I sit alone in the cold woods once more, looking out into the mists that surround me, the morning mists that come after a night of rain and the new day awakens the animals of the woods. "what woods are these", I ask myself. Grief overcomes me as I stare into those dark line of trees shaded by countless leaves that will soon fall at the first hint of winter. How does one live as long as we, the humans dont, why the length in years, to what end will it become, and what does it profit one to live so long.
The stirring in the woods of the birds calling to one another, and the bear comes out to look for food. The life cycle begins again. for how many times will the bear rise, and the birds call to one another. and me, how many times will I rise and will I ever ...call to another.
looking down at her meager belongings tell of a life of living on the road, of travel, and hunting. Smiling she picks up her blade. pulling it from the scabbard it makes a noise all to familar "shing" the sliding of steel against steel rings out. The shrill sound startles the birds in the trees and wiht a loud commotion they fly away with feathers falling to the ground.
The smell of blood still lingers on the blade and dark stains dot the scabbards sides, it was once new as its owner was, but the passing of time has made its mark. The hard blackened leather has started to tear along its outer edges and it to will soon pass into uselessness.
She gathers her gear and straps the sword at her side. adjusting the worn straps that are sown together in various places, She is off in a moments notice. Making her way to a worn path just ahead she hears the sounds of men just ahead in the distance
