Mavis doesn’t often stray far from familiar paths, but something about Ealei’s coast calls to her today. The mangroves here seem older than time itself, their roots thick as ancient tree trunks and knotted in ways that look almost deliberate. She pads softly over a bridge of living wood, woven generations ago by patient hands and patient growth. Beneath her, crystalline waters shift in dreamy hues of teal and blue, so clear she can see the shadows of bright fish flickering between tangles of coral and worn stone.
The air is soft here, warm with sea salt and the green hush of a forest constantly brushed by tide. Pale fog clings low around the roots, winding like ribbon through the undergrowth. The sunlight, filtered through canopy and mist, seems diffused, almost fragile, casting a gentle haze over the world.
Birdsong echoes in short bursts from somewhere deep within the thickets, bouncing between bark and water. Just above, she catches glimpses of rope bridges strung between branches and faint outlines of wooden platforms hugging the trees, whispers of a wharf city that lives just out of sight, cradled in the forest’s arms.
Mavis pauses where one of Yggdrasil’s roots arches high over the shallows, slick with moss and dotted with lichen. She sets down her small pack and leans gently against the curve of the root, watching the water shift below. A fish jumps. A breeze stirs the mist. Somewhere overhead, a windchime clinks faintly between branches.
Her pomu peeks out of her shadow, curious. It chirps softly, then disappears again with a swish of fluff. Mavis smiles.
There’s no hurry. No task waiting at the end of this trail. Just stillness. Just the quiet rhythm of tide and root and time, stitched together in what one would consider the language of nature.
