Theea
We avoided the Greatwood a lot past year—the chances of running into someone mom said were VIPs had always been too high, or so she said. Everyone is out looking for Vi’s roses, but she's also paranoid. I’ve been out here for what feels like an eternity, and my most thrilling conversational partner in the last two days had feathers and looked an awful lot like a common finch. Now, I have exactly no conversational partners. No sensible creature wants to be out in this.
I am not sensible. What I am is sopping wet and hopelessly lost.
Not that I don’t know where it is that I’ve found myself. These are Ludo’s Woods, there’s no mistaking the silent chill, the stretch of claws covered in bark, as if the branches are reaching for me. I’d like to find a hollow one to hide in, but part of me is too afraid to wait out a storm here. I’ve heard enough stories.
Stories. That’s all I’ve got.
My boots squelch in thick mud, the trail widening enough for the rain to run in rivulets and sweep away dirt, leaving it rocky and slick. I step carefully, scanning for something familiar as I push through dense underbrush—
I pull up short, just shy of tripping over a rock. Wide eyes blinkd at the gentleman who’d been tending the lantern-laden tree. I push wet hair out of my face, tucking it back into my (useless, soaked) hood, and I dare to feel some relief. The side of my mouth ticks up.
”You’re a person!” Then I pause, and clear my throat a little. This is Ludo’s wood. ”Right?”
I am not sensible. What I am is sopping wet and hopelessly lost.
Not that I don’t know where it is that I’ve found myself. These are Ludo’s Woods, there’s no mistaking the silent chill, the stretch of claws covered in bark, as if the branches are reaching for me. I’d like to find a hollow one to hide in, but part of me is too afraid to wait out a storm here. I’ve heard enough stories.
Stories. That’s all I’ve got.
My boots squelch in thick mud, the trail widening enough for the rain to run in rivulets and sweep away dirt, leaving it rocky and slick. I step carefully, scanning for something familiar as I push through dense underbrush—
I pull up short, just shy of tripping over a rock. Wide eyes blinkd at the gentleman who’d been tending the lantern-laden tree. I push wet hair out of my face, tucking it back into my (useless, soaked) hood, and I dare to feel some relief. The side of my mouth ticks up.
”You’re a person!” Then I pause, and clear my throat a little. This is Ludo’s wood. ”Right?”
welcome to the world of pretend
where we pretend we don't feel pain
where we pretend we don't feel pain
