The Forest Spirit Sel’Arron.

The Forest Spirit Sel’Arron. Сoncept art.

When the world was young, the forests sang.
The stars had no names, there were no maps or borders.
Only sky, trees, wind — and life, flowing
like a clear river through earth and time.
In those days, the Forest was sentient. It spoke.
And its voice echoed in the rustle of leaves,
in the breath of the wind, in the creak of roots stretching underground
like the veins of the world itself.
Among those sounds lived one known as Sel’Arron —
spirit of the forest, guardian of balance, child of primal magic.
He was neither man, nor beast, nor shadow wandering beneath the canopy.
He was the forest itself.
His eyes glowed with green magic, ancient and calm,
like the morning after rain.
His voice could be heard only in dreams or silence —
the kind that resounds between the falling drops
from the heights of the canopy.
His body was not flesh, but the flesh of nature:
a leafy mantle like clothing;
entwined roots and branches grown into stone;
forest rocks, emeralds engraved with runes
that pulsed with a faint light;
the horns of dead beasts — a memory of ancient spirits;
and his face was hidden behind a wooden mask.
He was everywhere.
His thoughts flowed through the veins of mushrooms,
vibrated in the bristles of caterpillars,
shimmered in drops of dew.
He felt the whispers beneath the earth
as the beating of his own heart.
Of all the world’s voices, there was one — ancient, formless,
pure as the first rain.
Its name was Sel’Arron.
He was not born and did not die.
He came into being with the first tree.
His presence was the coolness in leafy shade,
the glint of sunlight in a water droplet,
the weight of the earth
when you walk barefoot on moss.
He did not rule the forest.
He was the forest.
When the owl sang — he heard.
When a leaf fell — he knew.
When someone died beneath the canopy —
he felt it as his own wound.
Sel’Arron demanded no prayers.
He knew no pride.
Yet all living things — beasts, birds, plants — revered him.
Creatures died where their bodies would nourish new life.
Rivers did not run dry
while his name was whispered in the leaves.
Seeds sprouted in the darkest corners —
and that was the sign:
he remembers.
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