Wooden Knives in the paper forest

A life for a death, that was the judgement that had sent him here. A forest with great pillaring trees, that seemed to meet at infinity. Trees whose leaves would decay to gray dust before reaching the forest floor, breaking at a touch like the burnt pages of a book. There was much life here, but here at the beginnings of thinks it was forgotten, the fresh shoots of green far above. Rasmus moved carefully through the lifeless silt that in its descent had been through all the stages of decomposition, wading through it like dry snow, following the snakelike tracks.

He was carrying no steel weapons, to bear steel down here was to invite death. The dry dust could kindle and burn up in an instant, and the smallest spark could cause a sudden conflagration to rage up to a mile in all directions. Their previous passings were marked by black lines, that seemed to paint the trunks like high tide marks. From the viewing platforms far above it was common to see these 'flint fires', as they were known. The swirling mist that hugged the great trunks would briefly be outlined by flashes of red that cut through the fog like lightning.

It was one of the leading causes of death down here, and he had found many of his predecessors who might testify to that - if they were still alive. Those who had thought it smart to bring a blade of their own, or felt the cold too keenly and brought a flint. Their blackened bones, leaning against the great trunks, spoke to the wisdom of their decisions. Rasmus would not make the same mistake.

His face was caked white, painted like the cheapest whore in the poorest district of the Hanging City. He moved slowly, a cloth across his face stopping himself from breathing in the disturbed dust. His eyes were watering due to the continued irritation, crusting up, tears patterning his face like ploughshares. He gripped his knives resolutely, determined to make the day's effort count for something.