The dew was thick on the dark, tall grass. A fog crept on the moss covered ground, wisp-like tendrils curling and engulfing. He stepped through the dark woods, candle lantern in his left hand. The fog parted like a shallow stream as he passed through it. He raised his head, and sensed an icy cold.

He swiftly drew his short-sword and wheeled around. Nothing. The shivering sensation had left him. He raised the blade and held it steadily aloft, pointing in all directions. A panic couldn't help but take ahold; the dark woods were an immense, endless ocean, he the lone seafarer. His small lantern created an orb of flickering light about him, shielding him from the oppressive dark.

He decided at a short length to move on. He could not delay. So, he stepped on into the darkness. The silence was disturbing. Not a cricket call, nor an owl coo, nor the scuffle of a scampering critter. All was uncannily quiet. But he kept on, and at an increasing pace.

Before long, he caught himself running, sprinting. The thick trees of the forest were flying past. Vaulting and ducking, batting away clinging vegetation, he fought his way deeper into the dark. He felt as though he had been swallowed by a great beast, and was delving down into its cavernous stomach.

Nonetheless, he pushed on, leaping over great fallen trees and stumbling over smaller ones.

Scraped, battered, and fatigued, he collapsed in an open meadow, the moment he caught a glimpse of the heavens. He lay in the cold, moist grass and gazes up; awed by the shining spirits in the sky. Then, sleep.