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The sky has begun to darken overhead, fringing a sickly purple like a bruise beginning to bloom. This is the hour children are called home and doors are locked tight. In the distance to the south a lone bell tolls, a common sound among the last scattering of hamlets and farmhouses along the outskirts.

To the north, the silent woods loom, making an imposing blemish on the road ahead. They stand silent - some say no wind dares to whisper through those still leaves, but folklore will make stories of anything.

Ardonne's careful retreat brings her closer to the Cullis Woods, her experience in hunting game guiding her footsteps a sight better than the average townsperson. Her footsteps on the even, grassy ground are quiet. One of Ardonne's heels finally edges into the long evening shadows cast by the skirting oaks.

Something distinctly animal echoes out from the deeper woods. It's a lot like a bear, but not quite.

No bear ever knew malice like that.