DISCONTINUED - Shapeshifter

4

Eyes glazed and full of apathy, Tree unblinking maroon hues impassively shrouded the dreaded domain. The place's reminiscence entirely was one full of lament, tragedy, carnage and ultimately the ruin of once a thriving and developed society of people. 

If he had the capability, Tree would be crying at this profound place of mass ruination currently bestowed in front of him effortlessly like silver cutlery on a golden platter. It infuriated him and jeered at him that the possibility of such a grand place could so easily yield to an almighty attack resulting in the fall of his beloved home. Gazing dolefully at the debris scattered in between his toes, misshaped and careless, his chest rumbled heavily with a groan, thickly laced with anguish and woe at the all the merciless calamity. 

Finally, after a strained trek through the woods and onto open plains, Tree accomplished his goal of attendance to the foul place he dared to step. To the mere bystander's eye, it was plainly a village in ruin, it remains forever in rubble and history buried away like bony structures shrouded deep in the earth. Yet... to Tree, it was so much more. 

You see that Church, the stack of bricks and smashed, stained glass, steadily planning to cave in on itself from the barbarous influence of time and nature; Tree knew the jolly priest there. The genial man that was ready to support the indigent in urgent times of need with a warm smile, overlooking their paths of faith and religion to focus solely on their prosperity. Whenever a baby was born, naturally he would always be there to aid the family any way he could, even if it meant his old bones had to sprint across the town and his long robes providing no closure tripping him up. Nevertheless, he'd always be there to aid and be a shoulder to lean on, even if time gradually caught up with him through the gentle folds in his face along with the rest of the nuns in that church. The Church now at beck and call: ready to stumble over like a pack of cards in the wind. 

You see that bakery too? Now, only small walls for someone to trip over and curse about how its dire existence ruined their day and the once gleeful sign- that had "Bakery" written in cursive smoothly over it and raised high for all to see- here and now merely a stack of wood and rubbed off black paint. All sentimental value of its original owner, the sweet baker, gone like ashes in the wind. Tree knew her too; much like the nuns and priest, she was a jolly woman but unlike the priest thin form, she had a healthy large and strong physique. Her arms and legs as great as tree trunks from carrying tonnes of heavy flour with ease in and out to make her wondrous pastries and sugary delicacies. Always seen with her soft brown hair tied back in a messy bun; apron on and ready and her features: round, plump and soft. Always had a sense of strictness but whole with an endless compassion. A mother of four well-behaved children, a loving wife. 

Tree remembered her well. Famously nicknamed "mother-bear" or"she-bear" etc for her warmhearted but protective nature, as the name vividly connoted. She was eager for a fight if it meant justice and protecting the defenceless. In fact, the woman was notably remembered as a woman activist, gathering up a handful of women and men in town and tracking down and beating any abusive husbands/wives in town with brooms, though the number of such offensive brutes was so little because the growing town was remarkably peaceful. Also, available whenever to babysit children if the parents desired a day of rest. If the number of her generous deeds were to be scratched onto paper, they would exceed the stories in the Bible. The entire family in that Bakery were welcoming... The sweet Bakery, now only a nuisance for someone to trip up and go head first into the ground.

Tree could go on for hours about the people that had lived in the modest village. There in the blacksmiths, the pile of stone bricks and chipped steps, a family named the Meyers forged pickaxes, shovels and tools for the Mole family to mine and dig. There in the ruined cottage on its last legs, the Becketts loafed, sewing and tailoring clothes for the village, including socks for the winter as the Griffins family hunted for fur in order for the Becketts to slowly produce clothes with heart and meaning. There, in the stables, now only splinters and rotting wood, the Henry's maintained the farm animals and horses while the Wilson's tended the land.