The moon had not yet risen when Othorion laid the small bundle upon thealtar of moss and root. The fireflies blinked slowly in the warm hush ofthe Vallenwoods, the breath of the trees stirring the hem of his robes.
Wrapped in soft linen, the crystal shedding shimmered faintly, catching theforest's ambient glow in delicate refracted patterns. Ghaoshen'ite, thegreat Crystal Wyrm, had given this willingly, a token of her own growth,sloughed in peace, not in battle. A gift without demand. A piece of abeing older and grander than memory.
Othorion regarded it in silence, the flicker of torchlight dancing acrosshis features. The shedding pulsed softly, as though holding echoes of thewyrm's breath, as though still alive. He had accepted it with grace andbowed reverence, but now in solitude, he felt the weight of it, not just thegift, but the potential.
"What might be done? " he murmured to the grove, to no one.
He imagined the forests of Shalonesti, still bearing scars where corruptioncrept like shadow through bark and root. He thought of the sewers of NewThalos, where spiritual rot clung to the stone like mildew, damp, stubborn,and too long ignored. Could this crystalline essence, born of balance andlight, be harnessed to push back that which festered?
A theory only. Not a calling. Not yet.
He did not know if the shedding could be distilled into something more thanbeauty, if its nature would allow transmutation into magic of healing, ofpurification. But the thought took root, slow and deliberate as moss onstone.
Othorion closed his eyes, pressing one hand gently to the shedding. It wascool to the touch, and somewhere deep in the distance, a night bird called.
"No harm done by hope, " he whispered.
He would take no action yet. The forest would speak if it was time. Fornow, the crystal would remain unshaped. A whisper of possibility. A seedof wonder in the quiet of his heart.