Vermilion streaks break through darkened clouds that drape across the sky, heavy as funeral cloths. The effect might remind one of a tangle of red and grey sheets as the bleeding sunset peeks through the eyes of a distant storm.
The petrified trees stand tall and dead; as if defying the notion there was ever anything living in this portion of the woods. At their roots pale white mushrooms cluster along the ground, contributing to the stench of corruption that seems to fright any breeze that trespasses.
Kalmamond finds himself staring at the pale orbs absent-mindedly as his ears flick with irritation. It had been nearly a month since his assistant had fled; and the task of collecting his own implements was growing more tiresome by the day.
He leans ever so slightly onto his staff as he contemplates whether this potion is really worth the tediousness of kneeling for a fungus. The heart atop the medley of bones beats steadily and predictably in response.
Kalmamond grits his teeth as he gives a low hiss and turns away; perhaps that useless boy would return after the storm. The fungus would be stronger then, regardless. He starts to make his way back to the overgrown path, curious as to why he wasted his time on such notions as kneeling. He may not be a god- but he certainly carried himself as one.
Half way to the path he pauses suddenly as he scans a small clearing with his peripheral vision. He was certain something had changed since his initial passing- perhaps this location was not as veiled as he had anticipated.
