Vequesia

3779

The winds blow against the branches of a wood that runs for miles and miles around you. You walk a beach from its beginning, where a large cliff stands, and go on for days, perhaps weeks before it cuts off into a forest or a maze seemingly entirely naturally made, in the side of a stone wall.   You spend months travelling in a straight line, tracking and moving through the giant forest, as trees become ten times bigger and then twelve times smaller before you hit a clearing as large as the woods themselves; as you continue on, beams of marble and strange stone arise from the ground, casting shadows many a foot long. The further in you move, the more there are, the higher they become, before they begin to lead you on a path of sorts, raising walls much higher than any that your tribe or community has ever even dreamt of building, let alone succeeded in doing. And in the centre is a. . .   You are not sure where you are. But it is dark, and harder to breathe than usual. You recognise the sound of something elven-like but fear creeps into your heart and you dare not breathe. You go to move forwards and wake up on the ground, elsewhere, a new location, just a bit brighter, but still just as gloomy and lacking in air.   You are on Vequesia, the world that gives you love, life and legends, all of which your people somehow employ in their lifestyle. You are alive. You are (not) alone. You will rise.