The meadow is so beautiful.
Grass blades, so much more forgiving than soldiers' blades, poke up from the soft brown ground. The heads of flowers, white and yellow and the occasional rebellious pink, float softly above this sea of grass, swaying as the wind touches them. Trees surround this place protectively, circling it like a mother's arms circle her baby. There is a faint green haze, lively and unnamed, lingering over the entire scene, fresh in the new daylight.
Bees buzz about the clover and butterflies swirl around. Birds sing to their hearts' content in the trees.
There are those that know this place well and say that this is the playground of some happy nymphs. There are those who know this place very well and say it is a bit if heaven on earth. Then, there are those who know it the best, and they say nothing at all about the meadow— they just enjoy it, take it in.
But the serene meadow is about to be interrupted. It's about to be disturbed by prison stink and busy boots; it is in the sorcerer's escape path.
