Chapter 4: Break in the Wilds

The morning light streamed through the canopy of leaves, casting a glow that resembled liquid gold, soft and dappled as it danced across the forest floor. This gentle illumination coaxed me awake, mingling with the earthy scent of moss and leaf mold that filled the crisp air. As I stretched beneath my cloak, I felt the coolness of the forest floor pressing against my back, invigorating and refreshing. I sat up, enveloped in the serene symphony of the woods—the soft hush of the breeze weaving through the trees, the distant murmur of a babbling brook, and the occasional rustle of unseen creatures. The fire from the night before had reduced to a bed of ash, yet its faint warmth lingered in the earth where I had slept, a comforting reminder of the night’s protection.

I carefully measured out dried mint and nettle leaves, their earthy aromas mingling in the air, and whispered a soft incantation to summon a small flicker of flame beneath the kettle. As the water began to heat, I flipped open my weathered journal, its leather cover creased from countless uses. My eyes traced over the intricate sketches of moonlace and bloodshade, their delicate, curling shapes etched in charcoal and ink. The edges of the pages felt slightly gritty beneath my fingertips, carrying the faint scent of soil and the lingering essence of herbs. With anticipation, I hoped today would gift me with more discoveries to fill these pages.

Once my satchel was thoughtfully repacked and the fire safely buried beneath a layer of rich, dark soil, I pressed my fingers gently to the earth and whispered a quiet thanks. The path ahead unfolded softly under my boots, a barely discernible trail, more akin to a meandering ribbon of flattened undergrowth, where the delicate imprints of deer hooves had graced the ground before me. The forest around me was alive with the whisper of leaves and the distant call of birds, a symphony of nature guiding my journey.

I caught a flicker of movement to my left—swift and subtle, like a leaf dancing in a gentle breeze. Instinctively, I slowed my steps, crouching low behind a dense thicket of brambles. Just beyond my hiding spot, a pair of horned rabbits grazed peacefully. These small, dappled creatures sported curling antlers reminiscent of ivory, adding an air of mystique to their presence. Their delicate ears twitched rhythmically as they chewed on tufts of lush green grass, yet they seemed blissfully unaware of my presence. Mesmerized by their enchanting appearance, I lingered for a long moment, captivated by the serene scene, before quietly slipping away, careful not to disturb the tranquil tableau.

As the sun ascended higher into the sky, illuminating the forest with a warm glow, the dense canopy gradually thinned out, revealing a more open landscape. I spotted clusters of starcap mushrooms nestled at the base of an ancient pine tree, their caps glossy and mottled with earth tones. These mushrooms were familiar to me—known for their mild pain-relieving properties. I carefully selected only the plumpest and freshest ones, gently brushing the dirt from their caps before placing them into a wax pouch that I carried.

Continuing my foraging journey, I stumbled upon a patch of wild garlic, its pungent aroma filling the air, and I picked a handful of its long, slender shoots. Nearby, three delicate stalks of narrowleaf sorrel caught my eye, promising a tangy burst of flavor. In a sun-drenched clearing, golden trumpet mushrooms stood proudly, their vibrant yellow caps glistening in the light. I gathered them with care, along with a few tender dandelion greens, their jagged leaves hinting at a slight bitterness. All of these treasures would come together to create a satisfying evening meal.

Around midday, a faint gurgle reached my ears, piquing my curiosity. I navigated through the thick underbrush, the leaves rustling underfoot and twigs snapping at each step. I ducked below low-hanging branches that clawed at my clothes, and the earthy scent of damp soil filled my nostrils. Finally, the trees opened up to a breathtaking sight—a river, its waters crystal clear and icy, cascading swiftly over smooth stones between banks cushioned with vibrant green moss. The air here was crisp and invigorating, carrying the fresh scent of minerals mingled with the sharp, refreshing aroma of wild mint. I shed my cloak and clothing quickly, folding them on a flat stone, and stepped into the river.

The moment I stepped into the river, the icy water clashed against my skin like a sorcerer's spell—sharp, bracing, and relentless. Each droplet felt like a thousand tiny needles piercing my flesh. I inhaled sharply, the cold stealing my breath, yet I pushed forward, wading deeper until I was submerged beneath the swirling current. The water rushed over me, cleansing the road-dust from my skin and leaving a tingling sensation in its wake, as if millions of sparks danced across my body. I let myself float on my back, eyes tracing the intricate patterns of clouds swirling above the treetops, the sunlight dappling through the leaves in a gentle dance. Then, with determined hands, I scrubbed my arms and legs vigorously, using rough handfuls of sand to scour away the grime, and added a sprig of mint for a refreshing touch, its scent mingling with the crisp air.

