This is the black heart of the forest.The Fox is foreign here, this is not Her land, though she is well familiar. She leads, I follow, or we are one. I can’t always tell. Perhaps both.
The air here is warm and humid, ripe with rot and growth. The earth is covered in thick layers of leaves, yet I know with absolute certainty that the earth beneath it is rich black loam. This is a fertile place. I walk across moss and lichen covered bones as I approach. Thousands have perished here, feeding the Tree.
The Tree is huge. I can not see to it’s top. It’s gnarled roots are so immense that they stand well taller than I do, though I am only seeing what of them that is above ground. It is alive, it’s bark dark and rough, it’s sap a deep bloody claret red.
There is a bramble growing around the roots and trunk. It doesn’t strangle it, just grows. Follow it’s path up the trunk and there it gathers into a great chasm in the Tree’s trunk. In the chasm it twists and shapes into a throne.
And on the throne sits Him.
I can not see His face. The shadows consume it though I can feel the intensity of His gaze upon me. He lounges in his seat like a great predator. He is strong of limb, wrapped in dark leather pants with furs around His shoulders. His hair is long and wild, dark in colour.
I know these things:
1. He is not a hunter, though he wields a spear.
2. I name him the God of Wild Places instinctually.
3. I name him ‘The King on the Bramble Throne’ equally instinctually.
4. He guises with rams horns when he so chooses.
5. His form is human.
6. He is tattooed, not painted. I can not see the design but it is extensive.
7. He is not Norse.
8. I otherwise have absolutely no idea who he is… At all.