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The Mire

Not a single song bird can be found here, for this is the kingdom of crows. It is always shrouded by a fine bone-chilling mist. Even in the full state of summer no sunshine penetrates here. The trees are sickly and over grown with moss. Twisted roots jut up at odd angles out of the water. The water is a dark, brackish slop that taste of mud and tadpoles, but still safe enough to drink. Only the brave may fish for the catfish that lurk beneath the surface. Hope the gators don't decide to get hungry whist the fish have distracted the those that hunt them.