Shadewood blind

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A storm blows overhead, chased by raucous winds at its heels. it heads north, and in its wake, they come. purpose had driven their steps for a week, now, but when it passes into the Shadewood that determined step breaks and falters. not yet, whisper the trees and stars and sea, not yet. and it will oblige. it is not night, but it is dark. rain whips from the skies, and the trees howl their sacraments, made mute by the rolling clouds. lighting strikes, and they are b l i n d. the darkness is not unfamiliar, nor is the electricity which flickers betwixt its hackles. 

it presses on, a ghost, ever so familiar with the fraying of the cord that holds it here.