Morwood Blood Tree

In the dead of winter, the Morwood's woodsman warns a woodcutter to not chop down a tree belonging to the sacred deer king, despite the city's growing fuel shortage. The woodsman beckoned the man that there was plenty of tinder and sticks, as a storm had frozen the branches of many trees, causing them to fall to the forest floor. Frustrated by the woodsman and the threat of running out of firewood, the woodcutter ignored him, and began cutting branches from the tree which bled as they were chopped. The wood, bone dry from its bleeding, burned well and hot, keeping the woodcutter and his family safe throughout the winter, giving foods cooked over the fire the most pleasant aroma and taste.   The following autumn, with much of the woodlands devastated by storms the preceeding year, did not provide much wood. The woodsman again warned the woodcutter not to tamper with the deer king's tree, that there was better harvesting grounds to the south if one was willing to pay the neighboring town the fee, and was yet again ignored.   "This tree burns well, and it's embers make the most excellent of foods."   "Because it is holy, grown to light the deer's chapels." The woodsman warned. "You took what you needed to survive and only just. Cutting more and a curse will surely fall upon you."   The cutter chopped more branches from the tree, leaving it only those out of reach, ignoring how the tree wept and its sap bleeding from the branches turned red, the tree's remaining leaves turning as black as the coals its wood made. The tree's bark turned white as ash, even in the woodcutter's hands as he carried it back, staining them from his deeds. No calamity nor befell him, however, until the next spring when his wood again ran out.   "The saplings planted before the storm are big and strong, and they burn well."   "But they do not make food taste as this one's does."   The woodcutter felled the tree, ignoring how its sickly wood gave him splinters and made him bleed upon the swollen stump, rife with maggots and grubs, spilling blood red sap into his boots. His food cooked over the tree fouled quickly, but tasted just as well as any other, yet the man ignored the churn in his stomach at eating it, growing ever more and more hungry as he was sickened and unable to keep it in his stomach. Again and again each season he returned to the deer king's tree, ripping out more and more of its sickly stump, growing more and more ash colored, more and more hungry.   By the summer, the man was but a skeleton, unable to lift his axe nor shovel to remove the tree's roots, and starved. He began to eat the tender roots he could dig with his nails, weeping that they tasted of the golden morning and honey, unawares he was blinded by his compulsions and eating worms. He ignored the approach and call of the deer king, scrambling to shove chips of wood and stone in his mouth for anything with weight to be in his belly, and cursed for refusing to answer why he cut their sacred tree.   The deer king watched as the woodcutter, weeping at his hunger left unfulfilled, began to devour himself, each bite of his meager flesh replaced with wood. A new tree sprouted from his bones, leaves from his dripping blood, branches and roots from his fingers and toes that held him fast to the ground, left to writhe and scream into the cold nights he was still hungry, and now blind as the tree's fruit grew from his eyes in great bunches. In good time, the tree grew to completely envelop the woodcutter, though did not kill him, instead allowing his haunting wails to echo through the wood and forest, the branches quaking from his fits.   Any time the tree was cut it would bleed and weep a putrid smelling red sap, as red as blood and smelling of copper. The grove itself would shriek and wail, and every season the tree looked weaker and weaker, shedding branches and leaves discolored and rotted, perpetually feasted upon by maggots. No amount of fertilizing it ever seemed to help, as the tree perpetually starved but persisted regardless.

There is zero known historical basis for the myth, with no groves, forests, or woodlands fitting the description of those in the tale ever having similar names. It's believed that the myth may have begun as a tall tale or urban legend based in other now lost myths of the gods' exploits and varying curses, only later being attributed to Mora. One theory proposed by scholars is that this was out of necessity, as the myth may have been depicting a now fallen elk, deer, or stag god, that due to tradition, their name could no longer be spoken. As such, the god in the myth was changed, with a supposed understanding the god being spoken of wasn't literally Mora themself, but meant as a subtle stand in to represent the fallen god. Over time, this cultural understanding became lost, and instead the myth was wholesale attributed to the god of life.   Another theory dictates that the myth may have undergone several translations through many different languages, and was actually about Yvittal, Mora's predecessor. This theory is given much more credence as some partial texts prior to Mora's ascension to the pantheon exist, though none have survived that preserve the name of the deity.   Partial or translated versions of the myth exist in Europe, China, Laramidia, and some parts of Appalachia, all from differing time periods with little to no mention of their origin. It's believed the story may have been spread by nomadic Centari nations and other peoples migrating due to the War of the Majors, as later recordings of the myth are almost always found further south than earlier ones.

Very rarely is the Wood of Mor depicted in artworks directly, often represented as trees and vines growing around the skeletal remains of men. These depictions are oftentimes stone or wood carvings on boards, trims, or etchings in and around Mora's temples and shrines, alongside other myths from the pantheon. Occasionally pottery is painted with symbols of trees growing around the bones of the dead. The specific Blood Tree is even more rarely depicted, but when it is, it is often drawn, painted, or carved in a distinct "H" shape, representing the woodcutter's posture with branches and roots forming his arms and legs.   When depicted as a play or in theater, the woodcutter and the woodsman are oftentimes depicted as the same person, with the latter often representing a younger and yet more wise version of the woodcutter. Most often this is done with costume changes and a singular actor for both characters using reversible cloaks with one side being new and of good condition, and the other worn and patched with duller colors and poorer quality fabric.