A traveling cleric stopped by under pretense of purchase, staring long at God's Garden as if recognizing something sacred.
The cleric was not what Jack expected: middle-aged, hair cropped close, robes threaded with a subtle green leaf motif. His hands were calloused in a way that suggested both ritual and toil; his eyes were calm and appraising. He bought a small pouch of God's Garden on credit, spent an hour in the corner with a single pipe, and then set the pipe aside as if making a decision.
"Your garden…" he said quietly, after watching the effects on a veteran who'd drifted in to give thanks. "It's touched. I felt it when I stepped through your door."
Jack downplayed what he knew. The cleric only smiled, and that smile carried a professional curiosity.
" The Green Father—Tokan," said jack.
He did not shout the name; he spoke it like one might speak of rain.
"There are signs in what you've grown—divine resonance, subtle but unmistakable. If this is truly a new goes work, it's more than merchandise. It's a seed of his power and growing influence on the world."
Jack bristled at talk of religion, but the cleric continued with pragmatic kindness. "You're a man with influence already. If the divine is present, it'll draw attention—devotees who will seek shelter, and those who would plunder holy things. Better to shape what comes than to be shaped by it."
He produced a small ledger-bound sketch: a modest floor plan for a temple-garden hybrid, organized around a central greenhouse and a public hearth where people could gather safely.
The cleric's script annotated practicalities—drainage, altar placement, an outdoor space for market offerings, and a buffer of legal protections if consecrated properly.
"You want expansion on your terms," the cleric said. "Give me a hand, and I'll help build the first temple of Tokan right here in High Point. I know rites that encourage a god's attention; I know how to petition without fanfare, how to consecrate land so a blessing can root. If the Green Father accepts the petition, the temple garden will be blessed in a way that stabilizes and amplifies what you've already created."
The blessing would link the temple and Stoner's Keep—divine power would anchor here, making the building itself a protected locus of Tokan's grace.
Jack listened to every detail—the schedule of rites, the need for consecrated soil from a sacred grove (the cleric claimed contacts), the quiet ceremonies that required no fanfare but needed public witnesses, and the kinds of donations that satisfied elders without making the temple beholden to any noble. The plan was careful, legal, and protective of Jack's autonomy.
"I don't want followers ," Jack said at last. "I want people helped anyone who decides to be among the first 3 priest will spend 2 weeks with me learning what it means to be a follower of tokan."
The cleric nodded. "Then we build guardians, not masters. We consecrate breath and soil, and in doing so we create a place where help is formalized—where the divine can be requested and where those requests are witnessed by a living, accountable community. If Tokan answers, the blessing will strengthen your garden, the temple will be a refuge, and your shop will be recognized as a sanctified source of healing—without noble seals deciding who can be helped."
They struck an agreement: the cleric would marshal his circle, organize the rites, and supervise the temple's initial construction; Jack would fund materials, provide the greenhouse expertise, and keep Stoner's Keep independent. They arranged a public meeting to lay the first stone—visible to the market, the guilds, and any curious noble—so that any blessing would be a civic event rather than a secret favor.
Word of a temple drew new faces—devout gardeners, silent pilgrims, and a faction of practical clergy who inspected Jack's greenhouse with professional respect. The cleric taught Maris and Bren a few rituals: how to treat consecrated soil, how to label offerings, and how to record prayers so the circle could track petitions. Construction started with a modest clearing behind the shop, foundation stones hauled by hired hands, plans posted on the wall where anyone could read them. Donations arrived in coin and in kind—sacks of lime, barrels of fresh earth, a carved stone basin from a grateful traveler.
In the capital, Lord Alastair watched the ledger announcing A new temple to a previously unknown god , he thought had over his options, this would make the shop harder to seize, harder to smear. He considered other moves and found fewer safe options.
At Stoner's Keep, the sign's emerald glow pulsed with quiet promise. The cleric performed the first small, private rite under moonlight: incense, water from consecrated springs, soil mixed with prayers. He didn't speak of gods in grandiose terms; his rites were steady, practiced, and meant to invite, not compel. Jack felt a warmth pass through the greenhouse that night—subtle, steady, like the settling of a house at the end of a long day.
"The rest is a waiting," the cleric murmured. "We've laid the path. If the Green Father chooses to walk it, he will come in his own time. Until then, we build something worth blessing."
