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Lonely Hilltop

This is a truly odd place, startling in its abrupt change of scenery. It is a large, grass-covered hill, without so much as a single tree on it. However, all around the foot of the hill, the forest crowds in, trees packed densely together. A large stone, perhaps three feet in diameter, sits on top of the hill. One face has been sheared away as though by a great axe, leaving a glimmering reflective surface. From the hilltop, it is almost possible to see over the treetops, but not quite. The greater heights of the eastern mountains are visible from it, in distant, hazy splendor. There is an air of peacefulness that hangs over the place, almost a sleepy feeling. Most of the time, few noises can be heard except for the blowing of the wind.

The dark green of the forest surrounds the hill on all sides. Going any direction will likely be something of a struggle.

Casper sits atop the hill, whittling away at a twig with his knife. The clouds bluster overhead but his attention in on the carving.

The rain has stopped for a little while in wet eastern Washington, though the clouds keep the woods dark and damply oppressive, especially in this lonely place. Night-sensitive eyes have adjusted to the dim light, though vision carries neither clearly or far. Still, the light is good enough to carve, especially as much by feel as by sight. Gradually, the feeling of dampness increases.

Casper sets the carving down on the wet ground, the pale fronds of grass licking it and putting watering beads on its half-formed hide. A sudden chill breaks through the thick wall of the lad's dreamworld and he pulls his ragged coat tighter around his bony shoulders. He lifts his head, straining it backwards, to look at the dark sky and the trundling clouds, that pay him no heed.

The clouds above pay no heed, but the theurge notices that mist has begun to creep in from the north. It twists toward him in sinuous waves, rolling in faster than the Stargazer might expect. The fog stands perhaps six inches off the ground at the edges, but it thickens as more of it comes into sight.

Casper plunges the knife into the carving's vaguely human flank and he rests a hand on each knee, back straight. His face is washed of flowing wonder and is distilled into keen curiousity. Fog is something to be paid attention to in these parts. So he waits.

The dark grey mist continues to roll over the grass and up the hill toward the theurge, far quicker than normal fog. Suddenly, the fog begins to rise and spread. Casper gets these quick impressions: spreading high from side to side, several billowing bulges, the opening of a mouth. Then the fog is on him, and he sees nothing but grey.

Casper stiffens and everything about him, except his awareness, stills for a long moment. He steadies his breathing and peers from side to side. Then quietly, in the spirit tongue, *Do you greet me tonight, Fog?*

Two feelings wash over Casper in rapid succession: hunger, then weakness. It's as if cold worms have burrowed into his stomach, to the depths where he calls on his gifts from Luna and Gaia. Then the theurge is falling, falling, into grey mist.

You paged Casper with 'Okay, you just lost three temp gnosis. And you're going into a vision. Your body just slumps over, but you don't notice the difference between your dream-self and your actual body.'.

Casper sucks in air, foggy air through his teeth sharply and his dark eyes bulge. His mouth opens as he falls, but he makes no sound.

Finally there is ground, and it is not gently. Casper finds himself on a hilltop totally unlike the one that he had previously been watching. The air has a warm summer feel, like a cool evening in early June, and is scented with a heady flower fragrance, like jasmine or daffodils but more. The hill under his chin is covered in soft grass the color of the ocean in sunlight. Tiny purple flowers dot the hillside.

Casper wheezes and coughs as lands and quivering thin arms try pushing himself up as he tries to breathe. Bleary eyes refocus and try to take in the new surroundings. Ringing ears strive to pick out sounds. He is confused but doesn't let down his guard. Eventually he manages to stand and he turns 360 degrees.

Mist shrouds everything, but here the mist lies still. To one direction, a forest takes up the horizon with its green, tall fellows. Bushes and shorter trees dot the rolling landscape where Casper is presently, and to the opposite side of the forest is a road.

Eyes-of-a-Child shifts down to lupus after catching his breath again. His ears still ring as he starts towards the path. Careful. Careful.

The grass barely bends under the lupus weight, springing back up after the Stargazer passes. Eyes-of-a-Child climbs a handful of hills and follows them down again, but still the road is no closer.

Eyes-of-a-Child stops abruptly, noting the spatial distortions. He's nonplussed. Turning abruptly to his left, he heads for the woods now, instead, picking up the pace.

The woods do not retreat from the Stargazer's advance, and he's soon swallowed in the cool, misty depths. Inside, he pushes through underbrush and over hillocks without ever finding a clearing. Something nags at him before he realizes what's wrong. There's no paths, not even the small ones that prey animals make.

Eyes-of-a-Child lifts his nose to the air, nostrils twitching to take in hopefully more clues to this secret world. He stops abruptly and for want of something better to do, let's loose a long howl, a cry in the dark for anyone, anything.

The howl echoes among the tall, silent trees, somehow changing among the green depths to another language entirely. *Lost. Lost. Lost*

Eyes-of-a-Child shudders and lowers his head. Perhaps vainly, he heads straight into the woods, now running at full tilt, dodging and weaving amongst the foilage.

Slowly the mists dissolve. Eyes-of-a-Child finds himself on a far colder, damper hilltop with his legs jerking in the air like a dreaming dogs. His carving has tumbled a few feet from his nose. The mist is gone.

Eyes-of-a-Child jerks to his feet and peers around, backing up, breathing quick bursts of his own mist. Troubled, he picks the carving up in his jaws and starts down the hill, and not slowly.

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