The shadows were infinitely deep, and on nights like this they loomed like hollow tunnels eager for wanderers to consume. They hid the ground from the sky, and they hid souls that dared to move beneath the shivering boughs of this place, the aptly named Black Shroud. No matter how beautiful it was in the day, it bore the name of it's night, and it's darkness.
In that darkness, she moved the earth with her hands. She breathed the scent of mud and exhaled the cracked sound of dry weeping, soar throat and swollen eyes. A young girl, a Miqo'te with long hair and a thin tail, spoke to the ground, "I'm sorry." She said to the mud, "I'll do better next time," and the shaking of her shoulders and shivering twitch of her mournful features was audible. Her delicate ears looked like the leaves in the trees; they quivered in the wind. Her skin was the color of the earth. She was like the shroud given form.
But she was not welcome here. The trees bent forward. The darkness moved. In the bark and roots, the warm awareness of the forest reached towards her.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm done." She patted the earth as if to sooth it. But the forest was not soothed.
Out in the night, there was the loud crack of breaking wood. The girl's ears pinned flat against her head, the fur on her tail bristled, and her feet dug into the ground as she stood away from the pile of earth she'd been tending and turned to face the trees. An untreated yew branch was in her hand, pointed as a threat at the aura of ink around her. From her wrist hung a band of feathers and bone. Thunder rolled, but lightning did not flash. The girl growled, but did not bother speaking to the forest. Conjurers could not beg indulgence from these woods with words, and the place was thick with the weight of the girl's profane rituals. The forest would have no mercy for her tonight.
She brought her dark hood up and pulled it over her head. A mask fell down over her eyes. Again, thunder rolled, but lightning did not flash. The girl frowned at the woods and cast a mournful look at the earth behind her. "I need to do better," she said. When she walked into the night, the shadows consumed her, and she displayed no fear of the forest.
The night stretched on, and the air of profanity, of a dark ritual with many victims, clung to the pile of disturbed dirt that the girl had abandoned. Over the dirt, the monument lingered. It was a lump of stone carved with many symbols. It seemed to be a gravestone, but the forest reached for it. The forest reached for the monument, but could not touch it, as though it were unbearably hot.
Lightning flashed, but there was no thunder. A tree stepped out of the blackness and into the darkness, and then from the darkness and into the shadow. From the shadow, the tree walked into a patch silver light muffled by overhanging clouds and torn apart by the canopy. The leaves shivered overhead as the dead tree, seemingly limbless, approached the disturbed dirt. The tree moved towards the monument.
In the gray light, the bark of the tree was revealed to be wrinkled flesh, its trunk an impossible thin body. Its lumbering movement was the weathered steps of an ancient being, but not one of the forest. It wasn't a tree at all, but an elderly Duskwight who could barely move, plodding out of the forest with curious gray eyes. His hair, brown like a dead plant and tinted green as though with moss, lay dirty and thick over his face. His arms swung limp at his sides. The old man's breathing was indistinguishable from the wind.
Lightning flashed, but there was no thunder. A wild stag broke into the clearing, but it was already dead. Its legs collapsed as it pitched is head into the dirt, spraying warm blood from its open neck.
Wiping the gore of the kill from his knife before he put it away, the Duskwight turned his gray eyes to the woods around him. His voice was like the sound of living wood bent in the wind when he muttered to the sky, "Oschon, why am I here? What do you want me to see?" He turned his eyes to the monument. In the darkness, the tattoos on his wizened face like like crags in his skull. "Why do the spirits of the Shroud hate you, gravestone? Why can they not touch you? Why..."
He heard movement in the dirt. Like growing roots, like digging animals, but also like open wounds and gaping breath. He sensed the forest reaching out, trying, trying, desperate. He heard animals move in the darkness, summoned by the forest. They were likely meant to break the gravestone. Was it enchanted with a counter-spell? The beasts would not come while he was here, though. Not while the corpse of the stag lay hot and twitching to one side.
The monument, small and simple, loomed larger than the shadows. Gray eyes watched the dirt.
In that darkness, she moved the earth with her hands. She breathed the scent of mud and exhaled the cracked sound of dry weeping, soar throat and swollen eyes. A young girl, a Miqo'te with long hair and a thin tail, spoke to the ground, "I'm sorry." She said to the mud, "I'll do better next time," and the shaking of her shoulders and shivering twitch of her mournful features was audible. Her delicate ears looked like the leaves in the trees; they quivered in the wind. Her skin was the color of the earth. She was like the shroud given form.
But she was not welcome here. The trees bent forward. The darkness moved. In the bark and roots, the warm awareness of the forest reached towards her.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm done." She patted the earth as if to sooth it. But the forest was not soothed.
Out in the night, there was the loud crack of breaking wood. The girl's ears pinned flat against her head, the fur on her tail bristled, and her feet dug into the ground as she stood away from the pile of earth she'd been tending and turned to face the trees. An untreated yew branch was in her hand, pointed as a threat at the aura of ink around her. From her wrist hung a band of feathers and bone. Thunder rolled, but lightning did not flash. The girl growled, but did not bother speaking to the forest. Conjurers could not beg indulgence from these woods with words, and the place was thick with the weight of the girl's profane rituals. The forest would have no mercy for her tonight.
She brought her dark hood up and pulled it over her head. A mask fell down over her eyes. Again, thunder rolled, but lightning did not flash. The girl frowned at the woods and cast a mournful look at the earth behind her. "I need to do better," she said. When she walked into the night, the shadows consumed her, and she displayed no fear of the forest.
The night stretched on, and the air of profanity, of a dark ritual with many victims, clung to the pile of disturbed dirt that the girl had abandoned. Over the dirt, the monument lingered. It was a lump of stone carved with many symbols. It seemed to be a gravestone, but the forest reached for it. The forest reached for the monument, but could not touch it, as though it were unbearably hot.
Lightning flashed, but there was no thunder. A tree stepped out of the blackness and into the darkness, and then from the darkness and into the shadow. From the shadow, the tree walked into a patch silver light muffled by overhanging clouds and torn apart by the canopy. The leaves shivered overhead as the dead tree, seemingly limbless, approached the disturbed dirt. The tree moved towards the monument.
In the gray light, the bark of the tree was revealed to be wrinkled flesh, its trunk an impossible thin body. Its lumbering movement was the weathered steps of an ancient being, but not one of the forest. It wasn't a tree at all, but an elderly Duskwight who could barely move, plodding out of the forest with curious gray eyes. His hair, brown like a dead plant and tinted green as though with moss, lay dirty and thick over his face. His arms swung limp at his sides. The old man's breathing was indistinguishable from the wind.
Lightning flashed, but there was no thunder. A wild stag broke into the clearing, but it was already dead. Its legs collapsed as it pitched is head into the dirt, spraying warm blood from its open neck.
Wiping the gore of the kill from his knife before he put it away, the Duskwight turned his gray eyes to the woods around him. His voice was like the sound of living wood bent in the wind when he muttered to the sky, "Oschon, why am I here? What do you want me to see?" He turned his eyes to the monument. In the darkness, the tattoos on his wizened face like like crags in his skull. "Why do the spirits of the Shroud hate you, gravestone? Why can they not touch you? Why..."
He heard movement in the dirt. Like growing roots, like digging animals, but also like open wounds and gaping breath. He sensed the forest reaching out, trying, trying, desperate. He heard animals move in the darkness, summoned by the forest. They were likely meant to break the gravestone. Was it enchanted with a counter-spell? The beasts would not come while he was here, though. Not while the corpse of the stag lay hot and twitching to one side.
The monument, small and simple, loomed larger than the shadows. Gray eyes watched the dirt.
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