Ravensblood Forest chooses combat gear

Night had settled alike a blanket covering a quieted babe — a tranquil, slumberous kind of calm that silenced giants and sheathed even the vulturous of tooth.  That didn’t [fucking] apply to him, however — he wasn’t in some sedative, comfortable cocoon [of smoking hot babes], he was in some macabre amalgamation of forestry whose dense limbs might as well have been the sticky, entangling threads of a famished arachnid.  Being a foreigner, he was not accustomed to the topography, and had naturally gotten [a little] misplaced in his admittedly carefree wanderings.  Had he known the horrible fable attached to this hellish imprisonment of limbs and roots he’d have surely fainted — [un]luckily for him, being a foreigner also had its perks.  Light was purged from this place almost as though it were looming in a different plain of existence, the moons futile rays easily bounced from the impenetrable canopy.  The only thing which remained constant was the disconcerting whirr of insects — recently woken from wintry suspension — and the subtle coos of a distant owl as it perched above the ground, gaze combing the ground for unsuspecting vermin.  His footsteps seemed to be swallowed by the ambiance — and so was his sense of direction.  Everything looked the same, nothing seemed promising: this was it, this was how the king of fools met his end.  Demon forest.

... actually that sounded kind of rad.