Rustling was not a word that could describe the noises that the intricate forest made, instead a better word might have been rushing. The wind made a rushing through the leaves of the sinister trees, a million flailing hands brushing against each on and on into the infinite forest. The might and canopy of the trees kept the underbrush from growing, and the forest floor was barely covered by anything but the long dead rustlers of previous seasons; the leaves sitting heavy and wet on the ground.
When the wind died down, the depth of the forest began to show her face, as a silence that only nature can supply grew in the twilight hours as the sun began to fall. No noise, no movement, only the heavy silence of greenery and stone and soil.
What should enter here? Who would dare intrude upon the slumber of mother earth in this sacred place? No one but a faun, not breaking the silence but merely bending it as his small feet daintily and cautiously led him through the leaves and into the picture painted there in the woods.
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