They kept the project public and modest, an act of community as much as devotion—precisely so any blessing, if it came, would bind the temple and the shop to the people they served, not to a noble's ledger. As foundations rose behind Stoner's Keep, the city watched—some with hope, some with greed, and others with an attention that would not be ignored.
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Continue this story A traveling cleric stopped by under pretense of purchase, staring long at God's Garden as if recognizing something sacred.
The cleric was not what Jack expected: middle-aged, hair cropped close, robes threaded with a subtle green leaf motif. His hands were calloused in a way that suggested both ritual and toil; his eyes were calm and appraising. He bought a small pouch of God's Garden on credit, spent an hour in the corner with a single pipe, and then set the pipe aside as if making a decision.
"Your garden…" he said quietly, after watching the effects on a veteran who'd drifted in to give thanks. "It's touched. I felt it when I stepped through your door."
Jack downplayed what he knew. The cleric only smiled, and that smile carried a professional curiosity.
" The Green Father—Tokan," said jack.
He did not shout the name; he spoke it like one might speak of rain.
"There are signs in what you've grown—divine resonance, subtle but unmistakable. If this is truly a new goes work, it's more than merchandise. It's a seed of his power and growing influence on the world."
Jack bristled at talk of religion, but the cleric continued with pragmatic kindness. "You're a man with influence already. If the divine is present, it'll draw attention—devotees who will seek shelter, and those who would plunder holy things. Better to shape what comes than to be shaped by it."
He produced a small ledger-bound sketch: a modest floor plan for a temple-garden hybrid, organized around a central greenhouse and a public hearth where people could gather safely.
The cleric's script annotated practicalities—drainage, altar placement, an outdoor space for market offerings, and a buffer of legal protections if consecrated properly.
"You want expansion on your terms," the cleric said. "Give me a hand, and I'll help build the first temple of Tokan right here in High Point. I know rites that encourage a god's attention; I know how to petition without fanfare, how to consecrate land so a blessing can root. If the Green Father accepts the petition, the temple garden will be blessed in a way that stabilizes and amplifies what you've already created."
The blessing would link the temple and Stoner's Keep—divine power would anchor here, making the building itself a protected locus of Tokan's grace.
Jack listened to every detail—the schedule of rites, the need for consecrated soil from a sacred grove (the cleric claimed contacts), the quiet ceremonies that required no fanfare but needed public witnesses, and the kinds of donations that satisfied elders without making the temple beholden to any noble. The plan was careful, legal, and protective of Jack's autonomy.
"I don't want followers ," Jack said at last. "I want people helped anyone who decides to be among the first 3 priest will spend 2 weeks with me learning what it means to be a follower of tokan."
The cleric nodded. "Then we build guardians, not masters. We consecrate breath and soil, and in doing so we create a place where help is formalized—where the divine can be requested and where those requests are witnessed by a living, accountable community. If Tokan answers, the blessing will strengthen your garden, the temple will be a refuge, and your shop will be recognized as a sanctified source of healing—without noble seals deciding who can be helped."
They struck an agreement: the cleric would marshal his circle, organize the rites, and supervise the temple's initial construction; Jack would fund materials, provide the greenhouse expertise, and keep Stoner's Keep independent. They arranged a public meeting to lay the first stone—visible to the market, the guilds, and any curious noble—so that any blessing would be a civic event rather than a secret favor.
Word of a temple drew new faces—devout gardeners, silent pilgrims, and a faction of practical clergy who inspected Jack's greenhouse with professional respect. The cleric taught Maris and Bren a few rituals: how to treat consecrated soil, how to label offerings, and how to record prayers so the circle could track petitions. Construction started with a modest clearing behind the shop, foundation stones hauled by hired hands, plans posted on the wall where anyone could read them. Donations arrived in coin and in kind—sacks of lime, barrels of fresh earth, a carved stone basin from a grateful traveler.
In the capital, Lord Alastair watched the ledger announcing A new temple to a previously unknown god , he thought had over his options, this would make the shop harder to seize, harder to smear. He considered other moves and found fewer safe options.
At Stoner's Keep, the sign's emerald glow pulsed with quiet promise. The cleric performed the first small, private rite under moonlight: incense, water from consecrated springs, soil mixed with prayers. He didn't speak of gods in grandiose terms; his rites were steady, practiced, and meant to invite, not compel. Jack felt a warmth pass through the greenhouse that night—subtle, steady, like the settling of a house at the end of a long day.
