Roosevelt Elk — The Monarch of Moss

Roosevelt Elk — The Monarch of Moss

You find the medallion half-sunk in a patch of loamy moss, at the edge of a wide, wild park where the trees grow old and the signs give up. It feels ancient beneath your fingers—cool, deliberate, like a door hinge to something older than names.

A throat clears behind you.

“Do you intend to kneel?”

You spin around. An enormous Roosevelt elk stands a stone’s toss away, draped in fog and offended dignity. His antlers sprawl like the branches of a chandelier that lost interest in ceilings. His chest puffs.

“I am Thistlewick Ambrosius the Fifth, Emperor of the Western Groves, Sovereign of the Fern-Laced Lowlands, and Grand Moss Curator of the Northern Slopes.” He blinks. “You may address me as Your Verdant Majesty.”

You hesitate. “Thistlewick Am—”

“Full title,” he says flatly. “Do try to keep up.”

You fumble it out.

He snorts. “Acceptable.”

You try again. “Do you know where the medallions come from?”

He stares at you as if you’ve just asked a mountain if it enjoys juggling.

“Humans,” he mutters. “Always with the questions. Never with the reverence. Perhaps if your species spent less time paving things and more time cataloging the superior varietals of moss, you’d understand without needing to ask.”

He noses a nearby stump, sniffs it like a wine critic.

“Not enough dew. Tragic.”

You open your mouth to ask something else.

“No, no. Let me guess—‘Why can I talk to you?’ ‘What happens if I find them all?’ Tiresome. Seek out the marmot if you wish babble and speculation. He’s loud, unkempt, and has opinions.”

The elk straightens, eyes distant.

“I, meanwhile, have a patch of golden tufted cushion moss that requires my inspection. You may continue to be overwhelmed by my majesty at a respectful distance.”

He turns slowly, like a planet changing seasons, and trots off into the mist with imperial flair.

You’re left with the scent of pine, a fading echo of antlers, and the faintest urge to curtsy.