.closed - madness is my specialty.
Blaine lounged on the wide branch of an oak tree, lazily strumming at the lyre in his lap while wine slowed his fuzzy brain. The tree grew deep in the forest, where rarely anyone traveled to, even other spirits of the forest. Blaine’s tree was old, too; he could feel its song beneath it’s rough bark, especially when the alcohol made his thoughts slow and his mind muddy.
Blaine was drawn from his little trance by the rustling of leaves far, far below. His fingers stilled, and he peered over the edge of his branch, spotting another satyr down below. Blaine had heard the sound of his hooves crunching in the dying leaves.
“Hey!” Blaine called to him, rolling onto his side. His limbs poked over the side of the thick branch, and it was a wonder he didn’t roll off. “You’re not from around here, huh?”