they remained rooted to the spot as a reminder to all who passed them by.
The Dark Warrior was never one to be messed with.
And nor were his people.
Perhaps the children of the wood have bared witness to this for centuries.
And still do, some while standing in urban forests miles and miles away from their brethren: a testament to times long since past, long since dealt with, almost as if they were in another world altogether, turned by a whole other wheel.
Saturn’s wheel some say. But that’s a story for another day. Another legend told in many ways.
Person after person replaced with a living, breathing wooden worker. In time the magic faded and these reminders were left behind.
But that is just one story.
Some say they are the work of a local witch, or a wizard’s Helfenschwein, who ended the lives of trespassers and used them to mark their territory and thus help later trespassers avoid the danger area.
Others still say that it was Merlin, converting those who sought his magical tree.
Another story is that they’re dissidents turned to wood. Marched out by the Dark Warrior’s minions to where people gathered kindling and frozen in time as if carved from a tree where they remained rooted to the spot as a reminder to all who passed them by.
The Dark Warrior was never one to be messed with.
And nor were his people.
Perhaps the children of the wood have bared witness to this for centuries.
And still do, some while standing in urban forests miles and miles away from their brethren: a testament to times long since past, long since dealt with, almost as if they were in another world altogether, turned by a whole other wheel.
Saturn’s wheel some say. But that’s a story for another day. Another legend told in many ways.
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