Flash Fiction: Quiet in Valheim
When the world is quiet, a sense of peace settles over me unlike any that can be found in sleep.
The shadows of the beech trees lengthen and interlace their fingers, promising to pass on secrets to each other as the night draws in. The wide rivers sigh as their sediment settles in the deep hold of the oceans, bracing themselves for the mighty creatures that will prowl overhead.
In the meadows, you can hear the gentle shuffling of green necks among the reeds, and witness their eyes twinkling like the small stars splattered across the twilight sky.
In the mountains, a wolf's howl is a welcomed lullaby. The snow that dances and spirals off the exposed rocks and gleaming obsidian - a tribute to the mountain's majesty.
And, even in the Mistlands, whose rocky spires break into the tranquil expanse, a sense of peace can be found as well. It resides in the soft footsteps of the rabbit hopping among the tangled trees, of the humming wings of the insects flying over the damp earth and deep fog.
It can be found even in the ruins, in the cracked marble halls of those who came before, and are now gone.
When this peace finds me in these rare, hushed times, I often wonder: would those mighty people who built and labored in this world have found the same peace as vital to life in Valheim as I do?
- Izzoradelle the Drowned Shieldmaiden, the Story Weaver, the Jarl of the Skaldings and Mim, the Keeper of the Hall of Lore