Lore? who knows about tha- Growing up, Ichor was considered odd. Unlike the rest of his terrified village—who spoke of the forest in trembling whispers—he adored the outside world. The woods weren’t a place of fear to him but a sanctuary, a living studio where he could explore and create. With a bundle of paints always tucked under his arm, he spent every waking moment sketching bent branches, painting the soft glow of moss, or mixing watercolors with dew collected off fern leaves. While others warned him of spirits and curses, Ichor only felt wonder—and inspiration. As he grew older, his fascination deepened into something almost instinctual. It was as though the forest itself called to him, tugging gently at his curiosity. One dusk, as indigo shadows stretched across the path, he wandered farther than ever before. The familiar trees gave way to unfamiliar shapes—arched and spiraled as though grown by an artist’s hand rather than nature’s. That was when he heard the chanting. Soft at first, like murmured voices in another room. Then rhythmic. Purposeful. Driven more by curiosity than fear, Ichor followed the sound to a moonlit clearing he’d never seen, though he knew the woods better than he knew people. Cloaked figures stood in a circle around a pool of shimmering liquid—something not quite water and not quite light. The surface shimmered in colors he had never been able to capture on paper, no matter how he layered his paints. The cult noticed him at once, yet none looked alarmed. Instead, the circle shifted slightly, as though making room. The pool brightened, swirling like liquid auroras. “You’ve been listening to the forest your entire life,” one figure said, their voice warm and oddly familiar. “Now it wishes to speak back.” Before Ichor could respond, the ground beneath him vibrated gently, like a heartbeat. A warm sensation spread through him—not painful, not frightening—just different, like the forest was wrapping him in an embrace. The light from the pool rose in luminous ribbons and brushed across his skin. Colors danced around him, settling into him the way watercolor blooms across wet paper. When the glow faded, Ichor felt… changed. Not harmed—transformed. His senses hummed with new clarity. He could hear sap flowing in trees, feel emotions drifting through the breeze. Even the colors around him looked different—deeper, shifting softly like living paint. He noticed his hands now left faint trails of color when he touched leaves, like the forest had given him pigments of its own. He soon became a part of the village folk lore, "Never venture out far into the forest for Ichor lurks, and if you cross him, you will become another whisper in the trees."
Code: @Wella_Waffle Design: @t0adbrain Art: Meeeee
