CantPickaName735

         Run.           Cold, damp air seeps through skin to bone. Soil stained soles pound along a winding, barely-there path among the trees. Trees. A laughable word for behemoths that, at the smallest, is four times as wide around as she is. Swaths of leaves shape a dark green expanse, blocking out nearly all of the sky. The light that does find a way down is weak, pinpricks suffocating in the umbrage. This is a true weald, dark and deep.          Run.          She wishes she could deviate from the path; delve into the endless shadow and hide. A ruinous wish. Thin strings threaded with countless trinkets crisscross all empty spaces.