Silken susurration of the cottonwoods, the creeping chill of cobalt mist, the forest canopy encloses around the path. Roots and branches, gaia’s tendrils, softly strangling the sense of certainty one takes for granted in the modern era. Connection lost, one seems so very small in the forest, scraping, fumbling, stumbling in the missing ambience of curated lightning. It’s on such a night one might chance to encounter one of many whispered legends of the forest, the beast known by some as Silas Greenwood. From the shadows he emerges, the burning pyre of a light more primal, in defiance of inevitable entropy; his voice, gruff, grizzled, weathered and torn, betrays the heat of the coals below. He invites you to accompany him, the warmth of his outstretched hand a fragment of the furnace beneath the fur of his frame... and one might be forgiven their sinking sense of sanctuary. No map concerns itself with these wilds, no adventurous blade checks the undulating overgrowth. Pooling ink shadows crawl beneath the sea of indigo ivy, the beast’s back a ferry through the garden primeval. Passing precariously through treetrunks and toadstools, time itself seems to slip from its shackles, the vegetation parting to reveal a scene from centuries past. A cabin, with chimney, smoke climbing in coils. A field, divided, crops fresh on the vine. A creek, and a shed, and a stump with an axe. Butterflies on flowers just over the hill. The scene is bucolic, unhurried, relaxing. Yet you can’t help but feel the claws of distraction. The fox bids you welcome, his homestead is yours. But is it forever? And where is the door... 
Such is only one of the ways one might encounter the tauric vulpine, though it’s a good bet he’ll be found in or about some kind of greenery. And whether the encounter seems quite so mystical or not, there’s no getting around the overwhelming presence he carries around, like the mighty oak made foxen. Silas isn’t one to get many visitors as far out as he is, and depending on how long it’s been, he may speak with a bit more of a drawl, be slower to show reaction, expression, that kind of thing. Still, in his clumsy way, he tries. One will find him perfectly hospitable, ready to break bread with visitors... he just might not have any plates. And he might offer coffee in a soup bowl. That kind of thing. Spending enough time around the fox might give one the sinking suspicion... what does a fox like this eat? The answer is simple: A lot. The field he tends in his homestead looks big enough to feed a small hamlet, until one sees him slurping down a vat of stew by the bowlful. And those jaws are used to making quick work of the day’s meal, opening just a little too wide for comfort... Of course, a guest, a customer availing themselves of his occasional services as a courier or taxi, even a stranger has nothing to fear from the gentle giant... though he may give them reason, showing his savage side against the fell beasts of the forest, especially in their defense. He claims, with an honest glisten in his eyes, he’s never eaten a guest before. And yet his lip twitches. Not... quite, anyway. It seems his capacious belly does have a peculiar use, from time to time. Whether through the driving snow of mountain passes, or the more haunted corners of the woods, as a safe shelter for slumberers, or – he admits with some trouble – for the curious... he has been known to stow a passenger or two in his back end. But only when necessary, of course. But living out here, this way, does have a way of making things necessary... Quick summary:
 
 
Even in the woods, there's FurriesEverywhere
|
