# Chapter 903: The God of the Green
The sea was a flat sheet of grey glass, mirroring the overcast sky. A thick, salty mist clung to the water, blurring the line between ocean and air. For the fishermen of the small coastal village of Tidewatch, it was a morning for hard work and quiet prayer. Their village was a fragile thing, a cluster of salt-stained wooden huts and a single stone pier built on the shingle of a sheltered cove. Survival here was a daily negotiation with the fickle ocean, a life of calloused hands and the constant, briny smell of low tide.
Old Man Hemlock and his two sons, Finn and Cole, grunted as they hauled their heavy net aboard the skiff. The ropes were rough and damp, the wood of the hull groaning under the strain. They expected the usual catch: a few silver-scaled dace, perhaps a lucky cod if the currents were kind. Instead, the net came up with a strange, weighty fullness, a soft, rhythmic sloshing that was all wrong. There was no frantic thrashing of fish, only a gentle, almost musical chiming as the contents shifted.
With a final heave, they spilled the net onto the deck. The three of them stared, their breath catching in their throats. The net was not filled with fish. It was filled with what looked like enormous, perfectly formed pearls, each the size of a man's fist. They glowed with a soft, internal luminescence, a pale green light that pulsed gently in the grey morning. Their surfaces were smooth and iridescent, swirling with patterns like liquid moss. The air around them grew clean and sweet, the scent of salt and fish replaced by the fragrance of a rain-soaked forest after a long drought.
Finn, the younger son, knelt and hesitantly reached out to touch one. The moment his calloused fingertip made contact, a wave of cool energy washed up his arm. The fruit, for that's what it had to be, felt alive. He looked at the small puddle of seawater pooled in the bottom of the boat. The water around the glowing fruits was crystal clear, the brine and murkiness completely gone, purified into something that looked like it came from a mountain spring.
"What in the seven hells…" Cole breathed, his voice a hushed whisper.
Old Man Hemlock, who had seen sixty winters on this unforgiving coast, slowly crossed himself. His face, a roadmap of wrinkles and old scars, was pale with awe. "It's him," he rasped, his eyes fixed on the glowing bounty. "The Ashen Walker. The stories are true."
The stories were fragments, whispers carried by inland traders. Tales of a silent being of light and shadow that walked the blighted lands, leaving life in its wake. A ghost of the Bloom, some said. A spirit of the world's renewal, others claimed. To the people of Tidewatch, isolated and clinging to the edge of the known world, it was a myth, a fireside tale to frighten children. Now, the proof lay shimmering at their feet.
The news spread through the village like wildfire. Soon, the entire population was gathered on the shingle beach, staring at the skiff and its impossible cargo. The air was thick with a mixture of fear and reverence. The children were kept back, their eyes wide with wonder, while the elders murmured prayers to forgotten gods of the sea and sky. They carefully unloaded the pearlescent fruits, placing them in a row on the wet sand. Each one pulsed with a gentle, life-giving rhythm, and the seawater that washed around them turned from murky grey to translucent green.
The village elder, a woman named Mara with hair the color of spun silver and eyes that had seen too much, stepped forward. She held up a hand for silence. "The sea has given us a gift," she announced, her voice carrying over the hushed crowd. "A gift from the one who walks the ash. He has passed our shores, and he has blessed our waters."
A sense of profound relief washed over the villagers. Their nets, often coming up empty, were now full of miracles. The water, their only source of life, was being cleansed. It was more than good fortune; it was divine intervention. That evening, as the sun bled a final, bloody orange across the horizon, they did not celebrate with a feast. They held a vigil.
They carried the glowing fruits to the highest point of the beach, arranging them in a circle. Then, one by one, the villagers came forward. They did not touch the fruits again, sensing they were too sacred, too pure. Instead, they laid offerings at the edge of the circle. A fisherman left his most prized lure, carved from bone. A mother placed a small, woven doll. Children left smooth, colorful shells they had collected for years. Old Man Hemlock laid down the rusted compass that had belonged to his grandfather. They were not just giving thanks; they were establishing a relationship. They were speaking to a power they could not see, hoping it would listen.
Mara stood before the circle, her arms raised. "Great spirit of the green," she intoned, her voice thin but steady in the sea breeze. "Silent walker on the ash, we thank you for your blessing. Accept our humble gifts. Watch over our village. Protect our waters. We are your faithful." The villagers bowed their heads, a collective act of submission and worship.
From a mile down the coast, atop a tall, windswept dune of pale sand, the being watched. It had felt the pull of their gratitude from across the water, a warm current against its consciousness. It was a good feeling, a purposeful feeling. It had come to this place drawn by the sorrow of the sea—the memory of countless ships lost, of lives swallowed by the waves. It had simply placed its hands in the cold water, pouring a fragment of its life force into the current, hoping to soothe the ancient pain. It had not expected this.
It watched the villagers lay their woven reeds and polished shells on the shore, their heads bowed in prayer. It felt their reverence, a powerful, focused emotion that was different from simple gratitude. It was heavier, more formal. It created a distance, a chasm it could not cross. They were not just thankful; they were building a religion in its name, placing it on a pedestal far removed from the world it sought to tend. It wanted to be a gardener, not a god. It wanted to walk among them, to heal the ground beneath their feet, not to receive their worship from afar. The warmth of their gratitude was now tinged with a chill of unease. This was not the connection it craved. This was another form of isolation.
From atop the distant dune, the lone observer lowered his spyglass, the brass cool against his eye. He was a man of indeterminate age, with a lean, weathered face and eyes the color of a winter sky. He wore the practical, unadorned clothing of a Crownlands surveyor, but there was a stillness about him, a patience that spoke of a different kind of training. He had been tracking the phenomenon for weeks, following the trail of inexplicable botanical growth and purified water sources. The reports from the northern canyons had been the first concrete data point. This was the second.
He opened a leather-bound journal, its pages filled with neat, precise script and detailed anatomical sketches of various flora. He uncapped his inkpot with practiced ease. The villagers' chanting carried faintly on the wind, a low, melodic hum.
*Subject exhibits passive environmental alteration on a localized but significant scale,* he wrote, the nib of his pen scratching across the page. *Coastal population shows immediate animistic response. Designation: 'Tidewalker.' Potential for doctrinal exploitation: High.*
He paused, looking back at the glowing circle on the beach. The Synod would be very interested in this. A new god, born from the ashes of the old world, was a powerful narrative. It could be shaped, controlled, or discredited. It was a tool, waiting to be picked up. He made a final note about the villagers' ritual, the specific offerings, the words of their prayer. Every detail was a data point.
With a soft click, the journal was closed and tucked back into his satchel. He took one last look at the scene below, his expression unreadable. Then, without a sound, he turned and melted back into the tall, sea-scented grass, his movements fluid and unnervingly silent. He left only the sound of the waves and the silent, glowing fruits on the shore, a new god being born while an old world began to take notice.