The sigh of the eastern wind was soft in the blustery boughs, making them bob and dance against the blue mantle of stars. Traces of pale salmon lingered over the hills in the west, but the land had succumbed to twilight's shadow, and it would not find reprieve until the following dawn.
It was not difficult for the diminutive figure in the dark grey cloak to pass unseen beneath the trees. Her steps were smooth and graceful, heel first and then toe, the oiled leather nearly silent on the leaf litter. The deer trail was familiar, and even in the thickening gloom she knew when it would bend, twist, dip, or climb.
The howls of wolves were nothing uncommon in the wooded hills of the Westfold. Unless the sound moved around her in an unseen dance, or pierced the drums of her ears too closely, she paid them little mind. But tonight, it was a solitary animal crying, and it was not the somber call of a hunter, nor the wistful song of a lusty mate. The howls were short, irregular, and high-pitched.
Habit inclined her to walk a little more quickly and leave the eerie sounds behind. Darkness could be a friend, but it was also a shelter for the hidden, the unknown, and the unholy. She would never understand what made her pause there to listen. With one boot resting on a fallen giant, ready to climb over it and hasten forward, she stopped and waited. A gentle whisper of summer’s warmth tousled the leaves around her, and the silver beams of the moon danced and twisted over the forest floor. And the fearful cries continued without rest.
The foot was withdrawn from the toppled tree, and her steps turned aside, moving deeper into the grey-green murk of the wood. Every other footfall, she paused and tilted her head to listen. A minute passed, and then another. A dozen more still, and finally she came upon what had beckoned her.
In a small clearing filled with moonshine, a black pit gaped, vanishing into the earth. At the brim sat a wolf pup, no more than three moons since its birth. It fell silent as the figure appeared from within the misty darkness, and raised its head. Woman and animal regarded each other across the length of the chasm. The pup gave a small, chuffing whine, then stood to its feet, and peered into the hole.
She did not need to incline her eyes into that inky depth to know that the pup’s mother lay dead at the bottom. A sigh filled her chest, and she turned away from the wolf-trap to begin her trek back to the path she had been treading before the distraction. It would have been a mercy, perhaps, to try and capture the pup and slay it. It would die anyway, too young to hunt on its own and deprived of its only source of life. But she could not bring herself to expend the energy, the time, or the grief, to chase it down and kill it.
To her dismay, the pup’s yelping only intensified, and before she had got half a dozen steps, she could hear the klutzy paws thumping over the dead leaves and twigs, following her. She hastened on with a quicker, more determined stride, but soon after the urge to turn was overwhelming, and she whirled around to stare down her pursuer.
“Go,” she said, waving her hand at the little beast, a smoky shadow with beady, gleaming eyes in the moonlight. The wolf-child stood still, perhaps twenty feet away, and lolled its tongue out at her, then gave a sharp yip, tossing its head back as if to defy her.
“Go!” she repeated, more sternly, taking a step towards it and gesturing more fiercely as if to strike it from afar. The pup recoiled and sprang back, but did not flee.
The cloaked woman muttered a curse under her breath and turned away once more. Ignoring whatever sounds followed, she walked back towards the deer path with her eyes set forward. The orphaned pup was not her responsibility, nor would she allow it to become so.
The sigh of the eastern wind was soft in the blustery boughs, making them bob and dance against the blue mantle of stars. Traces of pale salmon lingered over the hills in the west, but the land had succumbed to twilight's shadow, and it would not find reprieve until the following dawn.
The woman sat reclined with her spine against the trunk of a half-dead fir tree. A few spindly branches stubbornly boasted green needles to an uncaring forest. Those limbs that had forsaken it and fallen to the earth now fed the little campfire that glowed before her feet. The black-streaked flesh of a headless, skinless rabbit glistened tantalizingly in the flickering light, and the savory smoke rose up and fled away beneath the wind’s breath.
Beyond the golden circle, two eyes glittered from the murky shadows. Quick, hot breaths were panted in and out, occasionally punctuated with a low, keening whine.
“Dunnian,” said the woman, shifting her eyes to the vague shape between the trees. “It has been a long while.” She leaned forward and plucked the skewered rabbit from the flames. “You are more than able to hunt your own coneys, you know.” Even as she spoke, her fingers contradicted her lips, pulling a shred of steaming flesh free from the carcass in her hands and tossing it towards the wolf.
