For the five these virgin forests seemed usual. Her seclusion went unnoticed. The soil was soil and trees were trees. It grew darker as the sun set, as every forest does during every dusk. They knew not of the melted footprints from some decades ago. They did not know of the people who had never settled here and never called it home. Great migrations with long lines of waves of pilgrims never converged here, remained unknown to them. The trees did not look like long barbed spears. The bubbling creeks did not flow like blood. The air was fresh and did not stink of anything other than mundane forest rot. Patches of untrampled flowers bloomed. Bushes with bushels of berries were free to drop them to the ground. Beasts danced and pranced through dawn and dusk without fear of steel or fire. The forest yielded to winter winds, not the hand of man, only to the hand of nature. For each age it had been this way, it would never be this way again. They could not see the long shadows on the short horizon. 

The night grew thicker, cooler, like blackened coals or wine. The five collected themselves in a soft glade, thin grass rustling with the falling leaves. They drove boots and heels into the mud, leaving fresh prints. They kindled fire to blast away the cold dark, letting plumes of grey smoke cross out the stars overhead. Tents were pitched, unoccupied, everyone within view of the fire. Tracker stood where the light of the fire kissed the night of the forest. Though he would much prefer silence, when he would much prefer holding his own tongue, he couldn’t.

“Shoo. Go away. I am working.”

A kneeling Carrie stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Jorgem, cricking her neck and asking, “Shouldn’t we be helping?”

Without looking back Tracker asked, “Is the camp set?”

“Aye. Just helped Myer pitch the last of the tents, he’s tending to the fire. Nothing much more to do there.”

He half twisted towards it. First tent, untouched and pristine, his own. Good. Second tent, well pitched to his surprise, Myer’s. Good for him. Third tent, a bit wobbly but still standing, with insistence Carrie pitched it all by herself. Very well. Fourth tent, half-collapsed only suspended by bracing branches, the one for Ruach he supposed. Rude but well enough. Fifth tent, fully-collapsed in on itself with a heavy hole in its side, he heard Jorgen throwing himself into its side earlier. Oh well. 

Jorgen pointed, “What’s that?”

Tracker looked past him, for a moment his nose flared up, “A snare.”

Carrie asked, “Is it done?”

Tracker gave a half nod, “Just needs to be tested, would you like to volunteer?”