Topic: nowdon'taskmetowriteeveragain

It is done. Their memories were compiled and adequately rewritten to further fact from fiction. Did it take him long to revise his work, or did it take no moment at all? Zerathur closes his book and carefully cradles it in his arms. Every lover, every friend, every acquaintance, forever with him. None of them shall ever be forgotten. The breeze died millennia ago; The endless forest was illuminated solely by the illusionary phantoms that moved back and forth in their unending routine. ...

Ever since they moved to the proximity of the Whispering Woods, Frost Tear's parents warned her of the dangers of the forest. Never explicitly so, keep in mind, for legends and myths are perhaps one of the best ways to elicit a child's imagination. Tales of trees that walk on their own, that snatch up lost children, and poof, they are gone. On her eighth autumn, she found that trees were the least of her worries. Instead, it was they who shielded her from Fletcher's eyes. Her father took her...

Perhaps the worst of it all was the sickly smell of decomposing leaves, Fletcher was never a fan of the Fall season for that very reason. Mist crept through the trees, crawling up their roots and wrapping around his legs as he made his way through the woods. He didn't mind the cold, he didn't mind the dark, those had become oh-so natural to him over the last few years. What truly bothered him was that smell, decay. The certainty that all things are one day to whither and rot. He halted by ...