The Curve

There it is. There it stays. It's only so far away, but never closer. I have not been able to pass it. It remains unchallenged, still foreign territory uncharted. The quiver in my palm steadies as I stand at the portal. It twists and deepens with each gaze that rests upon it. It's trail littered with leaves of a fresh autumn, not yet devoid of their moisture as to crunch underfoot. Verdant boughs reign above, tingeing the light that filters through each layer with the fresh kiss of a damp spring. I stand before it, as it stands before me, daunting as the rotten maw of some felbeast. Black tendril shadows creep along the trunks, seductively swaying, beckoning my entrance. I temper my fear, honing it to keen assurance. I step forward as it beckons once more. It consumes the remaining tidbit of my shadow and retracts deep within itself.