When I emerged, dripping wet with water cascading down my ochre-stained cheeks, I settled onto a sun-warmed stone. The golden rays embraced me, drying my skin as I gazed at the stream's relentless, shimmering flow. Across the shore, a majestic stag with a coat of soft lavender appeared, its presence so ethereal that its hooves made no sound on the scattered rocks. Our eyes locked for a fleeting moment, a connection that felt almost magical, before it gracefully bowed its head to drink from the crystal-clear stream. Its antlers were a stunning spectacle, adorned with an intricate crown of vines and delicate blooms, an unmistakable sign of its fey lineage. As silently as it had arrived, the stag melted into the dense, green tapestry of the forest, leaving me with a sense of wonder and enchantment.

By the middle of the afternoon, I was on the move again. The forest became thicker and filled with richer aromas—ferns unfurling like green spirals, the damp sweetness of the soil, and the occasional sharp scent of crushed ivy. I came across more familiar plants—wild thyme, catmint, and bitterleaf—and added sprigs to my bag. There were no surprises, but each find was reassuring. In one shadowy hollow, I discovered a circle of stonefruit bushes, their roots forming a perfect crescent around a fallen log. The fruit wasn't fully ripe yet, but I picked three that had started to soften and slipped them into my bag for dessert.

As the day started to fade into evening, I looked for a spot to camp. I discovered a clearing near the trail, cushioned with old pine needles and surrounded by birch and spruce trees. The tranquility of the place made me feel at home. I collected fallen branches and kindled a small fire, then began to prepare a simple stew from my gathered ingredients—golden trumpets, garlic, and wild greens, with a few strips of dried meat for added nourishment. While the stew simmered, I spread out the herbs I had collected on a flat stone, checking them for any pests or signs of spoilage, trimming them neatly before arranging them into jars or pouches.

The twilight sky turned violet. Fireflies blinked to life above the grass. I sat with my knees drawn up and my journal in my lap, the quiet rustle of the woods around me a kind of lullaby.

Journal Entry—Day Two

Horned rabbits: Antlered, dappled, about the size of a loaf. Spotted at midmorning in light bramble. No fear response if unthreatened. Possibly tied to fey crossings.

Lavender stag: Full-sized adult. Flowering antlers. Peaceful. Unafraid. Interacted briefly near river. Note possible connection to local ley energy.

Starcap mushrooms: gathered in shade. Mild pain relief.

Golden trumpets: reliable and abundant.

Sorrel, dandelion greens, wild garlic—found in open clearing with decent sunlight. Healthy specimens.

Mint patch: growing riverside. Strong scent. Used for washing.

Stonefruit: early ripening. Slightly tart. Good roasted.

Tomorrow, I’ll press on southeast, following the route laid out on the map Rennel gave me. It highlights a lush glade nourished by a meandering stream, promising the possibility of discovering new plant species. I'll need to be vigilant for any signs of badgers, as they fiercely guard their territory in that area. Carefully, I tucked my journal away and leaned back against my worn pack. The campfire flickered softly, casting a warm amber glow over the surrounding grass, its embers dancing like fireflies in the dimness. Crickets filled the night with their rhythmic song, a symphony of nature, while a solitary owl let out a haunting hoot from afar before falling into silence. I meticulously set the wards around the camp for protection. Sleep crept in gently, like a soft whisper of the night, as the stars unfurled above me, twinkling through the canopy of trees, painting the sky with their celestial glow.

The first light of dawn brushed the treetops before reaching the forest floor. I awoke gradually, gazing up at the canopy overhead, while the fire next to me had dwindled to a gentle glow of embers in the morning's dim light. My body felt rejuvenated, and the steady, comforting hum of the woods surrounded me. The clearing carried the scent of moss, pine, and a hint of sweetness—perhaps from a nearby flower I hadn’t noticed the night before.

I brewed another pot of tea, using the last of my dried mint and adding a pinch of bitterleaf to help wake me up. While it steeped, I circled my campsite, carefully looking for any footprints or signs of disruption. Everything was calm and untouched, except for a trail of small cloven prints near my water pouch, likely left by a curious fawn or foxling.

