Aesthetic: River Path

Cool. Bubbling fast. But calm. Graceful. Shimmering glass, alive with light and movement. Each stone a leaping point, disturbing the flow and shaping it anew.

Ever-changing. No moment like the one before, and a new face every time the shadows blink.

An embrace like thick wind and gentle ice. It steals, it holds, it encourages to float. Such a fickle thing, water is. A leaf riding currents upstream suddenly ejected onto a bank of mud and worn pebbles later on.

Creatures come and go, leaving ripples of their kisses, soon swept away. Only the fish ever stay. Not even them. Winged beasts soaring high above, mere silhouettes above the canopy, always out of reach.

The willows are the favoured friends. Demurely reaching for the surface, so shy as they inch ever closer in their desire to be near. A lovely curtain of green to filter the harsh sunlight. It is pleasing to play amongst their roots, sheltering little frogs and insects from the more demanding whims of the path.

The mood shifts quickly. A soothing meander becomes raging panic, before mellowing into something that might be mistaken for sleep. Another broken craft drifts by, sundered upon the teeth and pining for the ocean.

The sun sets, and the stars appear. Bright, buzzing, whirling over the surface in a beautiful dance of lights. A private show.

Aesthetic: Forest

The floor is warm browns and rich greens. It smells like life and decay, somehow comforting, holding close all that lives within it. Strong earth. In stillness it’s almost possible to feel the heartbeat of life.

The breeze is cool and joyful, whispering as it dances through the trees and over roots, brushing along the bubbling stream. It coaxes the deer from their listless wanderings and leads bears to a new patch of berries.

There is energy in the air. A hum of trees speaking ancient knowledge, butterflies whispering precious wishes, secrets. The silence is alive with voices. A woodpecker taps out its coded message, thrushes call out warnings of an approaching bobcat. Somewhere, a twig snaps.

Rough bark and moss cloaks the trees, bracelets of old man’s beard hang from their branches and rings of pinecones and blossoms adorn their tips.

Time stands still here. Days pass by, turning from morning to night, and things grow and change, but all is slow. The outside world holds little meaning in a place such as this. Peaceful. All is peaceful.

Aesthetic: In the Cell

A cell of stone bricks, lit by meager torchlight. The floor covered in dust and stray tufts of straw and fur from the shedding dog. A wooden table, old, worn, and scarred. Upon it lay a rusty dagger and a single apple turning red. A sturdy chair, with a groove worn into it from years of being sat upon.

Musty air, smelling of earth and smoke, tasting of dust. The crackle of fire from a torch. The contented sigh of the dog. The sound of footsteps on cobble, and keys jangling loosely. Somewhere, a cat purrs and pads softly down the hall.