10-23-2019, 09:11 PM
Tristan fell into silence as the pack journeyed. They drank and ate as needed. For all of Sierra’s ferocity, he did worry about the slender stems of her legs. They looked unaccustomed to hard hikes. Hell, Tristan thought himself tough, but by midday and he was ready for a rest. The wolves shared their memories of the two-legged tree, but Tristan’s frustration blocked more. The scent of it was long gone, and as Tristan gathered Brenna to his lap, he shook his head at Sierra. “I don’t think this thing really exists. Sounds like a fairy tale.” He grinned a toothy grin, recalling their dream the night before. Trolls and fairies he could imagine. Tree men were ridiculous.
But when a pretty girl insisted, Tristan would not deny. He was treading through a bog when a sort of chatter broke out in his head. The wolves were curious as pups in a meadow. Tristan was one of the last to come through, but what he found was bizarre indeed. A circle completely decimated a clearing of trees. Scorch marks like remnants of old fire licked the surroundings. Yet strangely, infant vines crept new growth like a patch was sewn carefully into what must have been a gouging wound.
The wolves danced at the edge, uninterested in going beyond the rim. Their noses turned high, and even Tristan caught the scent of must, mold, and wet earth. Yet no rain pattered the ground that day. Where they were wary, Tristan plunged straight through the veil between natural and not. At the center he knelt at a bright orange flower unlike any he’d ever seen before. Its veins were black and red, pulsing and shimmering as though it had its own heartbeat.
But when a pretty girl insisted, Tristan would not deny. He was treading through a bog when a sort of chatter broke out in his head. The wolves were curious as pups in a meadow. Tristan was one of the last to come through, but what he found was bizarre indeed. A circle completely decimated a clearing of trees. Scorch marks like remnants of old fire licked the surroundings. Yet strangely, infant vines crept new growth like a patch was sewn carefully into what must have been a gouging wound.
The wolves danced at the edge, uninterested in going beyond the rim. Their noses turned high, and even Tristan caught the scent of must, mold, and wet earth. Yet no rain pattered the ground that day. Where they were wary, Tristan plunged straight through the veil between natural and not. At the center he knelt at a bright orange flower unlike any he’d ever seen before. Its veins were black and red, pulsing and shimmering as though it had its own heartbeat.