You must tread carefully here.
The forest floor in Scotara is soft with moss, and it yields beneath careless steps. Walk beside me. There… do you see how the light slips between the branches? It never falls the same way twice. The morning sun carries a faint warmth, though the air still tastes of last night’s chill.
Breathe in.
The scent you notice first is pine resin, sharp and clean. Beneath it lingers damp earth, rich and dark. If you kneel here, just here, you will catch the faint sweetness of crushed thyme. It grows low along the stones, stubborn and fragrant, and its oil eases aching joints when steeped properly.
An herb-scribe must observe before she gathers.
See this yarrow? Its leaves feather outward like a small, green plume. When pressed between the fingers, it releases a bitter, clean scent. It binds wounds. Slows blood. I mark such things carefully in my ledger, though I suspect the plants need no instruction from me. They have known their purpose far longer than I have known my own.
The forest is never truly silent… listen.
There. Hear it? The distant call of a thrush. The rustle of something small moving through bracken. The wind threading itself through high branches, whispering against bark that bears scars older than memory. When rain has passed through the night, the air carries a silver brightness, and droplets cling to leaves like scattered glass.
I have always believed the land of Scotara is aware. Not in the way men are aware, loud and certain. But in the patient way of roots spreading unseen. In the hush that settles without warning. In the strange stillness that sometimes presses close, as though something unseen has paused to listen in return.
I do not speak of such things. There are truths in Scotara that are better left unvoiced. Yet when I walk here, when my fingers trail over fern fronds and the bark of old oak, I feel comfort. As though whatever moves beneath the soil and stone recognizes me, not as intruder, but as family, one who cares, protects rather than takes.
Careful. Step around that patch. Those pale blossoms are bellwort. Their petals bruise easily and once bruised they lose their strength. The forest offers generously, but only if treated with respect.
If you linger long enough, you may notice how the air changes near the deeper groves. The scent grows cooler there, touched with something faintly metallic, like rain before it falls. Light dims, though no cloud crosses the sky. It is not fear I feel in such places. It is watchfulness.
Scotara is not merely land to be crossed. It is a living thing, rooted in memory, bound in silence, and patient beyond understanding.
Walk softly now. There is wild mint near the stream ahead. When crushed, its scent lifts the spirit and clears the mind. You will know it when you smell it.
Stay close… and know the forest remembers those who move gently within it.
I love this so much. I could actually see in my mind the pictures you detailed and the land so mysterious. I can’t wait for the next snippet of Scotara. You are an amazing author 😍
I can’t get enough of this book.I can feel and sense the forest as if I were there. ❤️