>Dry leaves and twigs crunch underfoot, giving voice to your gait.
>The forest is awash in fiery oranges and reds, the light filtering through the canopy adopting a warm glow.
>There is scarcely a breeze, but the air bears the chill of late autumn nonetheless.
>Low branches tug at your heavy cloak as you pass and you have accumulated quite the collection of burrs along the bottom.
>As you brush a few twigs away from your face, something odd catches your peripheral eye.
>A crumbling stone wall juts out from the forest floor like a broken tooth just a few paces away, standing only by the graces of the thick pine trunk it leans against.
>Looking around as you approach you discover more stone rubble, the shape suggesting that it had once been some kind of house.
>There is a suspicious lump near the center of what you are now certain had been a room, its obscured, bulbous shape tickling your curiosity in a way you are unable to resist.
>Stepping around the wall you had first seen, your foot lands with a hollow 'thud' rather than the harsh whisper of crunching leaves you had grown accustomed to.
>Recoiling from the sound, you get a firm hold on a nearby branch before brushing some leaves and dirt aside with your foot.
>The faded wood beneath has warped with the abuse of time, as all things in life are wont to do.
>Skeptical, you give it a firm stomp. Much to your surprise the aged floor does not so much as creak, allowing the spark of curiosity to blossom.
>You risk a single step onto the questionable surface, still clinging to the branch as if your life depends on it.
>Nothing.
>Slowly, carefully you let go of the branch and take another step.
>Your blood runs cold as the wood beneath your feet gives an agonizing groan, its voice older than you could possibly know.
 
 
>After a few tense moments you breathe an audible sigh of relief and press onward.
>One step.
>The floor gives an oaken creak in protest.
>Another step.
>The entire forest waits with bated breath, watching as you tempt the hand of Darwinian evolution.
>Reaching, you kneel to claim your prize.
>Your probing digits discover solidity beneath the veil of dirt and leaves.
>Please don't be a rock.
>You pluck the object from its resting place and make your way clear of the treacherous footing.
>Back on solid ground, you brush what dirt and debris you can from your trophy.
>It's a mason jar, sealed up as tight as ever. The glass is caked with stubborn grime, concealing the contents.
>A quick glance around confirms that you are still alone.
>Excitement wells up within, the thrill of discovery fueling the fires of imagination.
>You pull off one glove and lick your thumb, pressing it to the glass to gingerly wipe away the dust.
>The jar is full, but you can't tell what of.
>With a grunt of annoyance you spit onto the glass and hurriedly wipe it clean.
>Syrupy, liquid gold glimmers with the light of the sun as you inspect it.
>It looks like it might still be good.
>Without further ado you twist the lid, smiling as the seal gives a soft 'pop'.
>Raising the jar to your nose and inhaling deeply, you are rewarded with the heavenly sweetness of apple blossoms, miraculously preserved through the ages.
>You shed your other glove and dip a finger into the thick nectar.
>The taste is warm and nostalgic, soothing in it's simplicity.
>Glancing up at the canopy, you feel fairly certain that you'll have time if you hurry.
>Setting the honey aside, you reach into your satchel and produce your sketchbook.
>After a bit of fussing about, the jar of rich ambrosia sits atop the broken wall, radiant with a stolen beam of light.
>The scratching of pencil on paper fills the air as time trickles away, heedless of your desire to obey your muse.
 
 
>The wind tugs at your cloak.
>The shadow of night lays heavily upon the woods, the new moon above offering no reprieve.
>There are sounds in the darkness surrounding you.
>They are hard to make out amidst the incessant bellowing of the wind, but not impossible.
>Luckily this is of little concern to you.
>A light flickers and dances in the blackness ahead, distant but unmistakable.
>The beacon grows and before long you are able to see that it is the flame of a torch, the small figure waving it manifesting from the shadows shortly thereafter.
>The first thing that you notice as you approach is the shock of white-blonde hair.
>Second is the scarf, concealing their face even as the wind drags the end of it into the inky blackness.
>Lastly is the boots, worn old things far too big for the one wearing them.
>You raise a hand from beneath the cloak as you approach and they respond in kind.
>A moment of hesitation before they turn and establish a brisk pace, torch held high above their head.
>The forest around you begins to thin as you follow your small acquaintance, the reason becoming apparent rather suddenly.
>A massive portion of the stars above is blotted out by the inky silhouette of the massive oak tree.
>As you approach windows and a door become distinguishable amidst the shadow.
>The leaves of the tree rustle in the wind, creating an all encompassing whisper that is somehow comforting.
>The torch bobs and bounces as your companion darts ahead to unlock the door, scarf dragging on the ground behind them.
>They throw the door open and disappear inside, warm light spilling across the threshold seconds later.
>The wind picks up again as you step inside and pull the door shut behind you.
 
 
>A round, two-tiered shelf stands off to your right, cluttered with lamps.
>A glass display case stands behind the counter to your left, empty. An opening on the opposite wall leads further into the tree.
>However, a little girl wearing a massive grin stands between you and the rest of the home.
>Lowering your hood, you return her smile.
>The child simply beams at you a while before darting off into the house, her cloak and scarf discarded.
>You shed your own and follow.
 