After having some tea and a little dried meat, I gathered my things. The stonefruit I'd collected the previous day had ripened nicely by morning, so I wrapped one in wax paper to save for later. I sliced up the rest and savored the tangy flavor on my tongue. I extinguished the remaining embers, erased any traces of my campsite, and continued on my journey.

My direction was southeast, cutting diagonally through the thickest part of the forest before it opened up closer to the foothills. The terrain was uneven here, moss-covered rocks hidden beneath fallen leaves, shallow dips and steep rises that tested my footing. Every so often, I cast my speed cantrip to push me up a hill or glide more easily across tangled undergrowth, but mostly I walked slow and steady.

I frequently paused during my journey to forage, my senses keenly attuned to the forest's offerings. Beneath a dense, interwoven mass of brambles, I discovered a hidden treasure trove of wild ginger. Its heart-shaped leaves, a delicate green, were just starting to bloom, hinting at the vibrant life pulsing beneath the earth. The rhizomes, nestled in the rich soil, released a sharp, spicy aroma that tickled my nose as I sliced into them. I carefully harvested three thumb-length pieces, their surface smooth and earthy, before placing them gently into a pouch lined with soft, moisture-retaining moss, ensuring their freshness for the journey ahead.

By midday, I discovered a gnarled willow tree nestled beside a babbling stream where I paused to rest and carefully filtered more water into my flask. The sun's rays shimmered across the shallow flow, creating a dazzling display that danced like shards of broken glass. Nearby, a pair of red-throated thrushes flitted at the water's edge, pecking at the flurry of flying insects, seemingly unconcerned by my presence. It was just after I had crossed a ridge and begun my descent into a shallow dell that the trouble unfolded. A sharp, resonant crack pierced the air—the ominous sound of a branch snapping under the weight of something heavy.

I froze mid-step, every muscle tensed. Soon followed the low, guttural snort of breath, unmistakably accompanied by the abrasive scrape of hooves against the forest floor. Wild boar. I turned with deliberate slowness, my eyes sweeping the underbrush, heart pounding like a drum. There—emerging from a dense tangle of fern and vine—a colossal sow made her entrance. She was cloaked in mottled grey-brown fur, with coarse bristles standing erect along her spine and a prominent scar marring one flank. Her tusks, though shorter than some, were wickedly curved and menacing. Her eyes locked onto mine, and I took a cautious, measured step backward.

She stomped once, I turned and ran.

The forest erupted behind me—a cacophony of snorts, the crashing of underbrush, and the sharp crack of limbs shattering under her relentless pursuit. My satchel, laden with provisions, bounced heavily at my side as I vaulted over a tangled snarl of roots and ducked instinctively beneath a low-hanging branch. I cast the speed cantrip as I sprinted, the spell surging through my legs like a live wire of lightning. Despite my efforts, the sound of her approach grew louder, each footfall closing the distance between us.

Ahead, a majestic oak with thick, sprawling limbs loomed in my path. I didn’t pause to consider—my instincts took over, and I leaped. My fingers grasped the lowest branch, rough bark pressing into my skin as I pulled myself up, my knees scraping against the sturdy trunk. My breath came in ragged gasps as I scrambled higher, seeking refuge among the higher branches. The satchel thudded against my back, a reassuring weight, as I deftly hooked it onto a branch, securing it amidst the leafy canopy.

She burst into the clearing below a moment later, her powerful form moving with raw energy, head swinging back and forth like a pendulum, breath emerging in thick, misty clouds that hung in the cold air. Her paws scraped the earth, each step a deliberate mark in the soft soil, as she circled the base of the tree with a predatory grace. I remained motionless, clutching the rough, moss-covered trunk, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest, each beat echoing in my ears.

Time seemed to stretch as minutes slipped by.

She didn’t charge the tree, only continued her cautious, watchful circling, her eyes scanning the surroundings. Eventually, her head lowered, and with a grumbling snort that rumbled like distant thunder, she turned and sauntered away, retracing her path with a flick of her tail, disappearing into the tangled underbrush.

