Blackfoot Forest you speak like constellations

kvasir knows he has overreached as soon as he begins to explore the forest in earnest. this is not the darkwoods his mother spoke of; though shadowed with the velveteen darkness of the early morn and made drab by the light drizzle that pitter patters upon the melding leaf and branch canopy above there are no ravens. the otherwordly calls he hears belong to foxes; evidenced by the stench that hangs thick like an awful perfume in the air. the silencer pauses, takes in his surroundings with mismatched eyes, fighting off the burn of disappointment warring as it does with reluctant acceptance. all he has of these wilds is the stories of his parents and he knows it is unfair to expect their memories to be infallible. with a breath he shakes it off and sets forward to continue exploring the damp territory.