Blackfeather Woods time has come but we all go down

she'd not disturbed her mother's bones, last she'd been here. others might have, or sought to remove them from beneath the canopy so dark and twisting it seemed to suffocate all that below. shadows stretched, and incorporeal remnants of ancient things lingered here, tied down by those who used to worship them. she remembers one of them; the shadow she'd known only as eyes. she wonders, now, if he had been any more real than her fever-wracked dreams on the isle; she could not recall one memory in which the man had left some mark on the world around him; a scent, a touch. 

it is the still-fading fragments of some dream that have led her here, to walk beneath the canopy. it'd been the guise of productivity that had followed; surely the hunting would be better here than in the canyon. the rain is deterred by the canopy, but adds another layer to the near-tangible gloom here. with a clipped exhale, she adjusts her path, on the search for one of the hunting trails that exist in the dim corners of her memory.