Repeating, once... twice... thrice...
What is this?
A rising fear clutches and you stumble back over an upraised root and fall, rolling into a depression among the woody arches and ferns.
The earth is soft, formed of leaf matter rotted down over so many seasons of growth and dormancy. Shoots grow through, born of the last fall of acorns. The sense of life flowing through this place encourages you, gives you strength. That thrum is there in the root at your back. A direct link to the barrier against the void.
You too will return to the soil, to be born again. But not now, and maybe not today.
You stand, and as you rise you become aware of how far the ground still drops, into a hollow almost beneath the tree itself. Above the voices urge still from the trunk.
Question the voices Blog One Investigate the hollow Blog One Blog Two
Agree to help Blog One Go down the hill Blog One Blog Two