The King Trials.

~Cistern Citadel~

We tread through the threshold slowly, rendered specks by the enormity of what surrounds us. Ahead there are gargantuan trees the size of buildings, if not bigger. Their ambitious heights go further than the sky, daring to reach the heavens. Every colossal tree wreathed with extravagant edifices built into them.

Everything inside of the citadel steeps in organic opulence. The overarching vault of leaf and limb. The enchanted green illuminates the great expanse, pulsing with sheer holiness. Most of the infrastructures are erected high up in the trees, huge and awe-invoking with terraces and balconies that belt their waists. An architecture that encapsulates decorative arts. With asymmetrical forms, wing patterns, and flowers. The predominance of curves instead of straight lines, natural with rich ornaments. Manifesting the wild fantasies of a child. 

There are highly detailed creations. Some with painted roofs, but most erections have domed glass ceilings bordered with gilded rims. And sterling silver etchings that twine over the glossy panels, like the meandering tree roots that rope round the structures like a veiny scarf. Flashes of prismatic light on the edge of the glass twinkle like the night stars. Making it seem like the entire structure is made of pure crystals.

The primary source materials are glass and wrought iron and cast iron, leading to an authentic form of sculpture and architecture: the glass is crafted in diverse colours with vegetal garlands. The cast iron, easier to shape in very vivid and elaborate forms. The result is supple lines, elegant yet strong and ageless.

All the edifices above are interconnected by a network of narrow bridges that maze around, draped with foliage on the concealed railings. The sun beyond, a-glint, God's luminous daystar casts everything below aglow. A green so lush, so bold. And not only is the magnificence visual, but it is visceral. The presence of magic ever-felt. This one as old as time. The rising metallic smell perfumed with a scent of floras fills my chest like the air in my lungs. The upsurge of delicate energy that emulates a nature of being. The reverberation of one's spirit.

Before the Vulkra attacked, I felt their energy, their magic lashed with hostility. But the ambiance of the Terra is gentle, filling me from head to toe with unexplainable serenity.

My gaze so hypnotised by the wonders above, my neck craned so far back. I did not even notice the horde of soldiers trooping towards us. Terra soldiers. The first ever seen, all of this, the first-ever seen. The Terra are tree nymphs, so they are exactly as I pictured them. They are mortal-size, but no mortal like I am. Their skins are a deep green, a glimmer of the forest, with emerald tattoos that appear like vines that whorl on their hands, necks, and the sides of their faces. Their bodies are enveloped in long-sleeved, leafy clothing with high field leather paladin shoes.

They are weaponless but always armed with their earth-elementing. The geokinetic ability to manipulate earth and rock, in its many forms by rearranging the electrons in atoms so that their structure changes. At least that was what I read. Their formation is impressively immaculate, standing equidistant from each other, in the shape of an arrow's head. All of their silky, dark emerald hair, the same length, ending at their waists.

"Welcome to the Cistern Citadel of the Terra," the soldier at the tip of the arrow's head, says. His tattoos are more complex. "If you will all come with me, Her Grandness, would like to welcome the candidates personally."

Like a flutter of wings, each soldier swivels around like a ripple effect. They all march ahead and we follow. So it seems with the dwellings, one's importance is ranked by where they live. At the bottom, the base of the stagnant giants, or high up along its torso and neck. They are many wooden cottages that flank our pathway, all decorated with flowers.

The sidelines teem with milling Terra folk, all glowing with green euphoria. But their attention diverts to us as we stride by, backed by a strong military presence. The first time they have probably ever seen foreigners. And now we arrive, bruised and filthy. Excited whispers ricochet all around us with an abundance of indiscreet finger-pointing.