The entrance of the maze is vast -- tall, thorny green on each side, stretching high into the sky. Fog has settled above, stifling the blue of the sky with dull grey. The maze is magical; he can feel it, the way it worms under his skin, the press of it against his skin. It's suffocating, inky black, sitting in the back of his throat and making it hard to breathe.

But, his mind burning with the need to find something, someone, he continues forward,

He doesn't know where he's going, in this world of green. The magical orbs in his bag clink together; the sound of glass is all he hears as he walks. He sees nothing

All he tastes is the oily magic, but it sustains him more than food does; his bread is stale and his cheese is solid in his sachel, uneaten.