Night

The forests of the north peaks shelter many trails. Some are struck like lighting as small and nimble weasels split the grass. Others are crafted gently as countless generations of deer and moose carve out ancient roads like rivers upon sandstone. Some are crafted by the earth itself, heaving and splitting stone into dark fissures from which the cold breath of mountain caves whispers secretively. These are all familiar.

Others are not. A second kind of pathway lies buried beneath the new forest growth, black-scented and lined with no stone known to this world. The paths are maddening, too rigid and angular, winding like aimless rivers to destinations that never seem to arrive. All, but one.

The Black Path that lies sleeping in the shadow of a deep gully is a lonely and desolate road hidden from the greater forest and avoided by all who know of it. It was made by an evil without words, and the wolves who choose to walk it can never wash the abrasive death-smell that clings to their pawpads after following its' ragged mile. It terminates at the valley's pit- the foot of the Strange Mountain which not even moss dares cling to. But the trail does not end here.

From it's boxlike entrance- too sharp, too regular, too perfect, yawns a pitch cavern that opens into a silent darkness. It's cavern network is titanic, sheltering more boxlike rooms and maddening mysteries unaccountable to the wolves that feel called to such a place. And somewhere in it's dark halls of strange stone rest its' keepers, watching, watching...
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