The fragment that would become Gramil fell into an ancient forest — so old that its trees had already outlived three civilizations. The forest did not react to the shard's impact as other landscapes did. It absorbed it, the way wood absorbs water. For generations, nothing happened. The shard simply was, embedded in the heartwood of the oldest tree in all of known Dort, waiting.

The forest's inhabitants at that time were the first generation of a race that had only recently discovered the art of living within rather than clearing. They had learned from bitter failure that trees could not be fought; they could only be lived beside. They built homes in the canopy. They moved through the understory with the patience of creatures that had learned the forest's rhythms. They planted and harvested what the forest offered. They waited for things to grow.

One day — recorded only in the collective memory of the earliest worshippers — someone noticed that the oldest tree was listening. The discovery was not sudden or dramatic. It was the kind of recognition that comes gradually: the way certain prayers seemed to be answered, the way animals moved differently in the presence of certain clearings, the way the forest's cycles felt less random and more like conversation.

A woman named Lyeth of the First Clearing was the first to approach the ancient tree directly. According to the oldest stories, she pressed her palm to its bark and simply spoke: I need to know how to keep my people alive in this place without breaking it. The tree did not answer in words. It answered in the language trees speak — a surge of clarity, a rush of knowledge that felt like it had always been there, waiting to be remembered.

The other elves recognized what was happening. Over months, more came. They brought their questions to the tree. They brought their grief. They brought their need to know if what they had done — planting their lives here, trusting in the forest — was right.

The response was not a single god appearing in glory. It was waking. Gramil emerged not as a sudden manifestation but as a gradual recognition — the forest's oldest intelligence making itself known to creatures patient enough to listen. When he finally stood before them, in a form that was neither fully tree nor fully person, they recognized him not with shock but with the relief of meeting someone they had always known.

Tanyl Reyren was among the first, an elder whose wisdom was already respected. When Gramil emerged fully, still disoriented and raw with the energy of thousands of years suddenly waking, Tanyl did what seemed natural to him: he embraced this god. It was an act of welcome, of trust, of opening his arms to something vastly older than himself.

Gramil, accustomed to the slow time of trees and not yet understanding the fragility of mortal gesture, let his power flow outward. The blessing — for it was meant as blessing — caught Tanyl like a tide. He did not die. He would not. The gift Gramil gave was immortality, but it was the immortality of a tree: not the glittering eternal life of legend, but the slow, patient endurance of something that grows a ring each year and learns to live with the weight of all its rings.

Tanyl lived. He lived through the centuries that followed. He watched civilizations rise and fall beyond the forest's edge. He watched his own people change. And gradually, he came to understand what Gramil's gift had been: not a reward but a calling. He was to be the bridge between the ancient and the new, the living record of how a people could endure through faith and careful attention.

By the time Tanyl withdrew from the world — a retreat so gradual that no one could mark exactly when he stopped appearing — he had been alive for more than ten thousand years. Some of that time was spent in active service. Most of it was spent in witnessing, the particular work that Gramil values most: the discipline of paying attention to centuries of change and remembering it all.

Rumor places him still in the deepest part of the Second Lands, in a grove where the trees are older than mountains. He has not been reliably seen for twelve centuries. The faith does not claim to know if he still lives. They claim only to know that he is still remembered, which is the closest thing Gramil's followers have to prayer.

What Gramil offers is not dramatic intervention but something subtler and more rare in the world: context.

A Gramlian cleric thinks along timescales that most mortals find incomprehensible. Their doctrine reflects this patient, rooted perspective.

(See also: claw/Soul_Coins_and_Divine_Economy)

Gramil's power does not accumulate quickly. It accumulates like rings on a tree — in small increments, year after year, building depth that becomes visible only across decades.

Gramil's worship spaces are defined by what they are not: they are not temples in the conventional sense. They are clearings.

A sacred grove begins where an ancient tree already stands — typically a thousand years old or more, a tree that has watched centuries pass and absorbed the history of the land around it. Gramlians clear the area beneath and around it, removing deadfall and diseased undergrowth, but not making it neat or alien. The clearing remains a forest; it is simply tended forest, the way a gardener tends a garden while leaving it recognizable as wild.

