Enocra Woodland

Pine, spruce and firs alike...
Dense coniferous forests cover the woodlands, with clearings, paths and the occasional wildberry shrub throughout. Pine, spruce and fir make up much of the forest in the east, with the forest becoming swampier in the west towards Mecor Valley. In the west, cypress trees dominate, with fallen trees creating bridges across and throughout the stillwaters.

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AS iF TO FLY baph
IP: 99.98.128.40
Posted on March 31, 2013 at 04:47:53 AM by ALiCE


The clockwork angel had found her way back to the core of the gypsy’s universe. It was something that seemingly always had and always would be, at least in the new world. The concept of a new world was something that she couldn’t help but hold on to. Things would change and change and change, and what was she to do about it? How was Alice to feel about the world around her? What was she to do? There were too many questions and not enough answers for the girl’s world. All the things to come to terms with… all she could do was try.


Sometimes she couldn’t even try. Sometimes there was too much going on for her to reach out and grab hold of… did that make her fragile? Just by looking at the sculpture of a beast, you could tell she wasn’t the fragile one. She doesn’t bend, she doesn’t break. Instead, Alice is rigid. There are some things that just aren’t of flesh and bone. As far as she’s concerned, she isn’t. It doesn’t matter so much, what she is and what she is not. None of it matters any more, if that helps. Through the winter the clockwork angel has spent her fair share of alone time, and it was starting to be more okay.

And she was okay. Alice generally would be. The rust and iron of the creature that turns to the Midwest clicks and pops—the white noises of the white times. Welcome to winter. The clockwork angel needs a tune-up, and it’s something that she won’t deal with. That would involve too much thinking, too much feeling. She doesn’t feel. She thinks. Alice is methodical as ever as she paces over the land, not changing pace as she heads downward. A swamp in winter si a funny thing, and she’s come to see it once more.

A part of her likes it here. Another part of her doesn’t want herself to. Who likes a swamp? Clearly Alice isn’t everyone, and that’s something that you can’t really deny. Foraged in fire, her eyes flicker as she waits for something to happen in her little winter wonderland.
ALiCE
hound’s
gypsy | seven | unattached




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