Bibarel

The field before them is dark, overcast by murky storm clouds and willow trees that stoop like bent old men. Grey-green grass crunches like gravel under their hesitant footsteps. Peter struggles with the unexpected stagnance of the air. It's sticky and stale and smothers his lungs with every great, gasping breath. Like being underwater, almost, that slow burn that builds in his chest. Behind them, the forest which had once teemed with sounds and whispers... ceases to exist. Peter's posture slumps, and his hands shoot to his mouth to hold back a hack and a wheeze. Amelie makes a small noise of intrigue. Even she, completely and wholly unflapp