“Another one? What’ll that be then? Two n’a month? No, no, wasn’t but I’d jest seen Halla’s circle that last…” And the old crow was bound to fly over again within the next month or so. Huh, there went more time she’d lost track of. “Well an’ who’s it this time? Mercy, but it’s never I’ll want for brave fools, these parts. Though ifen is that boy agin…  E’ll be earnin’ a right tanned ‘ide, will.”

Grumbling to herself as she straightened and turned from her basket of acorns to scowl towards the forest’s edge, the woman brushed several sweat curled, loose strands of hair off her face. The flyaway wisps made a halo in the sunlight streaking through the branches, and softened the lines of her face despite the bothered frown. The rest of her light red hair was pulled into a tight braid and pinned up off her neck out of the way. It had been neat that morning, but the intervening hours and steady labour had teased loose enough fine hairs to leave her looking mussed without the addition of a dusty streak on her chin, or the bark in her hair, or the tear in her oft-mended kirtle, or the dirt staining her apron. But those were there too, just the same.

Herring was on her knees gathering the oak’s crop, planning to make flour over the next few days. Enough to see her in bread for a month or so, and the rest she’d put up and grind down later. The acorns lasted somewhat longer than the flour they became if she prepared them right. So, she only had to go gathering once her stockroom was depleted, which she’d managed sooner than she’d expected, this time around. The gather and grind were a necessary effort, if she was to eat well, but it was rough work, all told. She wasn’t keen on interruptions breaking her routine.

Wasn’t keen on interruptions any time of the year or month or day, if she was being honest. Interruptions usually meant trouble. Didn’t matter where she was or what she was doing, they were a bother to deal with. Her home, however, had good reason to make interruptions both rarer and less welcome than most other places. So, with a final tsk as though anyone was around to hear the reproach, Herring pushed herself off the ground, tucked the long skirt of her kirtle into her waist to keep it from catching on the undergrowth, hefted her basket against her hip and set off without further hesitation.

Despite her bothered muttering and hasty estimates, Herring was somewhat intrigued by this newest intruder. The count was more likely to be two brave, fool souls in some three, maybe four, months, but even so, that was surprisingly high, for all the number was so small. Not many took to visiting Aberlynn Forest. 

Those that did were following dangerous, life-threatening rumours. Risking their hide, their lives, on the off-chance they might get lucky. Power mad, was all she thought, but as it seemed too early for another man—women had more sense—to be come about the beast and its blood, Herring was wondering if it wasn’t the pigherder’s lad lost track of his sounder again. Poor lad was as terrified of his father’s upset as of the monster in the woods, but he couldn’t seem to learn the lesson of paying proper attention to his charges. Seemed the right time of year… Pigs would be after the acorns, same as her. 

Made sense to her, and seemed the likeliest bother, until she caught the chiming note between her skull bones tugging away from the route she was walking. From the north? But it was west where the fields and the hamlet lay. Young Ogden and his pigs came from the west. So then… She frowned in both directions before altering course: not pigs, it seemed. 

Herring didn’t know the direction precisely. Her charms were rarely that efficient. It would have taken her the year entire to get through the smallest ring she’d set up, otherwise. And this new stranger had only just set off the widest. But she could tell where he wasn’t, as the charms weren’t active that way, and the farther he walked, the less she’d have to look. At least, if he kept on in a somewhat straight line… If he couldn’t even manage that much, she wasn’t planning on chasing him down. She had better things to do with her time.

With that thought uppermost in her mind, the woman moved at a steady pace more designed for endurance than quick turns of speed. But she knew this forest better than anyone and rarely broke her stride, bare feet stepping without concern on soft moss, sharp stone and prickling pine cone dross where the squirrels had been feeding. She knew where stream crossings were slick, and where winding animal trails were the easier route. Skidding on her heels down one steep bank and splashing into a puddle at the bottom couldn’t even give her pause. Though it did leave a splatter of mud across bare legs and skirt alike. She’d only lifted her basket of acorns beyond the water’s possible reach and kept on with a huff.

Still, by the time she’d made it to the trees she’d marked, where the lichen grew in odd patterns, the woman was breathing somewhat harshly, and the sun had moved a fair ways in the sky. Wasting the light, she was. But the man who’d walked between the trees, setting off their silent music in her head, had not been idle either, and she knew he’d continued deeper into the trees. Another chime, pitched lower, had joined the first a little before she made it to these ones. Pursing her lips, Herring eyed the route he must have taken, though she could see no immediate proof of anyone’s passage. “Well, we cain all ‘ave it easy. Let’s twist ‘im up, will we, then?”

She was talking to the trees—and you could be sure they weren’t liable to be talking back anytime soon—as she set the basket down and pulled out a small paring knife. It was one of the few metal pieces she owned, and sharper than a spinster’s tongue. Useful, for a good many things. Now, she needed it only to slice through the knot holding a thin thread around the tree’s trunk. She’d pulled it from her mother’s dress, the memories it offered were greater than the fabric’s value. And, slowly, she was losing both. But the loss worked wonders. 

As soon as the knife undid the knot, the thread collapsed into ash. As did the trail she’d devised to give these beast hunters direction. Now, she could see the traces of his movement left behind. The twist of toes on a root’s exposed edge. The scuff of a boot heel in the fresh loam. Good. Now, he’d have nothing to follow and she’d know where to find him. Nodding to herself with a grim smile, Herring tucked the knife away again, hefted her basket, and kept on after her quarry. 

It was turning towards dusk by the time she finally caught sight of the cloaked figure ahead of her. Thin and ragged, his shape did not strike her as the usual sort of confident swagger wanting to make a name for himself or his lord. He had no companion. No retinue. And, as she slipped closer, no weapon… Or at least, no sword to snag at his cloak’s trailing hem. And no bow to carry. Knives might have hung from his belt or been tucked into his boot. But he did not seem equipped for a hunt, no, nor a lengthy wait if he planned to try trapping the beast and its blood. So, it was just as well that there was no beast to be found, but Herring wasn’t feeling generous. 

Eyes narrowed in suspicion, and looking every inch of her disgruntled with his poor showing as she stopped beside a tree and caught her balance there, one hand on the mossy trunk and the other still keeping her basket at her hip, she called after the thin fellow. Her manner gruff and not the least bit friendly. Nor satisfied that she’d finally found him, either. Wasn’t much to look at, any way. “An’ may Maudlin strike me full a sorrows, but didn’t ye never ‘ear a word of it ‘fore yeh went wanderin’ int’th’trees there, boy? Doan y’know th’woods yehr walkin’ through?”

Was he really come after a dragon? Maybe the word had changed since she’d last heard and all he thought he’d have to kill was a rabbit… Now there’s a tale she’d never have put stock in.