Li sat cross legged upon the grassy floor of the Winterwoods, the cold blades of green leeching their chill to his being. It was an unpleasant chill, even to him, and it was not because of their physical temperature, but rather the nature of it. It felt off, unnatural, as if it was not meant to truly be.
"Don't stop moving or else they'll overwhelm you in an instant," called out Li.
Around him lay a clearing.
One made within a short period of time, it seemed, based on the environmental evidence. Shattered remnants of rotted tree trunks lay scattered about. Patches of withered grass, some so thin that only barren ground remained, dotted the clearing with striking frequency. No flowers, herbs, or mushrooms grew ā only the most basic, barest, and hardiest grass managed to even somewhat survive.
