No Place Like Home [Sjel] May 31, 2014 20:57:22 GMT -6
Post by lys on May 31, 2014 20:57:22 GMT -6
It was midday, or perhaps just before, or perhaps just after. Hard to tell; the pale blue-green light was being diffused by a thick fog, heavy with the scents of pine needles and fresh soil. It moved slowly through the air, carried along by a chill wind channeling from an unseen source. The cold had a familiar bite, though; it was that cold which embraced you like a firm mother, straightened your posture and told you to stand strong against it.
It was the cold, one might remember, of a wintery Trottheim morning. Judging by the damp dirt under one's hooves, and the faint edges of nearby tree trunks, it was just outside Trottheim, in the woods between the village and the river. But it wasn't quite right—the trees weren't really this sparse, or tall. The evergreens seemed to simply stretch upward forever, with any indication of a top thoroughly hidden by the pale fog. A thin dusting of snow and frost was spread over the ground, collected evenly the patches of brush, the grass, and a beaten pathway that ran straight underhoof. There were no prints coming or going, save for some small ones no doubt made by the woodland creatures.
There was a peace out here, something kind of quiet and comfortable and a little lonely. There were very few sounds. The low chatter of what few birds remained during the cold season... the wind whispering in hush through the trees... the sound of running water, a rocky river in high tide. Somewhere a little further, just at the edge of hearing, there was the distant din of a lively village; hammers striking wood, clattering objects, indistinct voices. Trottheim finding daylight.
And... there was something else. But it was hard to tell. It came from everywhere and nowhere, like the ringing of your ears; an oaky, melodic sound that shifted and echoed itself. A flute?
The whole feeling of the place was at once familiar and foreign, the imperfect memory of a place combined with the strange and abstract space of a dream. One thing was clear so far, though. This wasn't home. Not really. In theory, to one direction lay the sound of water; to the other, town. And every direction away from the freshly-snowed path was that odd, shifting fog, giving way to half-lit landscapes unknown.