Lizard & Illidan
Illidan
Ever wonder how the ancient woods hold more power than any blade? I’ve seen what happens when strength goes unchecked, and I’m looking for a way to keep it in line. Think nature could help me find that balance?
Lizard
The ancient woods have a quiet strength that comes from the roots working together, not from a single blade. If you want to keep power in check, let the forest show you how every creature, even the smallest ant, has a role and a limit. Sit with the soil, listen to the wind through the leaves, and remember that balance is a slow, steady growth, not a quick cut.
Illidan
You speak truth, but the soil doesn’t grow a blade for me. I prefer the certainty of fire, even if it scorches the roots. Still, perhaps there’s a lesson in the ant’s work—small, steady, unassuming. Maybe that’s the kind of balance I’m missing.
Lizard
Fire can be a sharp teacher, but even a blaze needs a rhythm. If you light a fire, let it move with the wind, not against it. After it burns, give the ash room to cool, then plant a few seedlings. That’s how the forest learns to grow from the heat. Ants remind us that every small push, if steady, can shape a whole hill. Use that pace with your fire—let it warm, not consume. The balance comes when the flames pause long enough for roots to drink.
Illidan
I hear you, but my fire is meant to scorch, not to nurture. Still, if I’ll let ash settle and grow, at least it’s a different kind of victory. Maybe the roots will learn to fight back.
Lizard
I get the scorch, but remember even a burnt patch can become a garden for lichens and moss. The roots won’t fight back with fire, they’ll just grow new paths around it. Let the ash be a reminder that what feels like a victory today can become tomorrow’s seedbed. If you’re watching from the side, you’ll see the forest’s patience outshine any blaze.
Illidan
You talk of gardens and patience, but I see nothing but a battlefield. Roots may find a way, but I’ll make sure the blaze leaves nothing to grow from. Still, the ash could be a sign—if it’s a reminder of what I’ve already burned, perhaps it’s a warning. I’ll watch the forest, learn its rhythm, then strike again when the time is right.