"The rest is a waiting," the cleric murmured. "We've laid the path. If the Green Father chooses to walk it, he will come in his own time. Until then, we build something worth blessing."
They kept the project public and modest, an act of community as much as devotion—precisely so any blessing, if it came, would bind the temple and the shop to the people they served, not to a noble's ledger. And as foundations rose behind Stoner's Keep, the city watched—some with hope, some with greed, and others with an attention that would not be ignored.
A
It was not lightning.
It was not a voice from the heavens.
It was simply that nothing in the garden died.
Seedlings that should have withered beneath an unexpected heat wave remained green. A peach sapling snapped nearly in half by a careless laborer's cart stood upright again by dawn, the torn bark already knitting together. Even weeds that had no business growing beside cultivated herbs emerged in neat circles instead of choking the beds, as though an invisible gardener had arranged them.
The cleric noticed first.
He knelt beside a patch of mint, fingers brushing the damp earth.
"The blessing has begun," he whispered.
Jack frowned. "We haven't finished the rites."
"No."
The cleric smiled.
"We've been acknowledged."
Construction accelerated after that.
Not because of miracles, but because people wanted to help.
Carpenters donated evenings after work.
Stone masons shaped pillars for half their usual fee.
A widow whose arthritis had eased after drinking tea brewed from God's Garden arrived every morning with bread for the workers.
Nobody demanded payment.
Nobody claimed ownership.
It became simply...
their temple.
The central greenhouse took shape first—a wide glass structure surrounded by white stone and timber beams carved with vines, leaves, and growing roots.
Unlike other temples, there were no towering statues.
Instead, every visitor would pass beneath a living arbor.
The altar itself was nothing more than a broad cedar table filled with rich black soil. Offerings were planted rather than burned.
Fruit.
Flowers.
Seeds.
Medicinal herbs.
Life returned to the earth instead of being consumed.
The cleric approved immediately.
"Tokan accepts growth," he said.
"Not waste."
Exactly two weeks before the consecration ceremony, the first three volunteers arrived.
They had answered notices posted throughout High Point.
No promises of miracles.
No riches.
Only a single line.
"Those wishing to serve the Green Father may apply. Expect labor, study, humility, and service."
Jack examined each himself.
The first was Rowan, a former city gardener dismissed after refusing to poison a noble's rival orchard.
The second was Elin, once an army medic whose hands shook after too many battlefields but who still treated every patient with impossible gentleness.
The third surprised everyone.
A seventeen-year-old orphan named Finn.
Thin.
Bright-eyed.
He admitted immediately that he knew almost nothing about religion.
"I just..." he said awkwardly.
"I've never seen people smile after leaving work before."
Jack looked around the greenhouse.
Maris was laughing with Bren over a spilled sack of soil.
Customers chatted while sharing pipes around the hearth.
Workers argued over roof angles while eating stew someone had donated.
Finn wasn't wrong.
Stoner's Keep felt...
different.
Jack nodded.
"You'll do."
The lessons began the next morning.
There were no sermons.
The first day involved hauling compost.
The second, cleaning pipes.
The third, helping an elderly woman transplant vegetables into her backyard.
Only after sunset did Jack gather them inside.
"What is Tokan?" Rowan asked.
Jack thought for a long moment.
Finally he answered.
"I don't know."
The three stared.
"I know the Green Father exists," Jack continued.
"I've seen too much not to believe that."
"But I won't pretend to know his every thought."
The cleric, seated nearby, nodded approvingly.
Jack continued.
"What I do know is this."
"If someone comes hungry..."
"Feed them."
"If they're sick..."
"Help them."
"If they're lonely..."
"Sit with them."
"If they abuse your kindness..."
"Protect the innocent before protecting your pride."
He looked toward the greenhouse windows.
"And never mistake power for purpose."
Silence settled over the room.
The cleric finally spoke.
"Congratulations."
The three looked confused.
"You've just received your first sermon."
Continue this story A traveling cleric stopped by under pretense of purchase, staring long at God's Garden as if recognizing something sacred.
