Smoke rose to join the canopy. All around the air had begun to turn to the crisp and refreshing chill which Autumn always brought with it, like a blanket to lay over the land. Some leaves in the small copse had started their turn to the colours of their later days, gold and orange now littered the swaying boughs above the damp ground which never seemed to dry. Only the smaller of the woodland creatures seemed to call this copse home. This copse was a small one, although it was large enough to cover what it needed to cover, and what it covered was a small home, a cave in fact.
A small fire crackled quietly close to the mouth of the small cave, the occasional pop echoing to the back of the small stone chamber – if you could call it that. A small rack straddled the flames which had begun to grow, left to grow by a distracted tender as he scraped a hide in the dwindling sun. The wet scraping seemed to bring about a feeling of comfort in the rugged, dark haired man. Another, a woman sat close to the fire, she cast handfuls of half-retted punk wood to douse the flames. A thick column of smoke roused up to lick the hides and meat which were laid about the rack above it.
A quiet sat between the man and woman, though not one of bitterness, or idleness, it was one of a contented companionship. Work was to be done, or else the winter might take them by surprise. In Bree-land, surrounded by markets and inns the preparation for winter wasn’t so desperate, but it was in their blood and their bones to prepare, to hunt, to ready their sanctuary. Inside the cave lay mats of woven rushes, clay pots filled with foraged food and butter, each covered by cloths and hides. At the back was a raised bed, made with logs and filled with boughs from the nearby trees. Home was simple, but even the richest of merchants could never buy the satisfaction which was found at Ogof Cariadon.
