Deepwood Weald to cut away the mountains i've made

thread with @Moath ... good luck

Marruz was silent today. No, not silent. Pensive. Philosphical, even, though the boy might find that much too indicting. But to the world outside his sable shell, he appeared a wraith upon the land. His spindly legs swung threads within the brume, weaving paths upon the clouded vapors that swallowed at his tail and closed back to constancy. Marruz moved with the usual dexterity and enterprise that cost him such social discord, for his haste often rendered a waspish nature. 

For all his purpose, there was really no destination in sight. He simply always felt a need to wander these days; it was an urge that ran like icy fingers upon his skin. His thoughts were elsewhere - upon his brothers some of the time and, in rare instances, upon his mother. Never, however, did he wish to recall his father. Yet that would persist within him - within who he was - no matter how much Marruz ignored it.

That was, evidently, the primary impetus behind his spurring habit. There was freedom in the Weald, somehow. He felt it with every breath that tugged from his lips; with every glance at those grand, lofted conifers. At times he could imagine that he and the trees truly hung from the earth's surface, upside down and attached by mere will. And the thought was so ridiculous it brought a gleam - a genuine gleam - to the youth's incongruous eyes.