Яikyn

Wheeze, thump, wheeze, thump.
 
Some healing, Moon Goddess; my welts, bruises, and burns were gone, but something terrible was itching, scratching, burying itself in my lungs, grasping sticky barbed fingers into the tissue of my throat, my gaze obscured now and again by some floating, dark blots that I can only assume are the same black, putrid coloration as that which drips from my nose.  My ears feel as if they are stuffed with fabric, my head aches, and each joint seems to click with my slow, laborious step.
 
I skirt the Dead Lands, something of the abysmal darkness of that land feeling like kin as I walk alongside its boundaries, some twenty feet from where the grass shrivels into the colorless putrefaction the wraiths left behind.  Occasionally, some shadow seems to dance and cackle, the random breezes which waft from the dank marshland cold as I would imagine the touch of death to be, colder than even the winter I had come home to.
 
As a child, I had never been allowed so close to this land, my mother terrified of the disease which may lay dormant within, that which had turned her into a beast, which had forced friendship out of enemies.  She had forbid I ever come so close to this land of monsters.
 
But she was not here, was she?  She could just take that law and shove it right up her ass, wherever she was.
 
I chuckle, feeling oddly giddy despite how very crappy I feel otherwise, the sound contorting suddenly into a harsh hacking, the grassy earth at my hooves sprayed with a film of black stickiness before I at last manage to gasp a clear breath and continue onward.
 
I glance at the forest to my right, the one that hides a little pavilion that once had been very, very beautiful if the draping and glass that remains are any indication.  A pretty little pavilion in a wood of doom, of ultimate suffering.
 
As cryptic as the Dead Land is, the forest frightens me more.
 
The forest is alive, its dark fingers scratch and reach from bending boughs out towards me, where I skirt outside their desirous grasping among the growing grasses, warmed by the spring sunlight (which is outrageously bright, so very bright I squint as I walk along, my eyes downcast, my head lowered from its usual proud position to defer the glare of the wicked Sun).  It had almost had me, I had almost walked into it - but I will be eaten by no trees on this day, I think to myself, feeling an odd dizziness sweep through my head as I wobble in place, staring into the land of death.


[ OOC:  Is in a stretch of living meadow which stands between the Dead Lands and the forests surrounding the Rotunda, heading Northward.  Is experiencing mild delusions (as well as paranoia) in that the trees seem to be alive and trying to grab him, which he has interpreted as the trees trying to eat him (yay tree snacks). :D  Open for anyone! ]

in every heart a hole