It was storming in Neovia.
In the woods outside, trees creaked. They had stood for long years, and weathered worse storms than this. They stood firm, and to them, the storm had no importance, just one more night of rain and wind to be numbered amongst the many they had lived through. Trees are old, and have strange minds. Things like storms matter little to them.
Closer to the town, strange things crept. They sheltered under bushes, and in the lee of an old, crumbling stone wall. Their minds were twisted with the years, and to them, the storm meant little.
Inside the town, people huddled into their chairs, clutching at newspapers and pipes. They went through the motions of casual conversation, but their words were disjointed, and they were painfully aware of the creaking of the delicate structures they hid themselves in, and the howling of the wind. They were intruders, trying to civilize the Woods, and it, in turn, had its influence on them. To them