Crepe Myrtle

Crepe Myrtle is a daughter of the untamed wood—a towering Arborean ranger born of bark and blossom, her body a living sculpture of soft gray bark, curling vines, and blooms of vivid pink and violet that shift with the seasons. Grown from a sacred glade deep within the Court of Rampant Green, she is no accident of nature—she is intent, shaped by the will of Acacia, the ArchFey of Wild Growth. Her heart pulses with sap and fury in equal measure, her every breath a quiet prayer to the wild, and her every step a vow to preserve the chaotic beauty of uncultivated life.   Fiercely loyal to Acacia and the primal creed of the Rampant Green, Crepe Myrtle acts as both warden and weapon. She patrols the deepest woods with silent vigilance, hunting mortals who stray too far beneath the boughs—especially those who come bearing axe, torch, or tamed seed. She does not kill recklessly, but with purpose. A warning, a judgment, a lesson carved in roots and blood. To cut a tree in her forest is to invite her shadow to fall across your path. She does not ask questions. She ensures that the forest is the final answer.   Crepe Myrtle holds special hatred for agriculture. To her, the neat rows of crops, the leashed vines, and the crippled roots of domesticated plants are blasphemies—grotesque mockeries of true growth. She raids farmlands at the forest’s edge not for conquest, but reclamation. She steals seeds from granaries and sowing baskets, scattering them deep into wild glades where they might grow freely, beyond human taming. She whispers to them as she plants them—urging them to grow wild, to sprawl and reclaim, to choke the fences and split the stones. Her rebellion is slow, green, and inevitable.   To those who walk in harmony with the wilderness, Crepe Myrtle can be serene—a still voice in the canopy, a flowering sentinel who listens more than she speaks. But to those who exploit, order, or conquer the green for profit or pride, she is an emerald shadow—a beautiful herald of the wild’s vengeance. Her arrows are thorned, her footfalls leave rootlets behind, and where she walks, the wild follows. Those who seek her name in courtly halls may call her ranger, raider, or beast—but the forest knows her simply as Crepe Myrtle, First Thorn of the Rampant Green.