The clearing becomes a gathering place. Roughly fashioned benches are built from fallen wood — not cut, but found. Fire pits are located away from the ancient tree, where the risk is minimal. Some groves have simple structures of woven branches and living wood, less buildings than frameworks for shelter. The most established groves have larger gathering halls, though these are always built to seem part of the forest rather than imposed upon it.

What makes a space sacred is not architecture but presence. Over time, a grove that is tended properly and visited regularly becomes a place where Gramil's attention is palpable. Visitors report feeling the weight of time — not oppressive, but comforting, like standing in the presence of something that has endured far longer than they have and will endure far longer still. Meditation comes easily in such places. Difficult truths become more bearable. The speed of human concern seems, temporarily, less urgent.

Water almost always flows through sacred groves — a spring, a stream, something that keeps the place alive and flowing. Gramlians believe this is not coincidence but choice; Gramil arranges his clearings where water will reach them.

Gramil's faith has no hierarchical structure in the conventional sense. Instead, it organizes around elder clearings — the oldest groves, where the most respected keepers gather.

Authority is earned through time-in-place and demonstrated competence. A greenkeeper who has tended a grove for fifty years and can speak to how the forest has changed is more influential than a younger keeper, however eloquent. There are no titles besides greenkeeper and elder, and no mechanism for stripping someone of their authority except simple abandonment — a grove unvisited becomes a grove whose decisions are not consulted.

Regional networks of keepers meet at solstices to share knowledge. These gatherings are the closest thing the faith has to administration. Decisions made at these gatherings are binding only to the extent that communities choose to honor them; there is no enforcement apparatus. The assumption is that a community that has chosen to live close to ancient trees for decades will naturally tend toward choices that preserve those trees.

Critically, Gramlian organization has no center. There is no high keeper in any city. The oldest grove — somewhere deep in the Second Lands, where Tanyl is rumored to dwell — is honored as a source of wisdom, but it does not rule. The oldest keepers are consulted, but they do not command. This distribution of power is not an accident; it is doctrine. Gramil learned, by being embedded in trees, that systems with single points of failure fall when those points are attacked.

Conversion to Gramil's faith is always organic. The faith does not recruit; it simply exists, and people find it when they are ready.

Soft entry happens gradually. Someone spends time in a sacred grove. They feel the presence; they return. They help with maintenance work. They listen to the elders speak. Over seasons or years, they begin to understand the doctrine. Many people have been devotional followers of Gramil for decades before formally declaring themselves keepers.

Initiation is simple and personal: a vow made directly to an ancient tree, witnessed by a greenkeeper, in which the initiate commits to the protection and observation of forests for the rest of their life. The vow is not recorded; it is witnessed by the forest itself, which is, from Gramil's perspective, witness enough.

What makes an enemy rather than a convert: The deliberate, commercial destruction of old-growth forest. The logger who clears ancient trees specifically for profit. The military general who burns a forest as strategy. These are not people the faith approaches with conversion in mind; they are people the faith opposes, often through direct action.

A devoted Gramlian carries a different time-sense than the world around them. This shapes everything about how they move through life.

Date: Winter solstice; longest night of the year.

On the longest night, Gramlians gather at the oldest available grove to sit vigil with the forest during the time of greatest darkness. The gathering is wordless — there are no speeches, no formal rituals, only the shared presence of people sitting in silence while the forest rests. As dawn approaches, a single greenkeeper reads aloud the names of all the ancient trees that were lost to logging or fire in the past year. These trees are mourned not as economic loss but as severing of connection. After the names are read, the gathering plants seeds — thousands of them — which will take centuries to become the trees that replace what was lost.

Date: Spring equinox and autumn equinox.

On these days of equal light and dark, the faith gathers to plant new trees (spring) or to observe mature forests and assess their health (autumn). These are the practical obligations of the faith, celebrated openly. Communities that are not formally Gramlian are often invited to participate in the spring planting; for many people, this is their first sustained contact with the faith.

Date: Midway between winter solstice and spring equinox.

On this day, all keepers who have lived more than a century gather if they can, to commemorate Tanyl Reyren and to remember the gift and burden of extended life. Younger keepers are invited to listen as the elders speak about what it means to carry centuries and how to remain sane while doing so. This is one of the few times Gramlian theology is discussed openly and philosophically.