I didn't climb down immediately; I remained in my leafy sanctuary, feeling the adrenaline gradually fade. I lingered in the tree for some time, listening to the leaves rustling and the gentle creak of the trunk supporting my weight. My palms were scraped and raw, my elbow ached, and my legs shook with leftover fear. But I was alive. When I eventually climbed down, I did so cautiously, my eyes scanning the woods for any sign of her return. There were none. I continued my walk, this time staying on higher ridges and open areas where I had a clear view ahead.

By early evening, I discovered a smaller clearing, just big enough for me to set up camp under three alder trees. I walked around the area twice to check for any tracks. There were no signs of any large animals having passed through recently. Content with this, I began to settle in. My dinner was straightforward: grated wild ginger over boiled dandelion greens, a few thin slices of dried meat, and a handful of roasted nuts I had gathered earlier. I cooked everything over a low flame, observing as the sun set through the trees. I wrote the day’s events into my journal by firelight, each line steady despite my aching elbow:

Journal Entry—Day Three

Wild ginger: found beneath bramble. Rhizomes potent. Harvested.

Thrushes near stream. Peaceful resting spot.

Boar encounter—note location: just east of glimmer ridge. Likely territorial. Avoid area on future return.

Speed cantrip aided escape. Reminder: refine evasion strategy for future encounters.

Dinner: wild ginger + greens + protein = effective.

Tomorrow, continue east. Avoid low bramble dells.

I closed the weathered journal and leaned back against my rugged pack, feeling the familiar contours pressing into my back. Above me, the stars began to emerge like scattered diamonds, winking through the dense canopy of leaves, cool and distant in the vast night sky. The bruises mottling my skin would eventually fade like the setting sun, and the scrapes etched into my flesh would heal, leaving only faint memories of their sting. I was still on the journey of learning, each day a new lesson. As night enveloped the forest, I set the protective wards around my makeshift camp, their energy humming softly in the air. I added a few extra deterrents, just in case the boar, with its keen sense of smell and stubborn persistence, decided to track my scent once more.

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The morning light filtered gently, spreading pale beams and casting elongated shadows on the forest floor as I stretched beneath the alder trees. My arms and legs throbbed with a dull ache, remnants of the frantic dash and quick climb up an oak tree the day before. The scrapes on my palms had scabbed over, and I applied a touch of greencap salve before gathering my belongings. Though bruised, I was unhurt, moving more cautiously than usual. I had learned my lesson: remain vigilant and listen carefully.

Following a simple breakfast of boiled greens and the remaining slices of stonefruit, I slung my satchel over my shoulder and embarked on my journey. The forest seemed kinder today. Birds chirped above, and the wind softly rustled the branches with a gentle, swaying sigh. I cast a minor speed cantrip—just enough to alleviate the strain on my knees, ensuring I didn't hurry through the day.

Late in the morning, I detected a sharp, sweet aroma that was unmistakably familiar—fruit. I left the path and navigated through elderbush and vines until I arrived at a grove of trees situated in a sunlit hollow between two rocky ridges. There were wild fruit trees, including plums, crabapples, and another citrus-like variety I couldn't identify, their branches hanging low and laden with fruit. I approached cautiously, scanning for signs of bears or other creatures that might have claimed the area. Finding none, I remembered the folding baskets stored in my satchel. With a mental cue, I retrieved the first basket, then the second, both snapping open with a satisfying sound. I set to work gathering the fruit.

I began with the plums, their skins a rich mix of deep purple and speckled with gold, warmed by the sun. I selected each one slowly, ensuring they were perfectly ripe and free from blemishes or decay. Nearby, bees hummed peacefully, undisturbed by my activity. As I filled the baskets one by one, the heft of the fruit increased. I handled each plum delicately, making sure not to damage the stems as I picked them from the branches.

I held one up to my nose, inhaling the scent of honey and warmth. As I took a bite, the juice dribbled down my chin. It was sweet, with a touch of untamed flavor. Smiling, I continued. When I finished, I returned the baskets to my satchel, freeing up my arms once more.

Next came the crabapples—small, tart, and stubbornly clinging to their twigs like tiny jewels resisting capture. I used my foraging blade, its edge sharp and ready, to snip them loose in neat clusters, collecting them eagerly by the handful. Their crisp, invigorating scent wafted through the air, conjuring memories of childhood tonics concocted in kitchens and bustling harvest festivals brimming with laughter and life. These little fruits would keep well, their versatility promising a dozen different uses—from pies to preserves.

