IC Date: 03/13/2026

The fact that today’s trek would take them past the Shrouded Forest was something Sailor Bacchus would have been more than happy to ignore. Though the cracking of exhausted trees had long since stopped, the smell of rotting wood dissipated into the silent air, he knew what lay within whatever roots remained. Countless Tuath had deluded themselves into believing that these trees kept some part of them around while they grew from their corpses. The Grove Wardens took care of them, of course. Or they had, before they let the spores grow from their corpses.

The senshi scowled as they walked, remaining sullenly steadfast in his refusal to play tour guide as he and his young companion made their way through the ancient capital.

Tempesti was used to it by now, she should be, anyway. She knew better than to expect too much out of him when they were here. As cruel and stupid as this place was, shoveling gold into his subspace was better than doing whatever it was humans did to make their money. The priests were dead and the gods, if they ever existed, were dead too. The loot was already stolen as far as he was concerned. Fervently passed by the desperate to the avaricious hands of people who stood powerless against the Chaos despite whatever s**t they fed the masses.

The bits and pieces of Tuath language she’d managed to string together had given Sailor Tempesti the vaguest idea of what the forest edging the city actually was. Like most other things involving the mortality of his culture, she’d found Bacchus reluctant to share any details. She couldn’t blame him for preferring to remain silent on the matter, nor for the rare moments in which he was equally eager to fill the silence with whatever irrelevant details he could cram into his head as they walked.

She’d read record after record of donations made to the temples in the name of the dead. The countless, endless dead who lay buried beneath those trees before the streets became the final resting place for the people with no one left to put them in the forests. For all Bacchus’ comments on how boring the temples’ archives were, they’d given her a lot. The last one, dedicated to a god he was unwilling to name, seemingly served as the base of operations for an organization Bacchus had reluctantly and irritably translated as “Grove Wardens.” He said the name with a scowl that discouraged any further questions. The source of his venom toward this particular group was unclear, though to be perfectly honest she wouldn’t have been surprised to find out that they simply fell under the mantle of things he hated about this planet. Or that he said he hated about this planet.

Tempesti knew with all but absolute certainty that he was fully capable of finding some other questionable means of making money, though she couldn’t entirely rule out the possibility that these return visits were some form of self-flagellation. But that didn’t change the fact that there were coffers in that temple that even he wouldn’t touch. He’d probably hoped that she wouldn’t notice, or at least that she wouldn’t be able to pick out enough words to know that they were intended for the dead. The young senshi wasn’t sure exactly what that meant for her friend, but the look on his face said that they were one of the few things in this place that held any sway over him.

“They’re maskwood trees.”

“Excuse me?”

“The trees. The trees you’re staring at. They’re maskwood trees.” No point in explaining the real name to her. “Maskwood” was as close as English got to translating it, in the dullest, most boulder-fisted way possible. “They grow from the dead…grew from the dead.” He paused, glowering at the lazy plants that had given up so easily. “You cut a branch from your family tree and use it to carve the masks. Then they stick it to the dead ******** face with the sap and do a few pointless little chants, sing a few songs, then leave them to feed the tree. There. There’s your history lesson for the day.” Chaos proved the ultimate pointlessness of the Grove Wardens and their twee little tree lineage books. The center begets the clan, the clan begets the family, the family begets the corpse, the corpse feeds the tree.

The “history lesson” caught Tempesti off guard, it was certainly the most she’d ever heard her friend say on his homeworld. How many of his own were buried here? Did he even know? Questions best saved for later, or never. Reopening those wounds had little point, even if her mind craved the traditions of each silent world. There was no way of reviving them of course, and she harbored no illusions of ever understanding all of the nuance that came with a true understanding of the culture but conjuring up some echoes of what once was had to count for something, right? She hoped so.

Some of the tension melted from Bacchus’ neck and shoulders as they reached the end of the forest. This side of it anyway. As far as he was concerned it stretched into infinity in the other direction. Another tablet materialized in his mouth, sliding reluctantly down his throat. Better than nothing. The deep space senshi jerked his head in the general direction of their destination, another rock cut temple honoring yet another dead god. If they had a problem with it, well, they could come by and tell him themself.

Tempesti followed her companion into the silent temple, walking toward the records room as he gestured toward a heavy stone entryway. She was getting better at this, more words emerged from the pages as she slogged through them. Maybe she could be of help here after all.