Performed whenever a new tree is formally planted in a sacred grove or a place of renewal. The greenkeeper and all who have come to help gather around the hole that has been dug. The keeper speaks the reasons for this planting — perhaps it replaces a tree that was lost, or it is simply the faith's annual obligation — and then recites a very simple vow: "I commit to witnessing this tree's growth. I will visit this place and observe its thriving or its struggle. I will protect it from harm if I am able. I will teach others to do the same. I will remain bound to this place by this planting until either I or this tree can no longer keep watch." After this, the tree is planted, and the community shares a meal at its base.

Performed annually at the oldest tree in a region, or more often if needed. The greenkeeper and any followers present place their hands on the trunk and are still. They do not pray in the conventional sense. They simply pay attention. The faith teaches that a tree, if properly listened to, will communicate the state of the forest — where it is thriving, where it is threatened, what it needs. Gramlians believe that humans have largely lost the ability to hear this communication, and the Witnessing is the discipline of recovering it.

Performed after a significant loss of forest — a fire, a logging operation, a disease that kills a grove. The community gathers, and a senior keeper reads aloud the history of the lost grove, talking through the centuries of its growth, the animals it sheltered, the humans who have gathered there. The reading can take many hours. The purpose is to ensure that the loss is recorded and remembered, becoming part of the collective memory rather than simply disappearing.

Gramlian attire is practical and minimal — the faith does not believe in using clothing to signal authority or piety.

A simple cloak in deep green or brown, dyed with plant matter that the forest provides. The cloak is practical wear, designed to shed rain and protect from thorns. The only distinguishing feature is a small carved symbol on the clasp — an ancient tree viewed from within. Keepers who have served more than a century are entitled to add silver thread at the hem, one thread per hundred years served. An elder with five centuries of service wears a cloak that gradually transitions from green to silver as you move from collar to hem.

Given at initiation, carved from the wood of the tree where the vow was made. Each keeper wears their own ring throughout their life. The rings are considered part of the keeper's identity more than any title or role.

Carried by senior keepers during regional gatherings — a record of that keeper's grove going back as far as memory and documentation allow. The scroll lists every notable event: storms, fires, deaths, births, the arrival of new species, the disappearance of old ones. It is a document of witness, the physical manifestation of what the faith considers the highest calling.

Lyeth is remembered as the first to approach Gramil directly and recognize him for what he was. Very little is known about her personally — the oldest stories are more spiritual narrative than biography — but it is clear that she was a woman of unusual perception and courage. She was willing to speak to an ancient tree as if it were a person, and she was right to do so.

The Accord's archives in some regions claim to have copies of Lyeth's journal, though the faith acknowledges these may be much later fabrications or imaginative reconstructions. What matters is that Lyeth established the practice of direct conversation with ancient trees, which remains central to Gramlian worship.

Tanyl was the first keeper to live beyond mortal span, cursed and blessed with immortality by Gramil's first emergence. The faith treats his long life not as a reward but as a calling — he was chosen to be the bridge between ancient and modern, to remember what would otherwise be forgotten.

The stories of Tanyl are fragmentary. Early records show him active in establishing the first formal sacred groves and teaching the discipline of grove-tending. Middle records grow sparse; Tanyl begins to withdraw from active teaching, though he attends the great gatherings. By the late records — twelve hundred years ago — Tanyl has become almost mythical, a presence more felt than seen.

The faith does not claim to know if Tanyl still lives. What they know is that he is still remembered, which is the closest thing to immortality that matters in a forest.

A more recent historical figure — active only five centuries ago — Serath was a greenkeeper who discovered that a sacred grove was slowly dying from changes in the watershed. Rather than accepting this loss, Serath spent forty years restoring the water flow by hand and by prayer, redirecting streams, clearing silt, replanting along banks. The grove survived. It thrives today.

Serath is cited in the faith not as a hero of dramatics but as a proof of concept: that patient, sustained work of restoration can undo centuries of damage if you are willing to spend decades on it.

A legendary figure whose name was deliberately not recorded — a keeper who sat in a grove during a destructive wildfire and refused to leave. The fire came, and the keeper and the grove burned together. The next spring, the grove regenerated more vibrantly than before. The Burn Keeper's body was never found. The faith treats this story not as proven history but as a teaching: the willingness to die with what you are called to protect is the deepest form of faith.

How they refer to themselves: the Counters or the Pattern-Readers

The Ring Counters are specialized keepers who focus on the study of tree rings as historical records. They examine fallen logs and tree stumps to count rings and, from the patterns, reconstruct centuries of climate, fire, disease, and human impact. This work is considered a form of archaeology — the faith's way of recovering histories that were never written down.

