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I grew up in a small, isolated rural village in a small valley. The livestock pasture and farming field occupied about half of the forest meadow. A couple of dozen huts sat on the other half. There were high mountains to our west and north. High hills to our east and south. If you gotta ask the difference between a mountain and a high hill, you've never lived near either. The forest all around our village was always shrouded in a thick fog. You could only see into the forest just far enough to get an idea of where you were going, but never far enough to be comfortable or let your guard down. The fog was there year-round, night and day. The trees seemed to have protected it from ever burning off. There were many legends about the fog - where it came from, why it was there. Some say it was the vapor from a witch's cauldron. Some say it was conjured by an evil magician for some nefarious purpose. Some say it was created by the forest itself to protect it from intrusion. Some say it's just where the fog gathered because we were in a valley and the trees shaded it. Who knows who's right? Regardless of what you believed about its origin; you always believed the ghost stories about it. Every so often, on nights that were barely lit by a thin sliver of moon, strange sounds would come from the forest. Howls, yelps, screams, cackles and more. You may think it was just wolves but they only make their ruckus on nights when there's a full moon. A few times a year, after these haunted nights, we'd wake up and find a sheep, or cow, or pig horribly slaughtered. It'd be partially eaten with its entrails and limbs scattered about. The weird thing though is its head would always be gone. To do any sort of trade or traveling required us to pass through the forest. To pass through the fog. Needless to say, none of that sort of thing ever happened. We don't know if anyone ever tried to come visit us either. No one ever showed up if they did, because they'd have to pass through the fog also. About once every generation, one brave and stupid young man would try to prove his mettle by passing through the fog, usually at night. He'd pack up some food, water, a small dagger, sometimes a lantern to spend the night roaming the fog enveloped forest. Most of the time, he did come back. Never with all his senses though. They all were scared out of their minds. Some as pale as a ghost, which we thought they were. Sometimes they'd be missing all their gear, their clothes would be ripped and they'd be covered in cuts and scratches. They all refused to speak of what they saw or what happened. Sometimes the young man wouldn't return at all. No trace of them ever turned up. The idea of passing through the fog made cowards of us all. -Xevu | |