Day 23
The howling of wolves Teemos has become intolerable. The horrid noise reaches into my soul and twists and crunches the very bones of my being. They could be here. Any of them, all around, and I wouldn't see. I feel eyes, staring out of dark pits, like the nightly moon's visage reflected in pools of blood.
A whistling sound. I hear it and shudder to the bone. But when I reach out from my tent onto the cold ground, to stretch my ear to hear the wretched sound, I feel beneath my fingertips a thing. Soft. Yielding.
And then I see it: the mushroom.