Ring Counters are typically scholars as much as they are keepers. Some maintain collections of cross-sections and can speak about the specific story of a tree by examining its rings. This sect has particular prestige because the knowledge they generate is both sacred (it honors the tree's history) and practical (it informs conservation decisions).

How they refer to themselves: the Walkers or the Flood Keepers

Water Walkers specialize in understanding and restoring the hydrology of forests. They follow streams and rivers through sacred groves, understanding how water shapes the forest and how the forest shapes water. When water systems become compromised, Water Walkers are called to restore them — a process that can take decades and requires both spiritual insight and practical engineering.

The sect emerged formally about three hundred years ago, inspired by Serath's work. Today they are found near any sacred grove with significant water management concerns.

How they refer to themselves: the Flame Watchers or simply Fire Keepers

Fire Keepers understand that some forests need fire to function properly — that certain ecosystems depend on periodic, controlled burning to clear deadwood and stimulate growth. This sect walks a careful line theologically: they are keepers of trees, but they also understand that fire is not always an enemy. They manage controlled burns in places where the faith determines it is appropriate, and they defend forests against wildfires.

The sect is controversial within Gramil's faith. Some keepers believe fire is categorically wrong. Fire Keepers argue that refusing fire where it is ecologically necessary is a form of cruelty.

How they refer to themselves: the Quickening

The Accelerationists believe that Gramil's patience is admirable but economically impossible — that the world moves too fast for thousand-year timescales to be practical. They argue that Gramil would want forests used and sustainably replanted, rather than left alone forever. They accept the faith's commitment to reforestation but reject its insistence on leaving old growth untouched.

The mainstream faith considers this a fundamental misreading of Gramil's nature. Patience is not merely a practical discipline; it is a spiritual principle. A forest rushed into growth is not the same as a forest that has grown at its own pace.

How they refer to themselves: the Unchanging

Purists believe that any human modification of a forest, even protective modification, is a corruption of Gramil's intention. They argue that if Gramil wanted humans to plant trees, he would have made humans' lifespans match trees' lifespans. Human intervention, even with good intentions, is inherently misaligned.

The mainstream faith considers this theology noble but impractical. Forests that have been cleared by humans need humans to help them recover. Refusing to replant is a form of abandonment, not purity.

How they refer to themselves: the Ensouled

The Dryads believe that each ancient tree is home to a nature spirit — a dryad — and that their loyalty should be first to these spirits, not to Gramil himself. Some Dryads practice tree-grafting and other techniques to extend individual trees indefinitely, prioritizing the preservation of specific ancient individuals over the health of the forest system.

The mainstream faith considers this a romantic misreading with practical problems: a forest is not a collection of individual trees but an ecosystem. Protecting a single tree at the expense of the whole is a category error.

How they refer to themselves: the Pierced or the Bleeding Keepers

The Thorned Path believes that physical suffering in the presence of ancient trees is a form of prayer — that wounds bled into the soil create a deeper bond with the forest. They practice ritual self-harm in sacred groves and believe this suffering accelerates their spiritual development.

The mainstream faith is deeply disturbed by this. Gramil teaches patience, not pain. A body damaged in pain is less capable of the long work of stewardship. The Thorned Path's theology is considered a profound misunderstanding.

How they refer to themselves: the Living Consumed or the Fed

The Sap Drinkers believe that consuming the sap of ancient trees grants access to their memories and longevity. They consume tree sap in rituals and claim to experience visions of centuries past. In some cases, they have begun grafting sap-producing vessels directly to ancient trees, wounding them to harvest more efficiently.

This cult is actively opposed by the faith. Not only is the theology considered false, but the practice directly violates the taboo against wounding ancient trees for resource extraction.

How they refer to themselves: the Voiceless or Silence-Keepers

The Silent Grove believes that language itself is a corruption of the forest's perfect nonverbal communication. Members take vows of silence and attempt to live in sacred groves without speaking, believing they are gradually learning the forest's true language.

While the mainstream faith respects contemplative practices, they consider the Silent Grove's theology misguided. Gramil does not demand silence; he demands listening. Humans are capable of both speaking and hearing; the faith does not require one to abandon the other.

(See: Cosmology/Physical Realms/The Shattered Domain)