The woods are alive. Some would call it quiet. They don't hear the birds, the cicadas, rustling of trees, furtive movements of small things in the grass. The don't smell the sharp scent of life blooming, musk of animals passed by, or cloying sweet stench of decay. Learned men would call it an ecosystem. It's more.
Here, it's even more than elsewhere.
Ahead, a Tur. Neutral ground.
A bellow rolls through the night. Loud and anguished, and then silence.
Leaves rustle as the trees shiver.
At the locus, something large and still in the darkness.