Last, I turned my attention to the mysterious citrus-like fruit. Their round, green-skinned forms hung enticingly in groups of three or four, each bearing a soft blush along one side, as if kissed by the sun. I studied them intently before daring to touch a single one, bringing it close to my nose to sniff the aromatic skin and admire the pale, oil-rich rind glistening in the light. When I finally summoned the courage to taste it—cautiously, with a hint of trepidation—it illuminated my mouth with a burst of tangy sweetness, the lingering bitterness of the pith trailing delicately behind, leaving a complex and intriguing aftertaste.

I mused that these would make a delightful marmalade or glaze. I gently gathered as many as I could without harming the tree, thankful for the spaciousness of my satchel that enabled me to collect with ease. The grove was generous. I murmured my gratitude and left behind a sprig of mint and a small braid of grass as a token at the base of the central tree. As I returned to the path, my spirits felt lifted. Though my bruises still throbbed, the day warmed softly around me, and the breeze hinted at the journey still ahead.

As the sun reached its zenith, I paused beside a sun-warmed rock to rest and savor one of the plums I'd picked earlier. The fruit was ripe and succulent, its skin a deep, inviting purple. As I bit into it, sweet juice burst forth, glistening and golden as it trickled down my wrist, leaving a sticky trail. I licked it clean, savoring the sugary taste, while the air around me was filled with the rhythmic drone of cicadas, an unending symphony of summer. The occasional groan of tree trunks swaying in the gentle breeze added a low, creaking harmony to the natural orchestra, creating a serene and timeless moment in the heart of nature.

By late afternoon, the trail began to slope downward once more, guiding me toward a serene, shallow stream that meandered through a sprawling field of lush fern and golden sedge. The air was tinged with the earthy scent of the surrounding foliage, and the gentle murmur of the water was a soothing melody. I knelt by the stream's edge, the cool earth pressing against my knees, and refilled my water flask with its crystal-clear liquid. With cupped hands, I drank directly from the current, savoring the icy chill as it cascaded over my fingers. The water was refreshingly cold and impeccably clean, carrying with it the distinct mineral taste of ancient stone, a reminder of the earth's timeless purity.

A short distance from the murmuring stream, I stumbled upon a lush patch of chickweed flourishing in the wild embrace of nature. Its tender green leaves glistened under the dappled sunlight filtering through the canopy above. I carefully gathered a handful, knowing its dual purpose as a savory addition to stews and a soothing remedy for poultices. Nearby, a vibrant carpet of violets spread across the forest floor, their delicate purple petals nodding gently in the breeze, alongside the fragrant clusters of creeping thyme that clung low to the earth. I collected them too, enjoying their sweet, earthy aroma as I hummed a soft tune, my hands moving rhythmically through the greenery.

I continued my journey until the sun dipped low on the horizon, casting the trees into elongated shadows that stretched across the forest floor like dark fingers. When I stumbled upon a cluster of moss-ringed stones nestled beside a gentle, babbling stream, I decided it was an ideal spot to make camp. The soothing sound of water accompanied my preparations as I set about making dinner. Tonight's meal was a hearty plum stew, enriched with pieces of dried meat and tangy sorrel, creating a delightful blend of sweet and savory flavors. This time, I enhanced the dish with a sprinkle of fresh thyme and a pinch of salt from my pouch, adding depth to the aroma that wafted through the air as it simmered over the fire.

While the stew cooked, I immersed myself in my journal, sketching the intricate details of a citrus fruit I had recently encountered. With careful strokes, I captured its rough, dimpled surface, the vibrant hue of its peel, and the subtle fragrance that clung to the air around it. I pondered its potential uses and documented each observation meticulously. As a final touch, I pressed one of its glossy, waxy leaves between the pages, preserving a piece of my discovery for future reflection.

Later, under the warm, flickering glow of the firelight, I penned my thoughts and reflections, letting the tranquility of the evening seep into my words.

Journal Entry—Day Four

Plum grove: southeast quadrant, past twin ridges. Bountiful. No signs of animal territory. Harvested three full baskets. Stored in satchel.

Crabapple—small, tart, tonic uses. Brew potential high.

Unknown citrus: green blush rind, tangy juice, possible culinary enhancement. Sketch added.

Additional finds: chickweed, violets, creeping thyme—gathered small bundles for kitchen and poultice use.