The cleric was not what Jack expected: middle-aged, hair cropped close, robes threaded with a subtle green leaf motif. His hands were calloused in a way that suggested both ritual and toil; his eyes were calm and appraising. He bought a small pouch of God's Garden on credit, spent an hour in the corner with a single pipe, and then set the pipe aside as if making a decision.
"Your garden…" he said quietly, after watching the effects on a veteran who'd drifted in to give thanks. "It's touched. I felt it when I stepped through your door."
Jack downplayed what he knew. The cleric only smiled, and that smile carried a professional curiosity.
" The Green Father—Tokan," said jack.
He did not shout the name; he spoke it like one might speak of rain.
"There are signs in what you've grown—divine resonance, subtle but unmistakable. If this is truly a new goes work, it's more than merchandise. It's a seed of his power and growing influence on the world."
Jack bristled at talk of religion, but the cleric continued with pragmatic kindness. "You're a man with influence already. If the divine is present, it'll draw attention—devotees who will seek shelter, and those who would plunder holy things. Better to shape what comes than to be shaped by it."
He produced a small ledger-bound sketch: a modest floor plan for a temple-garden hybrid, organized around a central greenhouse and a public hearth where people could gather safely.
The cleric's script annotated practicalities—drainage, altar placement, an outdoor space for market offerings, and a buffer of legal protections if consecrated properly.
"You want expansion on your terms," the cleric said. "Give me a hand, and I'll help build the first temple of Tokan right here in High Point. I know rites that encourage a god's attention; I know how to petition without fanfare, how to consecrate land so a blessing can root. If the Green Father accepts the petition, the temple garden will be blessed in a way that stabilizes and amplifies what you've already created."
The blessing would link the temple and Stoner's Keep—divine power would anchor here, making the building itself a protected locus of Tokan's grace.
Jack listened to every detail—the schedule of rites, the need for consecrated soil from a sacred grove (the cleric claimed contacts), the quiet ceremonies that required no fanfare but needed public witnesses, and the kinds of donations that satisfied elders without making the temple beholden to any noble. The plan was careful, legal, and protective of Jack's autonomy.
"I don't want followers ," Jack said at last. "I want people helped anyone who decides to be among the first 3 priest will spend 2 weeks with me learning what it means to be a follower of tokan."
The cleric nodded. "Then we build guardians, not masters. We consecrate breath and soil, and in doing so we create a place where help is formalized—where the divine can be requested and where those requests are witnessed by a living, accountable community. If Tokan answers, the blessing will strengthen your garden, the temple will be a refuge, and your shop will be recognized as a sanctified source of healing—without noble seals deciding who can be helped."
They struck an agreement: the cleric would marshal his circle, organize the rites, and supervise the temple's initial construction; Jack would fund materials, provide the greenhouse expertise, and keep Stoner's Keep independent. They arranged a public meeting to lay the first stone—visible to the market, the guilds, and any curious noble—so that any blessing would be a civic event rather than a secret favor.
Word of a temple drew new faces—devout gardeners, silent pilgrims, and a faction of practical clergy who inspected Jack's greenhouse with professional respect. The cleric taught Maris and Bren a few rituals: how to treat consecrated soil, how to label offerings, and how to record prayers so the circle could track petitions. Construction started with a modest clearing behind the shop, foundation stones hauled by hired hands, plans posted on the wall where anyone could read them. Donations arrived in coin and in kind—sacks of lime, barrels of fresh earth, a carved stone basin from a grateful traveler.
In the capital, Lord Alastair watched the ledger announcing A new temple to a previously unknown god , he thought had over his options, this would make the shop harder to seize, harder to smear. He considered other moves and found fewer safe options.
At Stoner's Keep, the sign's emerald glow pulsed with quiet promise. The cleric performed the first small, private rite under moonlight: incense, water from consecrated springs, soil mixed with prayers. He didn't speak of gods in grandiose terms; his rites were steady, practiced, and meant to invite, not compel. Jack felt a warmth pass through the greenhouse that night—subtle, steady, like the settling of a house at the end of a long day.
"The rest is a waiting," the cleric murmured. "We've laid the path. If the Green Father chooses to walk it, he will come in his own time. Until then, we build something worth blessing."
They kept the project public and modest, an act of community as much as devotion—precisely so any blessing, if it came, would bind the temple and the shop to the people they served, not to a noble's ledger. And as foundations rose behind Stoner's Keep, the city watched—some with hope, some with greed, and others with an attention that would not be ignored.
