The taste is damp, the air still. Frogs sing in their cloak of fog, calling
the past out from its shadows. Voices whisper in the stagnant air.
Held aloft by the wings of Sperana the Night Guardian, the moon peeks out in a sliver of light. Her beams luminesce blue in the cloud growing from the ground.
Trees stand tall, prehistoric giants. Mud cools bare feet, ferns embrace legs. Miniature stars flicker and glow, die and are re-born; in the mist, they hide. They hover a moment and fade to re-appear a moment later.
Green fur sprouting from its back, a moss covered rock offers a seat.
Stay silent. Sit, and wait.
Shapes appear. Small, lethal. Long and graceful, death in beauty. Eyes catch the light of the soul, shine a moment, and focus elsewhere. Sickle clawed feet burry themselves silently, planting their weight in firm mud. They harm few, they hunt all. To know, the play, to sing, to live, to die. Life is their blood.
She appears. Outlined in blue, her green eyes refocus to this world, and lock onto their prey. The pulsing of breath, the drone of hearts. A silent signal is passed and they circle.
Druids preparing for the ceremony, a child at a wake, the Phantoms organ. Around and around, images flash.
All that is clear are Her eyes. Power passes into eternity.
I taste the light.