This week’s writing exercise is based on the idea of looking at the same place in two different light levels. For once, I didn’t do somewhere in my current game: this place is for one of my future projects.
In the daytime: The disaster would have reduced most forests to matchsticks, but in the past centuries this one had grown together so thoroughly that to take on one tree was to take on the forest as a whole. Yes, there are those few that have fallen and brought their neighbors down alongside them–but there are those who are supported by the trees nearest them, half their roots digging in more strongly as the other half flail in the air; there are those held up between two of their fellows, vines straining; there are those places where dappled shade falls away to bright sunlight.
At night: In a place like this, who can see the trees for the forest? Every step is loam and debris, not only loose leaves and shifting needles but the fallen detritus of the disaster, dismembered twigs and branches and the occasional full limb, paths hung over or blocked by fallen giants, black on blacker black, and the sharp scent of sap hangs in the air like blood and decay over a battleground. Shadows that during the day were a mere inconvenience could swallow a town, and the mist that threads between the trees would lick up the remains.