The deeper Sol ventured into the Great Orrath, the more he realized that human imagination was a woefully inadequate tool for grasping true scale.
In his past life on Earth, when he sat behind a glowing monitor reading and watching epic fantasy novels and movies, he had spent countless hours reading and watching descriptions of primitive, unbroken wildernesses.
He had read a world in his mind where there were no sprawling kingdoms of stone, no civilized cities with cobbled streets and kings on velvet thrones. There was only the massive, endless jungle, and the independent, intelligent humanoid races that formed warring tribes beneath its canopy.
But reading about a massive jungle was one thing, actively trying not to be eaten by it was another.
The Great Orrath was terrifyingly alive. As he moved North by Northeast, the bruised-purple trunks of the ancient trees grew so wide that he doubted whether they could even be classified as trees anymore.