>The girl's toes wiggle with glee as she munches the honeyed toast, she'd insisted on sitting on the table.
>The jar sits open between the two of you, significantly emptier than it had been a mere hour ago.
>You pick up the knife and fix another piece for yourself.
>Neither of you had used them, but she'd insisted on putting plates out anyway.
>Both faded, but not completely. Half eagle, half lion creatures decorate both plates, similar but not identical.
>They bear a certain regality, their depiction more reminiscent of nobility than ferocity.
>The differences were subtle, the number of feathers in the wings, the exact angle of the beak or the length of the talons.
>Hard to say whether the differences had been intentional.
>You retrieve your sketchbook and pencils from your satchel.
>The girl watches intently as the plates take shape on your paper, stopping only to slather another piece of toast in honey.
>Finished, you hand over the book without waiting for her to ask.
>She eagerly pages through the drawings, eyes alight as though the entire world had been lain out before her.
>After a moment you pull a piece of scrap paper from your bag and begin to sketch again.
 
 
>The lamps sit on their shelf, extinguished.
>You pull your cloak over your shoulders and adjust your satchel.
>The girl just watches, hands jammed into her pockets.
>The room is dim, the morning light just beginning to peak through the windows.
>You raise your hand from beneath your cloak again and she throws her gaze to the ground.
>Rolling your eyes, you reach into your satchel and hold the jar out to her with a smile.
>She stares at it a moment before plucking it from your hand, her lip quivering just a little.
>Suddenly the girl bolts from the room with the honey, only to return an instant later, scarf in hand.
>She holds it out to you, failing to suppress a sniffle.
>You kneel and take the gift, wrapping her in a hug afterward.
>Coiling the scarf around your face, you raise your hand to her once more.
>She raises hers and smiles until you close the door behind you.
 
>Finally clear of the forest, the mountain range dominates the horizon.
>The top is hidden above the clouds, but it's not the peaks that concern you.
>It's difficult to see, but you know it's there.
>A city, including a castle, built upon a shelf etched into the mountainside.
>You can only make out one or two spires from this distance, but that's enough to confirm the rumors in your eyes.
>Supposedly no one had found a way up to it, meaning it had sat there for all this time undisturbed.
>All this time, just waiting for you to come and discover its treasures.
>You can hardly wait.
 
 
>Midday light shines through the cracks and holes in the roof.
>Starting out from your camp in the city at dawn, you'd barely managed to make it up to the castle.
>You had found only disappointment and ruin in the city below, the artifacts you'd dreamed of long since scavenged..
>However, that hadn't stopped you from sketching some of the more interesting sites.
>Some of the roads leading here had collapsed long ago, others had been buried in debris..
>A vast majority of the castle had also fallen, segmenting what remains in a way that would keep its secrets from you.
>This room still stood, though. Its vaulted ceiling only beginning to lose the fight against time.
>Water spills in from above, partially flooding the spacious hall.
>It is not deep, but it is enough to make a hazard of the fallen rubble.
>Unseen stones lurk just beneath the surface, waiting to twist an ankle.
>The mist of the falls makes the walls glisten where the moss hadn't yet reached.
>Their lingering sigh and the sloshing of your steps lends the room an eery ambiance.
>You inspect an oddly shaped stone as you step around it.
>The surface had been worn to a point of silky smoothness, your fingers linger on it just a moment.
>After all, an old statue can't compare to the doors.
>Massive, imposing. They had surely been something to behold long ago.
>The moss clings to the bottom, but doesn't climb nearly as high as it does on the nearby walls..
>You're not far from them, but you refuse to rush yourself.
>Your prudence is validated as you pass by a small opening in the floor, the water tumbling down into blackness.
>It sends a shiver up your spine, but the only thing to do is to keep moving.
 
 
>Upon reaching the doors the first thing you notice is just how... Purple they are.
>From a distance they had seemed just as gray and lifeless as anything else, but up close they could almost be called colorful.
>There are markings that suggest there had once been a frame for these purple portals, but it's long gone.
>You cross your fingers, hold your breath and press your palms flat against them.
>With a silent prayer, you push.
 
>Sunshine pours in through a dozen towering archways lining the hall.
>Your eye is drawn immediately to the throne.
>Beyond the vacant arches a section of the ceiling had collapsed, forming a kind of natural spotlight.
>Golden and magnificent; untouched by the curse that had so faded everything else.
>You need a closer look.
>Broken glass crunches underfoot, colorful and dazzling in the light.
>Nature has just begun to creep in, only a few vines snaking their way over the sills.
>The finely crafted marble has not been completely immune to the march of time. A massive crack cleaves through the floor from one wall to the other in an uneven line.
>It had, however, somehow clung to some of its former luster, soaking in the sunlight and embracing its warmth.
>Impulsively you lower your hood, climbing the short stair to the throne.
>It is warm and your fingers leave clean, glittering lines in the dust.
>The seat is surprisingly comfortable considering the lack of cushions.
>The familiar heat of an embrace flows into your body, driving the autumn chill from your bones.
>Your eyelids feel heavier with each passing moment.
 
 
>The twinkle of disturbed glass, punctuated by a 'fwump' that you feel in your chest ends your nap.
>A large bird stands in the nearest archway, head cocked to the side, one shockingly yellow eye regarding you carefully.
>You remain perfectly still.
>Its head shakes a little as it makes an unsettling wooping noise low in its throat.
>Taking a slow step towards you its feathers ripple like fire; reds, oranges and blues shimmering in the now fading light.
>It makes the sound again, the crest of feathers atop its head bouncing in a mockingly jovial manner.
>After a few tense moments it turns away, apparently dismissing you.
>Glass crunches under its massive talons as it takes a couple of steps away and begins preening itself.
>You simply watch, stunned.
>The feathers on the nape of the bird's neck are every color of the rainbow, bright as though being lit from within.
>Finally realizing the opportunity you've been given, you draw your sketchbook from your satchel and rest it on the arm of the throne.
>The bird hardly seems to notice the scritch-a-scratch of pencil on paper.