The Fickle Winds of Autumn
77. Beneath the Trembling Trees

The bickering squirrels ceased their constant chatter and crept away from the shallow forest depression. The silence clung to every branch and twig around them; only the restless worms, slowly digesting the soft leaf litter dared to rustle, deep beneath the emerald gloom and the verdant covering of moss.

The timeless stones, who had been foolish enough to lie there, had long ago succumbed to the stillness and the creeping green mantle; the twisted, gnarled tree-roots shimmered in the damp musty soil; their entangled misty web of autumn-stripped branches held tightly to each other, thickly encrusted with shaggy, mottled lichens of grey and green and yellow. The dense thatch defied the searching wind, and held away the dancing sky, so that even the ever-watchful stars could scarcely fathom its murky depths.

A calm, thin voice hissed out through the writhing gloom.

“We cannot afford another such mistake, my sisters. Her time draws near. We must act soon.”

A second gossamer breath escaped through the lure of the haunted bracken.

“But last time, the humans had a magikant with them. His hatred ran deep. I can still feel his words burning into me,” it complained.

“But we overcame him and his kind,” said a third.

“Yes,” another hollow whisper searched out a pathway through the thick, stubborn mosses, “but the prize we sought eluded even us.”

“But this time her powers have awakened,” the first voice slithered and twisted again. “We all felt it - she will be easier to replace even among the human creatures - we will feel the pull of her blood to our own.”

The shadowy circle of trees trembled a faint heartbeat of agreement.

“But we must make certain this time,” the voice warned, “and once we have her, we all know what must be done.”