Bruises fading. Greencap salve effective.

Continue east tomorrow. Villages should be near in two days’ time.

The rich scent of plums and earth clung to my fingers, a fragrant reminder of the day's labor, and the satisfying ache in my muscles was the kind that spoke of vitality and growth—proof that I was still in motion, still absorbing, still collecting wisdom like ripe fruit. I nestled beneath my cloak, feeling the soft fabric cocoon me as the vast, twinkling expanse of stars blinked down like a thousand watchful eyes. For a moment, I simply listened to the symphony of the forest, the rustling leaves and distant calls of night creatures creating a soothing lullaby. After a brief meditation that grounded my spirit, I rose and carefully set the wards, their invisible protection encircling my temporary haven. With my bedroll unfurled, I lay back and let the gentle, melodic whispers of the forest lull me into a peaceful slumber.

The next morning dawned with a somber, oppressive grayness, the sky hanging low and burdened by the impending promise of rain. The air was thick with the scent of wet bark, rich, earthy moss, and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone, a clear harbinger of the storm to come. I hurriedly packed my belongings, pulling my cloak tighter around me, its fabric whispering against the chill. Skipping breakfast, I set off, keenly aware of the need to find shelter before the storm unleashed its fury.

Barely an hour passed before the heavens split open, releasing torrents of rain that cascaded in relentless sheets. The downpour soaked through the seams of my cloak, sending icy rivulets trailing down the back of my neck and seeping into my very bones. I summoned my speed cantrip with an urgency fueled by necessity, channeling more power into it than usual, urging my legs to move faster. The forest morphed into a swirling blur of vibrant greens and deep browns, punctuated by the occasional flutter of startled birds taking flight. My boots squelched and slipped in the thickening mud, while branches reached out like skeletal fingers, clawing at my sleeves as I dashed through the undergrowth.

By midday, the biting cold had seeped into my fingers, leaving them numb and unfeeling, while my satchel, slick with moisture, was beading water in gleaming trails that caught the pale winter light. Each step forward was a test of will, as I pushed harder against the relentless ache in my thighs and the icy chill that prickled up my spine. By evening, I was tantalizingly close to my destination. The first glimpse of rooftops peeking through the dense tangle of trees ahead felt like a beacon of salvation, promising warmth and respite from the day's arduous journey.

I emerged from the dense, shadowy woods onto a cobbled path slick with rainwater, which led to a sturdy wooden gate, its hinges slightly rusted from the damp. Beyond the gate, the village bustled with activity despite the drizzle; soft, golden lanterns glowed warmly in the windows, and thin tendrils of smoke curled lazily from the chimneys, mingling with the misty air. Two children, their laughter ringing out like bells, dashed by with cloaks pulled over their heads, expertly dodging the puddles that threatened to soak their shoes.

I headed straight for the inn, my feet splashing against the uneven stones, not pausing to take in the weathered sign swinging above the door, its lettering faded and chipped. As I crossed the threshold, the rich aroma of roasting meat and the comforting crackle of a fire enveloped me, and the sudden warmth that wrapped around me was so overwhelming it nearly brought tears to my eyes. A fire crackled in the hearth. The scent of meat and rosemary filled the air. I approached the front counter, dripping and winded, and asked for a room, my voice hoarse.

"Room and bath, if you have it," I added. "Please."

The innkeeper, a sturdy woman with broad shoulders and hair streaked with silver, wore a practical apron that bore the marks of a day's work. She nodded with a warm smile and gestured for a younger girl to guide me upstairs after I paid. The bath awaited, steaming and fragrant with a scent reminiscent of fresh pine needles, inviting and soothing. I eased myself into the hot water, feeling the warmth seep into my skin, easing the deep-seated aches from the biting cold and the long day's exertion. I lingered in the embrace of the water until it cooled, savoring the tranquility.

Later, I found a cozy spot near the crackling fire downstairs. The flames danced, casting flickering shadows across the room. I cradled a heavy bowl of savory stew, its aroma rich and comforting, alongside a thick wedge of crusty bread. As I ate, warmth spread through my weary limbs, each one thawing and relaxing in turn. My eyelids grew heavy, and I returned to my rented room to surrender to the drowsiness. I didn’t write in my journal that night; instead, I allowed myself to simply rest, feeling deeply grateful for the shelter over my head, the comforting warmth of the blankets, and the simple miracle of dry socks.