Before the temple walls had risen above a man's height, the first sign came.
It was not lightning.
It was not a voice from the heavens.
It was simply that nothing in the garden died.
Seedlings that should have withered beneath an unexpected heat wave remained green. A peach sapling snapped nearly in half by a careless laborer's cart stood upright again by dawn, the torn bark already knitting together. Even weeds that had no business growing beside cultivated herbs emerged in neat circles instead of choking the beds, as though an invisible gardener had arranged them.
The cleric noticed first.
He knelt beside a patch of mint, fingers brushing the damp earth.
"The blessing has begun," he whispered.
Jack frowned. "We haven't finished the rites."
"No."
The cleric smiled.
"We've been acknowledged."
Construction accelerated after that.
Not because of miracles, but because people wanted to help.
Carpenters donated evenings after work.
Stone masons shaped pillars for half their usual fee.
A widow whose arthritis had eased after drinking tea brewed from God's Garden arrived every morning with bread for the workers.
Nobody demanded payment.
Nobody claimed ownership.
It became simply...
their temple.
The central greenhouse took shape first—a wide glass structure surrounded by white stone and timber beams carved with vines, leaves, and growing roots.
Unlike other temples, there were no towering statues.
Instead, every visitor would pass beneath a living arbor.
The altar itself was nothing more than a broad cedar table filled with rich black soil. Offerings were planted rather than burned.
Fruit.
Flowers.
Seeds.
Medicinal herbs.
Life returned to the earth instead of being consumed.
The cleric approved immediately.
"Tokan accepts growth," he said.
"Not waste."
Exactly two weeks before the consecration ceremony, the first three volunteers arrived.
They had answered notices posted throughout High Point.
No promises of miracles.
No riches.
Only a single line.
"Those wishing to serve the Green Father may apply. Expect labor, study, humility, and service."
Jack examined each himself.
The first was Rowan, a former city gardener dismissed after refusing to poison a noble's rival orchard.
The second was Elin, once an army medic whose hands shook after too many battlefields but who still treated every patient with impossible gentleness.
The third surprised everyone.
A seventeen-year-old orphan named Finn.
Thin.
Bright-eyed.
He admitted immediately that he knew almost nothing about religion.
"I just..." he said awkwardly.
"I've never seen people smile after leaving work before."
Jack looked around the greenhouse.
Maris was laughing with Bren over a spilled sack of soil.
Customers chatted while sharing pipes around the hearth.
Workers argued over roof angles while eating stew someone had donated.
Finn wasn't wrong.
Stoner's Keep felt...
different.
Jack nodded.
"You'll do."
The lessons began the next morning.
There were no sermons.
The first day involved hauling compost.
The second, cleaning pipes.
The third, helping an elderly woman transplant vegetables into her backyard.
Only after sunset did Jack gather them inside.
"What is Tokan?" Rowan asked.
Jack thought for a long moment.
Finally he answered.
"I don't know."
The three stared.
"I know the Green Father exists," Jack continued.
"I've seen too much not to believe that."
"But I won't pretend to know his every thought."
The cleric, seated nearby, nodded approvingly.
Jack continued.
"What I do know is this."
"If someone comes hungry..."
"Feed them."
"If they're sick..."
"Help them."
"If they're lonely..."
"Sit with them."
"If they abuse your kindness..."
"Protect the innocent before protecting your pride."
He looked toward the greenhouse windows.
"And never mistake power for purpose."
Silence settled over the room.
The cleric finally spoke.
"Congratulations."
The three looked confused.
"You've just received your first sermon."
Nearly half of High Point gathered behind Stoner's Keep.
Guild representatives stood beside laborers.
Merchants beside beggars.
Veterans beside children.
Even several city officials attended—not out of devotion, but because whatever was happening had become impossible to ignore.
The cleric stood before the unfinished temple.
His voice carried across the crowd.
"We ask for no kingdom."
"We claim no dominion."
"We seek no throne."
He placed both hands upon the cedar altar.
"We ask only that this place remain one where life is tended, burdens are shared, and hope is cultivated."
One by one, people stepped forward.
A child planted a sunflower seed.
A blacksmith offered an acorn.
A farmer poured a handful of wheat into the soil.
An old woman laid down a single rose.
Finally, Jack approached.
He carried only a small pouch.
