In Chapter 153, Dabwick meditated for the first time after awakening from the Mad Poet’s Oasis:
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Dabwick finds a dead-end alley in the shadow of Grayguard Castle, a place they’ve passed dozens of times without looking twice. The alley is narrow and dark, hemmed in by ancient stone walls and rusted ironwork. A forgotten corner. Cracked bricks underfoot, mildew creeping up the mortar, the faint smell of salt and rot from nearby sewer grates.
They hop onto a low stone ledge near a boarded-up shopfront. The morning air is thick and damp—more fen than street here. Their mood is unsettled. Restless thoughts chase each other like cats in their head.
As they swing their legs idly over the edge, they notice a sprig of green—two slender leaves—pushing up between the cracks of the cobblestones. A weed, likely. But it’s doing something no one asked it to:
It’s living.
They lean closer. The roots have twisted between the stones, clinging tight. No rain today. No sunlight yet. Still it grows.
Their fingers twitch—itching to name the sprout. “Greenroot? Slicken weed? No… too narrow…”
They remember, unbidden, Ashgrove’s voice—flat, clipped, and exacting:
“The name of the thing is not the thing. But names give shape to what we see.”
They remember sitting on a damp floor in Ashgrove’s shop, hunched over a pile of dried leaves and moss samples, trying to speak Druidic without stumbling. Ashgrove had given nothing—no encouragement, no softness. Just corrections. Dabwick had cried once. But they’d returned the next day. Always returned.
Until they didn’t.
Looking back down at the weed—No: plant, they remind themselves—they feel a slow warmth stir in their chest. Something about the way it grows without permission. Without applause.
Ashgrove taught them the language of the Green. But he never explained it. Not really. Dabwick is still figuring that part out.
They whisper, to no one:
“Even where stone is laid thick… the Understanding finds a voice.”
They press a fingertip to the little plant, gently. A gesture of recognition.
Then they reach into a pouch and take out a seed of their own—one they’ve carried since Thrushmoor—and wedge it into another crack along the alley floor.
Tomorrow, someone will step on it.
Or maybe it will grow.
Either way, the Green will try.
And so will they.
First Reference: Chapter 153
Other Notable References: —