I dream of a forest

Currently reading: The Mauritius Command by Patrick O'Brien (still!)
Most recently watched movie: The Princess of Thieves
Current favorite quote: "You've lost your muchness." -The Mad Hatter from the movie Alice in Wonderland
Picture of the day:
Picture explanation: This is the "cover" for a short story I wrote....That is all. :)

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The following is a piece of writing based on a dream I had recently, and alas, which I can remember only hazily. Most of what is written is what I could remember from the dream; but of course I added some necessary details and tried to tie it together so it made some sense. When I was writing it down, I didn't intend for it to be this morbid, and the dream, although it was rather intense, didn't feel quite so morbid; but it turned out that way.


I dream of a forest

The Darkness was about them. But the figures strode on. There were four of them: three were cloaked and hooded, blending into – but not with – the Darkness, save for a single white gem on their breasts. The fourth was unmasked: a woman, clad in dark grey armor. Black was her hair, twisted up into braids on her head; but very, very pale was her face. A white face, a quiet face, like the calm expressions on statues carved of marble.
Indeed, the Darkness was about them. In amongst the trees it dwelt, slithering about in burning shadows, smoldering with intensity. All was calm, a deathly calm, and too quiet for a forest. The forest stretched for many miles, far as the eye could see; but as far as the eye could see, or the ear could hear, there was no living creature.
Empty. Empty and watchful and lifeless.
The very trees were black.
The company walked between those dark trees. Apprehension was in their steps. Fear was in the woman’s eyes, not a cowardly fear, but a whole and well-grounded fear. Like the soldiers’ fear before they go into battle. Only the foolish ones pretend they do not feel it; the brave ones march on with their swords in hand. So the woman and her companions. They glanced at every shadow, and nothing leaped out at them – yet – but still they pushed on.
Even their footsteps were muffled in the ashy ground. The ground was like a tomb: cold and grey and relentless. And as mourners in a graveyard speak seldom, and in hushed voices, so the company said little, and then only softly.
The trees were black, the ground was grey, and the sky was red.
It was Death.

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I don't know, do you think it could turn into a story?

Pax,
Limwen