I woke slowly, cocooned in the inn’s blankets, with the scent of rosemary and ash from the hearth lingering in the air. The storm had passed, and the morning was crisp but no longer cold. Pale light filtered through the shutters, casting soft stripes across the floorboards. My cloak and clothes, however, were still damp to the touch. The hem of my shirt clung stubbornly to the drying peg, and my socks were taking their time. I didn’t fancy sealing damp fabric into my pack, not unless I wanted to grow moss between my toes. So, I wouldn’t leave just yet.

The healer in this village wasn’t expecting me—Rennel had simply marked their location on the map, leaving me to make my introductions. That meant the day was mine to pace. I decided I’d spend the morning tending to small things: drying gear, organizing notes, and seeing if the general store would be interested in buying the fruit I’d harvested. I still had the three full baskets sealed in spatial stasis—too valuable to let spoil.

Downstairs, the inn was warm and welcoming. I enjoyed a quiet breakfast by the hearth: porridge sweetened with plum compote and a steaming cup of nettle tea. Afterward, I returned upstairs, rolled out my damp clothes across the window ledge where sunlight now poured in, and checked the rest of my pack. The satchel remained dry and unmarred, as always. Its magic held steady, the weight of its contents a constant comfort against my hip.

By late morning, I made my way to the general store—a stone building with a hand-carved sign that read Turnip & Trade. Moss climbed the lower stones, and a wide window displayed a few handmade tools and skeins of wool.

Inside, the shop was crammed with goods: coils of rope, baskets of nails, sacks of beans and flour, jars of preserves, and thick candles stacked in honey-scented piles. A pair of cats dozed near the hearth while an older woman, wide-shouldered and sharp-eyed, looked up from where she was balancing a ledger.

“Morning,” she greeted, wiping her hands on her apron. “Looking to buy or sell?”

“Sell, if you’re open to fresh fruit.”

She raised a brow. “Not many travelers come in with fruit. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I moved ahead and unfastened the flap of my satchel. Taking a deep breath, I reached in—not with my hands, but with my mind—tapping into the magic that kept the space inside expanded like an air-filled bubble. The first basket appeared in my arms with a gentle sparkle, becoming solid with a pleasing heft. I placed it on the counter with a quiet effort. Then came the second. Then the third.

Every basket was filled to the brim with vibrant purple plums, tangy red crabapples, and a pale green, citrus-like fruit that I still couldn't name. Altogether, they weighed over 150 pounds, though the heft was hardly perceptible when contained within the spatial field. However, once placed on the worn wooden counter, their solid and substantial presence was undeniable. The woman let out a low whistle.

“Well,” she said, circling the baskets with growing interest, “you weren’t joking. These are beauties. Did you pick them yourself?”

“Yesterday morning. A wild grove east of the ridge line. I took only what I could carry.”

She grunted in approval. “You’ve got good hands and a better eye. Most of these’ll keep a while, especially the crabapples. But this—” she lifted one of the greenish citrus fruits and turned it thoughtfully in her hand “—this here’s something special.”

“I wasn’t sure of the name. I tasted one—sweet and tart, with a bitter finish.”

“Sunberries,” she said, nodding. “Despite the name, they’re more kin to citrus. Only grow in warm, magic-fed pockets. Rare this far north, especially fresh. Folk’ll pay handsomely for them come festival season.”

I raised a brow. “Would you be interested in the full haul?”

“Very.”

She proposed a reasonable price—actually, it was quite generous—and we settled on payment in coins. While she counted them into a small leather pouch, I paused to inhale the fragrance of the fruit once more: sun-kissed skin, a tangy aroma, and a hint of wildflowers. It was a worthwhile trade. An even better morning.

“Will you be staying long?” she asked as she handed over the coin.

“Just today. I plan to visit the village healer this afternoon.”

“Ah. You’ll want to head east, past the old mill. They keep to themselves but they’re good folk. Don’t mind the oddity—just listen well and be respectful.”

“I always am,” I said with a smile, tucking the pouch into my belt.

I left the shop lighter in spirit and coin-heavy, my shoulders felt less weighed down than they had in days. I returned to the inn, took the time to sort the herbs I’d collected, updated my journal with a sketch of the sunberry, and let myself enjoy a rare luxury: stillness. In the afternoon, I would seek out the healer. But for now, I had tea, sunlight, and the knowledge that I had made something useful of the morning. And that was enough.

