writing_shadows

The forest was haunted. It wasn’t just haunted with the ghosts of the dead—though those were there, too, waiting on the edge of vision—but with the powers, the corruption, the sheer darkness and filth of the Abyss. The willows’ long fingers sought to siphon her mana, but her armour protected her; further in, the slender birches threw themselves upon her, their branches like daggers, but she was more nimble than her years and her white hair suggested.

Marked and bloodied, she got to the heartwood. There, at the centre. A specimen of quercus robur a hundred feet tall, with vines hanging from the evil-looking branches, swaying in an intangible wind.

She took a deep breath. The tree opened its eyes and reached. She screamed her mudras and let rip with all the fire her soul had ever known.