The air smells of heather and rowan, the fragrance laced through with the sharp tang of loam and rot and the damp of the recent rain. The scent of a wild place, unmolested by civilization and unmarred by the encroaching filth of the cities.

Visibility is limited, hampered by a towering wall of skeletal trees heavily laden with vines and moss. Razor sharp thorns seem to erupt from everything, and a thin layer of blackened mold covers even the vibrant living vegetation that threads the forest. The climate is one of gloom and decay, but the land exudes a vitality that cannot be ignored.

Despite its apical position above, the sun seems somehow lessened here. Insignificant. Errant rays of light fall scattered through the forest, all the heat and glory of a star reduced to a dusky twilight filled with shadows and mystery. The breeze brings with it a bitter chill that denies the surrounding summer, and it speaks many things to those with the ability to hear.

He can hear it. He welcomes the whispered voice of the forest around him, understanding instinctively that he no longer travels through the diminished, lifeless stagnation that covers so much of the Basin. Were he blind and deaf, the truth would still be evident. The aura is palpable. This is not some lesser place, untouched by civilization only because civilization has yet to notice it.

This is Glomdoring.    

This is home, this dread forest that emerged from the depths of destruction casting shadows and glory, ascending until it towered above the Basin, gazing down upon the weak and frightened with nothing but contempt. It is a dark place whose inhabitants know little of pity and nothing of mercy.    

He prowls these darkened paths with a mixture of anticipation and reverence. Anticipation of the hunt, of the kill. Anticipating the enemies of Glomdoring, who might choose today to challenge this realm of thorn and nightmare. Reverence for the forest itself, and reverence for the Wyrd that allowed its evolution into something more. Reverence for the music that fills it, the pervading rhythm of the Shadowbeat resounding so clearly to those who care to listen.

The song is complex, as shapeless as the shadows that often accompany it. Its endless refrain whispers of Mother Night, whose gaze reaches to the farthest corners of the forest. The eerie vibration of millions of insects, unseen and often unnoticed. The strange pattern of raindrops splattering across the canopy of leaves. The fluttering of wings from some unseen watcher above, or the soft snapping of a broken branch from somewhere behind. Not the easy mistake of an amateur hunter. Meant to be heard. Meant to be feared. An eerie concerto that speaks of control and mystery and glory wrapped up in beautiful darkness.

Driving the tempo is the relentlessly beating rhythm of Brother Crow. The steady pulse of the predator as it begins its inexorable approach. The pounding of blood that is felt more than heard as the chase begins. Breaking brush and crashing bodies, the frantic dash as the victim hopelessly bolts for freedom. The rapid staccato crack, crack, crack of pursuing steps. Crescendo arrives with a piercing scream that echoes through the trees, the gift of death bestowed upon the unwilling.

Silence. A moment of silence as the forest seems to pause and reflect.

But no..quiet but audible is the soft click clicking as the carrion beetles arrive, and gradually the forest comes alive once more. Not silence. Simply the beginning of a new verse, the birth of a new cycle. The song is ceaseless for those who can hear it, who can feel it in their blood.

The beat he feels is a dark one, a combination of ice cold intent and white hot savagery wedded together in a river of violence whose terminus reeks ever of blood and carrion. He plays softly while he moves, fingers conjuring an instrumental translation of the music that surrounds him as he haunts through the forest like a ghost. He knows no other life but this, this invigorating path of blood and violence, tree and thorn, shadow and song. Life and death and rebirth, all for the glory of Glomdoring.