Graveolent Glade

Puffs of morbid spores linger through the foetid air, propelled into the atmosphere at each step you take on the dampened ground. The sickly trees cower and moan under their heavy coasting of fungal infestation. Their sullen roots disappear under the tangled mycelium, spreading its intoxicating excrescences. The druidic ritual went extremely wrong in those parts of the forest. Unless... it was supposed to go that way. If only breathing in these parts was not so intense, if only the air did not burn this much, if only you heard this... growling in time...