The Woods, and Inspiration

Every forest sits under the sheltering, ever-changing sky. Some sit patiently on the plains, waiting for the charity of the heavens in light and rain. Others labor up the sides of mountains, refusing to accept a lower station, determined to receive the stormclouds on equal footing. Still others sink lazily down, down into the rifts and valleys, greedily draining the rainfall from all about them to fill their gluttonous hunger for moisture. Despite their paltry differences, all the stately trees that make these verdant havens accept the sky as a protector, provider, and lover. All that they are is possible through the rain the clouds bring, and the sun that warms their bark-shod souls.

This forest had no need for a guardian.

This forest required no provision by the weather.

This forest had a soul, warmed not by the sun, but by black and twisted hate.

These trees bent at tortured angles, hideous caricatures of life, and clawed at the sky above them as though to tear down the heavens themselves. Their slimy and cracked armor was of a bark the color of hearthfire ashes. Weeping sores leaked a film of diseased white sap and decay. Many of these were spiked by wicked thorns over a handspan in length, and among these cursed woods spiders the size of small children made their homes; spun webs hung like glistening curtains from one tree to another. The ground itself appeared to have suffered some unspeakable torment, rolling and rippling as though from the force of some tremendous blow, bone-white roots occasionally breaking the dead soil's surface. Though the disc of the sun was yet high in the sky, no true light could bring itself to fall in the confines of this place. A wane imitation, a pretender, of gray latern-light illuminated the trunks of the forest, warring with the faint mist that hung mere inches above the dirt.

If other woodlands were the cradle of life for miles about, humming with vitality and all it's glory, this was a corpse that had merely forgotten to stop moving after the deathblow. If other forests nourished those that took refuge under the canopy, this hopeless coffin fed all who called it home a steady diet of despair and pain.

This was the Woods. And for all that, it was powerless to crush the spirit of the traveler who had penetrated it's darkness.

 The young man practically skipped out of the way of a darting spider on the path he was blazing, and didn't miss a beat to the bright, cheerful tune he whistled. Black hair was tied into a tail, down at shoulder-length, leaving his curious green eyes free to peruse the abused landscape. The fat satchel at his side, rustling dryly with every step and leap across a protruding root, swung in time to the quick pace he was setting: One, two, one--avoid web--two, peer between the roots of a tree...and move on, whatever he was seeking clearly not there. While this was hardly his first trip into the Woods, and certainly wouldn't be the last, it was never an easy task to find what exactly what he needed in the gloom of the twisted forest. But he would know it when he saw it. How could he not? It called to him, a song for his ears alone, one that lead him deeper still through the plagued trees.

Soon enough, he passed the Tree. Of course there were other trees, but none were like this. How could there be? Straight, tall, and unblemished, but all the more disquieting for it; this was the Tree, and from it hung apples red as a dying sun or freshly spilt blood, among almost sickeningly green leaves. The temptation to take one from a low-lying branch was strong, to merely take

Just one taste. Just one. Then I can always walk away.

one down and have the smallest of bites, a tear in the crimson skin to the pure white flesh of the apple itself. But, he reminded himself as he passed it by, temptations were there to be rebuffed. After all, the joy of

Completing myself. Being whole, once more, and feeling the flame instead of trying to catch the smoke.

discovery could be easily held at arms length and discarded, when the question of price was brought up. Everything had it's price. And, after all, he hadn't come here for the apples. His inspiration, the

Weak, sickly thing, alongside what could be.

drive for his existance, his function, was in here somewhere. And he meant to root it out, come hell or high water.

And find it he did. Tucked away, almost hidden in a tangle of roots, it lay waiting for him. The bright white flower, standing beautiful and proud amidst the ruin, was almost too painful to look at after the endless monotony of the Woods itself. The hesitation didn't last long at all. Picking the flower delicately, the wanderer peered closely at the bloom, the stamen, the graceful curve of the stem. All in perfect order. Now he could begin the long walk back to the edge of the Woods, and out into the sunlight. He passed the Tree at speed, to avoid the reckless thoughts that accompanied it's presence. Sharp eyes noted the apple core off to the side, red and white against the black of the dirt, while his keen ears picked up the slow padding of footsteps to his left. He didn't need to look. He knew his company full well, better than either of his brothers ever would.

"All well with you?"

Silence.

"I humbly beg your pardon. A disgustingly obvious question to ask; I shouldn't have put you on the spot like that."

Again, silence, but for the soft pad of bare soles on loose soil.

 "Right. The Gods gave us two ears and one mouth, that we might listen twice as much as we speak. Excellent point, brother."

The crack of a twig, as the light ahead grows brighter. The dividing line between the Woods, and the rest, was coming into view. Just once, the man looked from his inspiration to what walked at his side. It always stayed just out of arm's reach.

"I can leave it for you to read, after Scholar finishes recording it. I know things are...difficult, but perhaps you could make the best of them? No more acting out?"

No noise issued from between the thing's motionless lips, but he could hear the growl all the same. Better than the screaming, at least.

"Ah well. Simply asking. I don't suppose you could give us some warning? Be a gentleman about it?"

He kept his gaze tight on the flower, which even now was starting to change it's shape to better suit his needs. Time to look up. Check on progress. Poet could easily see the edge of the Woods, now. Only a few more measly feet to go.

"I suppose not. You can hardly blame me for trying, though. We're all a tad rattled, of late."

And, just like that, he was out in the bright sunlight. Knee high grass rolled pleasantly away down the hill, towards the cottage farther on in the distance. His rock, his sitting place, was only a few yards away now. A careful glance to his hand. A piece of smooth paper wrapped tightly around a quill met his eyes. Perfect! Flawless!

"I...I'll just try to finish it as soon as I can. But, one cannot rush the craft. I hope you understand. And as I said, Scholar has to scribe it, then..."

Poet trailed off. He could find no shadow, skulking just within the shade of the withered trees at the edge. Who could tell when it had left? Not he. A few more strides and he had reached his stone, placed the paper down, removed a vial of ink from his satchel full to bursting with paper. Slowly, the words framed themselves in his head. He wrote. His inspiration guided his quill and filed his thoughts into song.

As for his escort, it would return soon enough.

Whether they liked it or not.