Waking

You wake slowly, noticing the little things first. The hardness at your back, slightly rough, but still comfortable; the softness underneath you, it is springy and tickles your exposed legs; and a small weight which rests in your lap. You feel warm, but a cool mist-laden breeze keeps you from becoming uncomfortably warm and the scent of rain on the air envelopes you. A drop falls on your forehead and you wake fully.

Your eyes flicker open and you take in the scene around you. The leaves of the tree hanging down in front of you, the soft emerald green grass and the rain, steadily and heavily falling outside of the shelter of your tree. You look down to see a book resting in your lap, open to a page with a beautiful picture printed on it. The black lines form a dragon looking down on a fallen hero, but not with malice, somehow the eyes of the dragon seem caring, and sad. You don't remember this book, or the storm around you.

The world feels different somehow, though you have only been asleep for a few moments you feel the whole world has shifted. Has it left you behind? Does it matter if it has?

A Lofty Perch

Your seat is of twisted wood, in the fork of a mighty tree. The bark is smooth and the wood is a rich red-brown.

The wind through the trees sounds like a river and brings with it the smell of damp earth and water. It brushes against your face, cool and fresh.

Down bellow you are twisting branches which reach up past you to support the canopy above. Leaves block your view around you and stretch above you. The leaves are a deep rich green which blocks almost all the light.

The dim space under the canopy closes in around you and the branches seem like paths. They entice you out along them and into the unknown. You look out along one branch, following its twists and turns with your eyes until you lose it in the leaves.

You look back now to your own seat, and though the bark is smooth beneath you it is rough in other places. Your fingers journey across it, wondering what landscape they'll find.

You are brought back to the real world by a voice calling your name. With a sigh you begin the slow decent from your lofty perch.

Indoor Comforts

The chair is soft and comfortable under you, its soft cushioned seat and intricately carved back seem just made for you. Before you is a large desk of dark wood. The walls are also wood, in fact there is only one piece of metal in the entire room.

The metal takes the form of a winter tree which spreads its branches across the wall in front of you, behind the desk. Its branches are adorned with golden flowers, candles with wax dripping like melting snow.

The candles cast a warm glow over the papers which litter the desk. You pick one up and stare for a moment at the florid handwriting.

You pick up a simple feather quill from its place in the ink pot before you. After a small pause you make an attempt to add your thoughts to the page you hold. The only sound you can hear is the rustling of the papers and the scratch of your quill. The feather tickles your face as you lean down to the page, and a smile graces your lips.

One by one the candles wink out and with only one small flame guiding you, you place the quill down and leave the desk.