The first harvest of God's Garden.
He gently mixed the emerald herb into the altar's rich earth.
Jack rested his hand upon the cedar and spoke quietly.
"If you're listening, Tokan..."
"Help us keep helping people."
Silence answered him.
One heartbeat.
Then another.
The crowd shifted uneasily.
Without warning, every living plant within sight turned toward the altar.
There was no wind.
Leaves twisted of their own accord.
Flowers bloomed in an instant.
Grass rippled outward in perfect circles.
The greenhouse behind the temple glowed with a soft emerald radiance, its glass reflecting not the city, but an endless forest bathed in golden sunlight.
The cedar altar shuddered.
Tiny roots emerged from the soil, weaving through the foundation stones before disappearing into the earth.
The cleric fell to one knee.
Not in shock.
In recognition.
His voice shook with quiet certainty.
"The Green Father has accepted."
Around the gathered crowd, no one spoke above a whisper.
Then the light intensified.
Golden vines of pure light spiraled upward from the altar, intertwining with emerald branches until they formed the outline of a towering figure.
The apparition stood nearly twenty feet tall.
Its body was woven from bark, vines, moss, and blooming flowers, yet every edge shimmered with warm golden light. Antlers of living oak crowned its head, while emerald eyes regarded the gathered crowd with immeasurable patience.
No one moved.
No one dared breathe.
Even the birds fell silent.
The cleric slowly dropped to one knee, tears filling his eyes.
"The Green Father..."
The figure looked across the crowd.
Where its gaze passed, fear melted into peace.
Wilting flowers stood tall.
Old scars stopped aching.
The exhausted felt their strength return.
No great miracle occurred.
Only quiet reassurance.
Then Tokan's eyes settled upon Jack.
His patron god stepped forward, and though his feet never touched the earth, every growing thing bowed in his wake.
His voice was deep and gentle, carrying through every heart more than every ear.
"Jack."
Tokan smiled with the pride of a father watching his sead grow
"You have planted more than herbs."
"You have planted hope."
The golden light surrounding him expanded, flowing over the temple and Stoner's Keep alike.
It settled across the buildings like a radiant canopy, becoming a translucent shield woven from roots, leaves, and sunlight.
Every person present could feel it.
Not a barrier that imprisoned—
but one that promised sanctuary.
"My blessing rests here."
"No force born of greed shall easily claim this place."
"No servant of cruelty shall find peace beneath these branches."
"The faithful who seek shelter shall find it."
"In times of war or conflict no weapon shall enter"
The light pulsed once before shrinking until it rested invisibly over the temple grounds.
Tokan's expression grew solemn.
"The seasons do not remain gentle forever."
"The soil remembers every drop of blood spilled upon it."
"Old powers awaken."
"They will seek dominion."
"They will seek fear."
"They will seek to uproot all that grows beyond their control."
He looked directly into Jack's eyes.
"So grow."
"Grow your garden."
"Grow your people."
"Grow your wisdom."
"Grow your strength."
"For conflict is coming."
"And when winter seeks to claim this world..."
"The Green must endure."
A single glowing seed drifted from Tokan's hand.
It landed in Jack's palm.
Warm.
Alive.
"This is the Heartseed."
"So long as it is nurtured, my presence shall remain anchored here."
"Through it, this temple and your home shall stand together."
"The stronger one becomes..."
"The stronger both shall be."
Jack closed his fingers around the seed.
"I don't know if I'm the right man for this."
Tokan smiled, not with grandeur, but with quiet confidence.
"The right man does not ask for power."
"He asks how it may serve others."
"That is why I chose you."
The Green Father raised one hand in blessing.
Golden light swept across every person gathered.
Each felt, if only for a heartbeat, the peace of a forest after spring rain the relaxing smell of smoke drifting through the crowd.
Then the divine figure dissolved into countless emerald and golden leaves.
They drifted across the temple grounds before fading into motes of light.
Silence lingered.
The cleric finally rose, his voice barely above a whisper.
"The first Temple of Tokan has been accepted."
Behind him, the emerald sign of Stoner'sKeep shone brighter than ever before.
For the first time since opening his humble shop, Jack realized he was no longer simply a gardener or a merchant.
Whether he wanted the title or not...
he had become the first champion of the Green Father, the first elder priest and the world had just been warned that something ancient and benevolent had taken root once more.