When Brand reached the brink of his people’s territory, his long confident strides slowed into a listless trudge. To admit to himself that he was afraid of what lay sleeping beyond the boundary was not within his capability, so instead he stopped and listened, keen ears discerning every rustle and snap of the surrounding forest.
The ancient trees grew for miles, their boughs reaching in all directions to blot out the midday sun. They were older than some of the great beasts that wandered the land. Brand’s people called the forest Girawood. They believed that the trees were even older than time itself, and gave a breath of wind to the world and a spin to the earth, that their roots encompassed the entirety of everything ever known, and that if one listened close enough, they would hear the creak and groan of a voice that knew no beginning or end.
Brand, however, did not pay much mind to stories like those.
His people were known as Bough-Walkers, but they only knew themselves by that name; they were rarely seen upon the ground, let alone outside of their forest by the other scarce tribes. It was a fitting title for them. Brand himself was as lithe and limber as a sapling, pale-skinned, brown haired and green-eyed like the rest of the Bough-Walkers. Also like much of his kin, he was tattooed with black geometric shapes on his arms and neck, wearing loose garments of linen with bright plumes of feathers on his shoulders as decoration. He did not wear shoes.
Living up to his people’s namesake, Brand leapt onto a nearby tree and scrambled up the trunk with as much dexterity as a squirrel—his long, practiced limbs seemed perfectly crafted for gliding from branch to branch. He came to rest on a thick bough near the middle of the endless tree, and resting on his haunches, quietly observed the surrounding forest.
There was little light to see by, for the emerald leaves of the canopy may as well have been the sky. Brand did not rely so much on his eyes, for he knew Girawood could play devilish tricks on them sometimes. No, he preferred to use his ears. During his twenty some years he had never stepped foot outside of the forest, but he had come to know every sound and murmur, from the soft tread of a wolf’s paw to the crystalline rush of a stream. Be it enlightenment or danger, Brand could hear it.
And sure enough, far in the distance, was a rumble.
It was low and monstrous, and it split the air as if crunching down on it. Whatever it was, Brand did not particularly want to cross its path, but regardless he set off again towards it, flying from tree limb to tree limb barefooted and swift. He was looking for something quite specific, something that the Bough-Walkers desperately needed, but it only lived within legends they told, and Brand was beginning to doubt its existence at all. But it was a matter of life and death. Perhaps that was why his jaw was so hard, his brow so stern with his feet carrying him as if they had wings.
The ancient trees grew for miles, their boughs reaching in all directions to blot out the midday sun. They were older than some of the great beasts that wandered the land. Brand’s people called the forest Girawood. They believed that the trees were even older than time itself, and gave a breath of wind to the world and a spin to the earth, that their roots encompassed the entirety of everything ever known, and that if one listened close enough, they would hear the creak and groan of a voice that knew no beginning or end.
Brand, however, did not pay much mind to stories like those.
His people were known as Bough-Walkers, but they only knew themselves by that name; they were rarely seen upon the ground, let alone outside of their forest by the other scarce tribes. It was a fitting title for them. Brand himself was as lithe and limber as a sapling, pale-skinned, brown haired and green-eyed like the rest of the Bough-Walkers. Also like much of his kin, he was tattooed with black geometric shapes on his arms and neck, wearing loose garments of linen with bright plumes of feathers on his shoulders as decoration. He did not wear shoes.
Living up to his people’s namesake, Brand leapt onto a nearby tree and scrambled up the trunk with as much dexterity as a squirrel—his long, practiced limbs seemed perfectly crafted for gliding from branch to branch. He came to rest on a thick bough near the middle of the endless tree, and resting on his haunches, quietly observed the surrounding forest.
There was little light to see by, for the emerald leaves of the canopy may as well have been the sky. Brand did not rely so much on his eyes, for he knew Girawood could play devilish tricks on them sometimes. No, he preferred to use his ears. During his twenty some years he had never stepped foot outside of the forest, but he had come to know every sound and murmur, from the soft tread of a wolf’s paw to the crystalline rush of a stream. Be it enlightenment or danger, Brand could hear it.
And sure enough, far in the distance, was a rumble.
It was low and monstrous, and it split the air as if crunching down on it. Whatever it was, Brand did not particularly want to cross its path, but regardless he set off again towards it, flying from tree limb to tree limb barefooted and swift. He was looking for something quite specific, something that the Bough-Walkers desperately needed, but it only lived within legends they told, and Brand was beginning to doubt its existence at all. But it was a matter of life and death. Perhaps that was why his jaw was so hard, his brow so stern with his feet carrying him as if they had wings.
