Death strolled in silence of early morning. The sun loomed at the base of the horizon, barely cresting the dark clouds. Beneath the struggling sunrise sat a solitariy foothill to the White Pine Mountains. Seperated from its brothers shrouded in deep forest, the hill was barren in color by comparison. Save for an occasional shrub, the hill was covered with shin-high grass, sighing softly in the pink-grey of the struggling sunlight. To the north of the hill, at the border of the forest, lay a meadow, formed in the windbreak of the trees and bare hill. A small road wound from the northeast to the southwest through the clearing the meadow made. It was along this path that death walked.
Countless eyes peered out of the shadows of the deep woods encircling the hill and meadow. Thier beady sqints held a deep mistrust of light, however unsteady or intermittant. The the border of the ancient forest seemed drawn by an artist's hand, curving gracefully along the path the wind-tunnel the hill created in the downdrafts of the nearby mountains. The undergrowth shuddered with life, while the treetops showed numerous birds flying between the branches. However, on this morning, all was still The forest was afloat in a bubble of sulking silence, following death's footsteps along the path.