It was not long to reach the edge of the Forest, it had been here long before any living memory and the way was well known. Dusk had begun to set on the land when I reached its edge, painting the landscape with the brilliance of the sun one last time before Night fell. A chill dew had already begun to settle over the scene - fall was coming, and with it, winter on its heels. I ventured into the wood for hours until I found a suitable place to camp. I stumbled and fumbled in the evening gloom, trying to get a small fire going. Fireflies were plentiful tonight, but their eerily growing light made me stop to look - these were not mere insects, but strange symbols.

There were hundreds, if not thousands, circling gently in the night air - following me as I tried to distance myself in vain. They seemed to have minds of their own, some showed curiosity and came quite close, others kept their distance or disappeared after a cursory inspection. My revulsion faded to caution and curiosity...I remember reaching out to touch one, but, my mind grows hazy. There was an absolute torrent of color, scent and sound, as if I was traveling great distances. The strange symbols flash in my witless mind, changing with the scenery at impossible speeds. At last, I hear a golden tone, and a final symbol came to rest before me; my eyes began to adjust to the stillness and I was able to make out the dappled fur of a young hart amidst the ferns and moss. I distinctly remember that I felt a strong sense of...kinship, belonging...a sense of rightness - I cannot describe it. I awoke to the morning mist, with the symbol still echoing in my mind.

I have only known this symbol - this pictogram, I decided, for merely a few minutes - and yet it felt as precious to me as my family back home. What manner of sorcery was this? Was it the work of the fabled Gods of this place I hear of in the murmuring earth-speech? I go back to my belongings, bewildered, bemused and excited by my experience. Clearly there was far more at play here then my previous research had ever led me to believe. I feel the need to scribe the pictogram and flip to the inner covers, carefully marking what I had seen; it seems important, though I honestly could not tell you why. With an absent-minded flourish I write the word "Riven" beneath it, I blink, watching the ink dry as quickly as it had been placed. The same sense of rightness came to me that I had the night before as I contemplated it, with a mental shrug I finished writing my entry and closed the book.

The rest of the day went uneventfully as I busied myself with setting up the camp. I became wary as the sun began to wane - I sincerely hoped the symbols did not return. Night crept on with agonizing slowness, and thankfully, they did not return. Sleep came to me at last and I felt myself traveling a long distance. I dreamt of the hart again that night, it stumbled feebly and fed on tender flowers by the moonlight, sometimes enjoying them overly much, rising with a crown of the things about its head. It did not seem to notice, and continued about its way unperturbed, its ears constantly twitching at sounds I could not hope to hear. It suddenly bolted upright with its ears high, and after a pause, bellowed. I strained to hear its faint response far in the distance that the hart was now following.

I struggled to keep apace as it raced through the wood. The hart ran into a dense thicket at full tilt, and I stopped, blanching - how in the world did it get through? I peeked through the foliage to see it on the other side frolicking with another fawn, completely unmarred by the threatening thorns that stood between us. I reached to push the brambles aside, touching only air as far as my arm could reach. I recoiled as I saw a blue mist swirl about my arm, causing it to dissipate harmlessly. My eyes widened in disbelief. Was all the Forest merely magic? I steeled myself and, before my mind betrayed reason, jumped through the brambles as harmlessly as the fawn before me.

No sooner had I done so then I heard another bellow, far louder then the young hart's. It was close, and the other fawn called, beckoning. Out of the underbrush burst a terrific blue stag with ocher stripes and outlandish horns. It trotted to a stop and nuzzled the other fawn, turning to sniff the now cowering hart. It occurred to me that it did not travel with an older deer - it was quite clearly alone. My musings were shattered when the stag dropped to its knees in what was unmistakably a bow, the hart tilted its head and, slowly, repeated the motion. My jaw grew slack as I watched them carry on their conversation, as I've come to call it, this was simply too much. What did deer know of the courtly ways of lords and ladies? What use have they for honeyed words and delicate dances? My mind sputtered as I looked on. The hart was clearly out of its element, tilting its head often, reacting clumsily, or simply parroting what it saw. I swear I could see its face, furrowed in confusion and anxiety.

It took the first chance it could and departed, leaving the others behind with winged speed. The poor thing ran headlong into a large pond, falling in the deep end of the water with a splash. I clambered to its edge, anxious to find the fawn - it didn't know how to swim, did it? I heard a frog jump out of the water on the far edge, and with a puff of the same blue mist I had encountered before - the frog was suddenly the fawn. Looking relieved and shivering in the night air, the fawn merely shook out its coat and sauntered on, ignoring the calls and groups of other deer as it explored, coming to rest in a small clearing with ancient stone atop a small crest, silent and commanding.

It appeared to be new for the both of us as I watched the fawn carefully, its ears twitched incessantly for the slightest noise and it raised its nose to the air, opening its mouth slightly to scent the air. Attempting to discover, in whatever way it could, this new world it had been born into. My heart warmed with the thought of kinship, to not be alone in such a daunting task. The young hart stepped hesitantly, gliding as soundlessly as a ghost to the stone. There and again it bowed without preamble, as if instinct alone bade it, kneeling until in a pale light grew around it. I saw the fawn turn white before my very eyes and collapse. Wakefulness pulled at me with a grip as strong as death's - I could not reach the fawn in time.

I awoke late, my mind was numb and worry panged in my heart as I grabbed my book and began to write what had transpired. I stopped as I remembered the brambles, reaching out experimentally to the nearest tree, half expecting the mist to form again. Rough bark. Moist moss. Crispy lichen. Solidity. While the sensation gave a surprising sense of comfort after last night, it merely perplexed me more. I sighed, my brow furrowed as I turned back to my writing. Everything was so vivid, my gut told me it was real...maybe I wasn't deep enough in the Forest.

I closed my book and started to pack my things again - this journey was going to be a long one.