If you're a blacksmith, probably the proudest day of your life is when you get your first anvil. How innocent you are, little blacksmith.

Let’s get this straight: Satty is a pretty big optimist. Which is fair. For one thing, despite nature and pretty much every law in existence decreeing he should be dead, he is actually pretty alive. For another, he had one (1) kid which mean that someone actually let him Do It with them which was a pretty big deal and very brave of her.
(AN: that kid was played by Myth and we miss her every day.)
That being said, the broadly enigmatic stag did not antedate a rejoinder as he oscillated enthusiastically betwixt straightforward writing and whacked out (“convoluted” or “torturous”) purple prose that depended largely on Microsoft Word’s synonym power.
(Translation: dude didn’t ‘quite’ expect the tree to flirt back.)

The branch smacks against his overly large head and he yelps a little bit, albeit in a very manly way. Some of the leaves remain in his mane like jewels, if jewels were dry and crunchy, which maybe they are, in some parallel universe.
He shakes his head as if to clear it (though there was very little to clear). Then he smiles again, coming to the obvious conclusion:
The tree was into some kinky shit.

But Satty is a Gentleman, so he doesn’t dive right into that, because this author may have written historical RPF smut but she is not about to get kinky with a tree (yet).
Anyway (@self: nice transition) he smiles. Reading back on what I wrote like two minutes ago we already established he was smiling but sometimes the backspace bar is cool in theory, not practice.
“My name’s Satire, but you can call me Satty,” he tells the tree, because this is how things are now.

#eloquence

I hope, when they die, cartoon characters have to answer for their sins.

All around them, war spins like a whirling dervish of hurricanes. The kingdoms – redistributed in their magic but holding old scars in their wizened hearts – are at odds. Blood is in the the air, a fine spray like mist or something. Magicians burn up everything and then more magicians come and burn up that in the world’s most dangerous pissing contest. Beqanna groans under her changes.

…is what I would write if Satty was not staring sweetly at this tree, absorbing in this new world where birds sang and the whole sky was rainbows.
(I guess birds never sang before this, I don’t know.)
Instead, Satty doesn’t know jack (WARNING SWEAR AHEAD) shit about the war, or anything that goes on in Beqanna. One time he went into a kingdom – I think the chamber – an declared himself their king but shockingly no one listened, not even him, if that’s grammatically correct (I feel like it isn’t but I also feel like that’s the least weird off-putting thing about this post).

The tree rustles and luckily Satty, who is an incredibly suave and cultured man around inanimate objects (he was once the king of sand, this has a lot less pushback from the denizens than the chamber mutiny had). He speaks fluent tree, naturally (quasi-pun not intended; rhyme also not intended). Or he assumes he does, and no one has ever corrected him.

“What a lovely name,” he says, “is it foreign? It sounds foreign. Do you miss your motherland?”
Satty is either a big idiot or a professional arborist.

I think it's high time we started questioning the old cliches like "Grunt big for Daddy."

This could only be a clear conspiracy to keep them from defeating the entire war (all of it); as Beqnana roiled and moaned under all the magic and barriers and magic barriers and dirt barriers and barrier-barriers, the ones who could save them – who were actually the Most Powerful – are distracted.
He is distracted by the curve of bark and the meticulous shape of her (or his, technically Satire knows better than to gender trees but the tree seems achingly feminine) leaves. He is too distracted to save them all from themselves, too distracted to know how to defeat everyone with some cool ninja tricks he would undoubtedly know and be able to execute flawlessly.
But the Great Beqanna Conspiracy has been pulled off without a hitch, while all around them the kingdom’s trees die because of fire and monsters and other great hulking things (I don’t pay attention), while his equine brethren kvetch and shout things at each other being Cool, Satty and this particular tree do not heed the calls for help.

If this were a movie, we would cut to battle scenes and bloodshed while O Fortuna! plays and everything is dramatic. Unfortunately, y’all have to rely on my words and erratic dissociative thoughts and mild ability to describe things.

Cut back now to the pair, where the tree’s branches flutter against him like arms, a wild and desperate love story and not at all the wind. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, breathing in the aromatic perfume of her sap, which sounds WAY dirtier than I meant it too.
“Oh, tree,” he sighs, “I feel like I’ve been looking for you all my life.”