Devising

Ostiarium forests

This part of the forest was far-reaching, dark, and shadowy. Those few that knew of these things would say that this was the primal forest. The oldest trees could be found here. Its canopy was ruled by dogwood, birch, and redwood, very few openings allowed any light at all to filter through to the moss and lichen rich ground below.

Thick tree limbs dangled from most trees, and ivy clung to any space it could find, added some bright patches to the otherwise unchanging forest floor.

This part of the forest was as dark as it was quiet. Here one did not hear the usual of wild noises, belonging to foraging beasts, bird songs and chirps did not echo in the air, nor did the croaks of frogs and chittering of insects.

Here the forest was quiet. Quiet save for the man that walked barefooted across its wet earth. Quiet save for the odd prayer of unseen and hidden voices. Quiet save for the crazed screams that occasionally pierced its ominous silence...

He ran his fingers across the stone. It was old. Older than even this part of the forest. It felt like touching the bones of the land. Ancient and blood saturated. The natives had used it for their own sacrifices. His first vision of Slivikhi in Arcadia had led him here. He had carved the first rune in the sacred dream of Felfar.

Here he had made the first sacrifice that fateful first winter, that had led to their salvation. Here they would all be drawn as Winter came to a close. To honour Him. Again. For His boon. For His Blessing. So that Spring could be born the world turn again. Here as the next full moon rose they would sacrifice the child in red...