As darkness finally began to overtake the sky, those who had walked off to cool their heads and soothe their hearts reluctantly returned. The circle needed to be at full strength to continue their mission, and internal strife would just get in the way for now.
Rattles watched with keen interest as members of the circle all assumed their bipedal forms and followed Father Heron. He, too, followed, though no one seemed to be expecting him to understand. He approached the dwarf from earlier and quietly asked what was happening.
The dwarf grunted, her face stony. "You'll see."
Deciding to be content with that, Rattles followed. His curiosity remained, however, compelling him to watch the group closely. They carefully picked their way through the forest, seeming to glide almost effortlessly through the foliage, some not even leaving footprints in their wake. They didn't look much at each other, but rather kept their eyes on the forest around them, as if following some sort of pattern or trail. For his part, he moved a bit more noisily than the others through the undergrowth, though that didn't necessarily mean much.
They followed the invisible trail until the forest started to show signs visible even to Rattles himself. The plants here and there became more desperate or starved-looking. The night-bird's calls became less and less frequent. As they passed a particular tree, Rattles noticed that its bark was oddly brittle-looking. The shades of grey that the dark summoned betrayed little in the way of additional information, but it was better than the darkness that swallowed the world just a few dozen paces away.
As they continued onward, the undergrowth dwindled and faded away, the odd, stubborn plant refusing to die in increasingly common patches of bare soil. the trees next to such patches were typically sparse in leaves, and sometimes even bare. Ahead of them, their destination became obvious.
A clearing where nothing grew dominated the grey sights ahead. It was large enough that, were it not for the light of the moon, it would be consumed by the same darkness that hid everything beyond the edges of Rattles' vision under the trees. What little plant life clung to existence near the edge of the clearing was twisted and half-rotted.
As the group stepped into the clearing, they arranged themselves in a circle. When Rattles stepped beyond the last stubborn, leafless plant, he felt a strange and conflicting set of instincts. It was as if half of him drew strength from the lifeless clearing, finding it coldly and cruelly comforting, whereas the other half of him wanted nothing more than to depart and be done with it. To that latter half, the clearing screamed of everything wrong and hateful, and disturbed Rattles greatly. When he noticed the others forming a circle, he moved to join it, but then caught Father Heron's eye, who shook his head almost imperceptibly. Electing to watch from a few paces away, he observed as the circle closed, with their backs turned towards Father Heron at the center, Father Heron raised his hands, and all the other druids in the circle began to chant. Rattles somehow understood the words. They spoke of green, and growth, and death, and dust. They echoed on the air for a beat longer than they had the right to.
As the circle chanted, Father Heron weaved his hands in complex patterns, the staff in his hands somehow accentuating each movement.
Rattles watched, fascinated, as a small, subtle golden glow began to rise around Father Heron, following the tracings of his hands and staff. It increased in power slowly as the chant droned on, and by its light, Rattles realized that the earth he stood on truly was grey, and that it didn't just appear so because of the lack of light. The trees at the edges of the the clearing, as well as what stubborn plants remained, were covered with patches of grey against their natural browns and greens, which colors too seemed muted and drained. As the glow grew bright enough to light every part of the clearing, Father Heron slammed his staff into the ground, and suddenly the light flooded into the bare earth. everywhere it passed, the grey burned away , leaving behind a rich brown. As it reached the edges of the clearing, the glow burned away completely the parts of the plants that were mottled with the greyness, leaving behind blackened scars, if anything at all. The colors of the plants themselves grew rich and vibrant, and for a brief moment, the entire clearing glowed with a warming radiance.
Within himself, Rattles felt the part that had found comfort in the state of the clearing before fall silent, whereas the other part was washed with a sense of relief as the foreboding dissipated. Then, the moment passed, and the world returned to a colorless greyscale.
Silently, the circle of druids disbanded, some stooping for a moment as if catching their breath. Father Heron, in particular, leaned heavily on his staff. They all allowed themselves to rest for a moment, before they collectively stood up straight and walked off again, all headed in the same direction. Rattles followed closely behind, and approached the dwarven druid from before. He quietly asked her a question. "So, what was that?"
She answered him briefly, her attention clearly elsewhere, presumably following another trail invisible to Rattles for now. "Reclamation."
Rattles thought on this word. It seemed to him that the druids were finding and chasing away whatever blight it was that withered the trees and stole the color from the forest. After a moment, he decided that it must be a very good thing. After all, Father Heron was leading them, so it must be a task of monumental importance.
The scene repeated itself several times throughout that night, once at a milky pond that cleared with the spell, once in a patch of wood that was filled with streaks and splatters of red amongst grey and black-streaked trees and undergrowth that became yet another bare clearing after the spell was cast, and once in a patch of whitened stones that took on color after the spell was completed. Each time, Rattles watched intently, never joining the circle, but always enjoying the resolving of the conflict within him as the warring halves of his nature reacted to the blighted versions of the wood. He enjoyed the sights of the clear pond, the rich, bare clearing, and the beautiful, marbled stones.
As the scene repeated itself again once more, this time within a patch of unruly, blackened briars that evaporated with the passing of the spell, everyone involved in its casting was noticeably more tired than before. Some even had to sit down in the newly bare soil, and Father Heron nearly fell to his knees despite leaning heavily on his staff. Rattle grew worried for those around him, and asked aloud, "Is everyone alright?"