By early afternoon, I fastened my cloak and stepped back into the village lanes, the scent of chimney smoke and damp stone still lingering in the air. The storm had passed, but the world remained hushed, as if still listening for the echo of rain. My boots found their rhythm on the cobbled road, and the familiar sway of my satchel was a comforting weight against my hip as I turned east, toward the edge of town and the old mill.

The structure came into view just where the path began to narrow. Time had softened its once-proud silhouette. The wheel hung crooked beside the stream, moss-covered and still. Wildflowers had claimed the base, curling around stone and timber alike. The air smelled of lavender and iron, the stream gurgling softly in the background like it was telling an old story to anyone who cared to listen.

Past the mill, the trail narrowed to a footpath, barely more than a ribbon of trodden grass weaving through alder and bramble. I followed it quietly, brushing past fern fronds and ducking beneath low boughs until the trees thinned and a small clearing opened ahead.

The cottage appeared slowly, like it had grown from the earth itself. Low-built, with stone walls covered in creeping vines, its sod roof was dotted with wild clover and pale yellow blossoms. A tangle of herb beds bordered the path—chamomile, skullcap, tansy, and sweet marjoram—all growing with carefree abundance. Wind-chimes of carved bone and colored glass swayed gently on the porch eaves, their tones soft and melodic.

A hand-painted sign, weathered but still visible, was fixed to the arch over the gate. No name, just a curling spiral etched in ochre—the healer’s mark.

I paused at the gate, adjusted my satchel, and opened it with a soft click.

Beyond, the garden buzzed gently with life. Bees moved from bloom to bloom, and a crow called once from the woods behind the house before going quiet again. I walked the short path to the door and knocked, two measured taps against the frame.

There was a pause. Then the sound of a chair scraping back, the creak of a floorboard, and the soft pad of footsteps approaching. The door opened inward.

The woman who answered was tall and broad-shouldered, with skin the color of dark chestnut and hair that tumbled in graying curls tied loosely at the nape. Her apron was dusted with what looked like dried thyme, and her eyes—dark, sharp, and keen as a hawk’s—met mine without hesitation.

She studied me for a long moment, then said, “You’re not from around here.”

“No,” I replied, offering a small, respectful bow. “My name is Elara. I’m a traveling herbalist—still learning. Rennel marked your home on my map. He said, if I was passing through, you might be willing to speak with me.”

Her expression didn’t shift, but something in her shoulders relaxed the slightest amount.

“Rennel sent you, did he?” she said, glancing past me toward the garden. “That man’s got a good memory and a terrible sense of timing. But I suppose the land sends us what we need, when we need it.”

“I can come back later if it’s not a good time.”

She huffed softly, almost a laugh. “If I turned away every traveler who showed up on my doorstep damp and curious, I wouldn’t have half the knowledge I do now.”

She stepped aside and gestured with a tilt of her chin. “Come in, Elara. Bring your satchel. Let’s see what you’ve learned so far.”

📓 FIELD JOURNAL NOTES: MOONDROP BERRIES & NIGHT HARVEST

* Moondrop BerriesLocation: Near the ridge, among moss patches and firefly glades, only visible at dusk under moonlightDescription: Small, silvery berries that glow faintly when ripe; pulp is thick and luminous; almond-shaped pit insideUse:

* Pulp: Soporific. Induces restful sleep without grogginess or hallucination. Ideal for surgeries, stitching, or calming the body.

* Pit: When dried, crushed, and steeped in warm water, forms a gentle purgative. Induces vomiting without spasms.Notes: Must be harvested under active moonlight or they lose all potency. Handle with care—juice stains and is potent in raw form. Best picked from clean mid-height branches. Avoid low undergrowth.

* Glowroot MossFound: In shaded areas beneath fallen logs or bouldersUse: Faintly bioluminescent moss used in poultices for mild infections or shallow cuts. Often helps track healing progress visually.

* StarpetalsFound: In open glades under twilight skiesUse: Delicate petals with calming properties. Used in sleep sachets, gentle teas, or pain-easing oils.

* Dusk ThistleFound: Along forest clearings, near where shadow meets grassUse: Thorny but medicinal. Roots brewed into a tonic for stabilizing fever or calming mild tremors.