Insanity and Gods

A Cold wind
Pt. I

Ellari Ravenheart

The girl, though young in form surveyed the woods about her with a keen understanding and open eye towards its mood that belied her mortal age.

Her youth allowed her a mind still fresh enough to take in and See without judgment or denial of the worlds workings and a heart still whole enough to not fear what lay beyond the unknown path.

Pale green leaves danced with emerald light above her, gold beams spearing down into the glen she stood in. She watched a large Orb Weaver the size of a dinner plate dangling in the center of a great but delicate, intricate web affixed between the large dark barked trees common to the area. It bobbed gently in the warm breeze that had come up. Around her, more webs like masts and spiders likes sailors rocked gently. It had taken her some time to maneuver between them to gain entry to the clearing.

She had come, she thought, for advice, perhaps a lesson, but wasn’t yet sure. A mere feeling had drawn her from the Barrow and led her here. She always trusted them, as her family, teachers and home had taught her. The pressing urge to walk subsided as she stood, listening to the spiders and breeze in the webs. Though quiet as sentinels they had much to tell. Most things did, though gleaning the story was what often proved difficult.

Still, heart beat slowing, eyes glazing, her face grew warm in the sunshine, arms and legs beginning to tingle as her spirit began attuning with the ebb and flow of energy around her.
Losing focus on the Orb Weaver before her, blacks, yellows, spots and stripes blurred into a kaleidoscope of patterns. Images trickled into her mind as it began to wander.

Time passed.
Soft light and shapes took on many forms until a mind shattering flash of light dropped her hard to her knees, hands clutching moss and dirt though she could not feel it in her grasp. Pain robbed her of breath. She forgot how to gain more as visions flashed through her skull, crashing violently together into churning, boiling nightmarish paintings.

Seconds seemingly stretched into hours until the spider and glen hardened into view once more and the pain and gasping subsided. Catching her breath for only a moment, she quickly flipped her hide rucksack off her back and began digging. Finding a small piece of obsidian, she placed it before the web. The spider did indeed have a story, however hard it may have been to translate it into human understanding.

Hastily she went southwest out of the clearing.
Further downhill lay the river which would lead her past Ravenwood Copse and into the Wetlands.
It seemed the question to her answer laid somewhere in the Mire.

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