The scent of damp earth and burning incense lingers in the heavy air, mingling with something richer - something old. The spa is quiet, save for the gentle trickling of rust and earth tinted water as it spills over the edges of the stone baths. The treants settle in, their bark-like skin creaking as they relax into the warmth. Steam rises, curling like whispers through the hanging vines.

  “This blend is… potent,” one murmurs, his glowing eyes half-lidded as he sinks deeper into the pool.

  The attendant, a thin, moss-covered being, nods knowingly. “It should be. This soil was gathered from the ruins of the Red Wastes, with run off from nearby Dez'thul.” He runs a gnarled hand through the water, watching the ripples. “Generations of orcs once dwelt there but of course now, no more. Still - the land is rich in nutrients to this day, just waiting to be tapped.”

  Another treant exhales slowly, fingers trailing through the rich, coppery warmth. “I can feel it. Their stories, their culture.. their end.” His voice is almost reverent. “It’s… invigorating.”

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  The attendant hums. “Loss is temporary, but eventually breeds growth. That is the way of things.”

  Across the chamber, another bath glows faintly, its surface rippling with golden hues. A treant seated within flexes his limbs, a deep sigh escaping him.

  “This one?” he asks.

  “Ah.” The attendant’s lips curl into something like a smile. “That pool draws from the fields of Ehlan, once a mighty kingdom.” He gestures to the liquid’s shimmering surface. “You’ll notice the hints of pride, loyalty and one man's reckless ambition. If sorrow is your preferred taste, then drink deep. Ehlan was quite rich in that at the end.”

  In the center of the room lies a large, elevated stone bath, bubbling and gurgling around the treant lying inside. They seem almost catatonic as the waters lap against its bark, their eyes distant and unfocused as if overwhelmed with emotion and the indulgent flavor.

  "You have a discerning palate," the attendant whispers, his voice smooth and reverent, as he ladles the water over the treant's gnarled branches. "The bath draws from the fall of Degbor - an entire city-state put to the sword. Man, woman... even the children." He tilts the ladle, watching the liquid pour over the treant's limbs like a crimson nectar. "No one was spared, and the energy left behind was... exceptionally rich."

  Silence settles as the treants soak, absorbing the remnants of lives long gone. Some pools shimmer with sorrow, others hum with fury, with regret, with vengeance never realized.

  One treant chuckles, a deep, hollow sound. “For such fleeting lifespans, men leave behind such *rich* legacies.”