There was no wind. Motionless, as if frozen in time, beds of flowers stretched their myriads of colours over the fields only to be masked by the alabaster-toned veil of fear, a mist of treachery and savage wrath. Although weaker than the spectral wave of white smoke it used to be, it would still mask if only partially the skies, flooded with the shade of blood pumped by the orb of golden-crimson light reigning amidst them. Solemn, only the towering height of Eden could observe the wrathful horizon.
Beneath that horizon seemed to be some stretches of greens, yellows or red from which the mist got robbed, clear to see for anyone that would be foolish enough to entertain the idea of remaining vulnerable to the one-armed death. And yet, a tense, blurry silhouette, rushing through the patches and beds of plants and perennials, had yet to crawl back to the clouds of treachery they came from.
The wind was whistling. Not quite howling, but still piercing silence with the sharp blade of its inevitable presence. The edges of the fog were shaking, confronting the advances attained by the breath of death. The blood-shaded firmament only got brighter as time went on and as the shaky silhouette of olive green and coal black finally absconded back behind the pale veils of her land.
The thickness of the mist’s colourless, ethereal entrails was only matched by the subtle yet uneasy coolness that inhabited it, just strong enough to strip one of the sense of comfort and security that otherwise was spread throughout the Land as far as the eyes could see. Although disturbed by the distant murmurs of invading air, silence roamed freely, following the shakened troll with the dedication of savage, hungry instincts.