“MOSS” in italiano

The harp strummed, and mountains rolled ahead, as if a veil had been cleared with the stroke of those strings, and she was flying toward it—toward a massive, mist-veiled mountain, the land barren save for moss and stones and a gray, stormy sea around it.

From what she could see, no moss grew anywhere on it.

She peered at the sun, then at the trunk below her, searching for moss.

Had hardly been able to keep his focus on the party ahead as they entered a low-lying forest beyond the hills, ancient and knotted and full of hanging moss.

Dead trees, gray with age and weather, jutted like the broken lances of a thousand soldiers, some draped with curtains of moss.

No creeping moss.

According to legend, the pegasuses had come from the island the Prison sat upon—had once fed in fair meadows that had long given way to moss and mist.

Ferns gripped even the slightest crack, and where the rock was so smooth and sheer that no root would take hold, long streamers of moss clung to it instead.