Field Journal – Entry II

  16th of Bloomtide, 647 - Shadow Weave

  Upper Kelvek’s Creek, elevation uncertain

  Three days since leaving Wetheren. My maps have already become decorative. The terrain folds in ways no surveyor could capture — ridges that double back on themselves, valleys that narrow into echoing throats of stone. The compass stutters near every seam of ore, and even the creek I followed from the lowlands now disappears underground for long stretches, as if hiding.

  The forest changes with altitude. The lower woods are a tangle of fir and cedar, dense with moss and the sound of unseen water. Higher up, the trees grow sparse and pale, their trunks streaked with silvery veins that catch the light like metal beneath bark. When the wind moves through them, they resonate — not the creak of branches but a kind of low humming, as though the forest itself were tuned to a deep chord.

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  There are moments, too, when the air carries a faint metallic tang. My lantern flame flutters strangely in those places, and iron tools feel heavier. Birds vanish for hours at a time. I have found several abandoned campsites: cold fire rings, broken handles, once even a rusted pick half-buried in moss. Each was overtaken by a thin, gray lichen that I have yet to identify — it almost glitters in the shade.

  The locals spoke of “the Listening Peaks.” I begin to understand why. Every sound seems to linger here, folded back upon itself by the cliffs. When I stop to drink, I sometimes hear what I think is a hammer striking far away — a dull pulse rolling beneath the wind. But no one could be working in these heights. The echoes come from within the stone itself.

  I have begun sketching the flora. One species, a kind of fern with metallic sheen on the underside of its leaves, responds to vibration: a spoken word or footstep will make it tremble slightly. I have pressed a specimen between these pages. If there truly is a culture that communes with sound and metal, I am beginning to see why they chose this place.

  I will camp beside a rock face that gleams faintly even in starlight. The cliffs are marked with strange shallow pits — regular, almost deliberate. Some of them ring softly when struck with a fingerbone or pebble. It is tempting to think they were carved, but I cannot yet say by whom or what for.

  If I believed in omens, I might call this an auspicious one. The mountains are speaking; I am learning how to listen.

  — A.T.