The woman was loathe to get near the fire, even though it had been crafted by her own two hands.
A plump coney, relieved of its head, feet, tail, skin, and guts, was sizzling just above the flames. It was the only supper the forest had afforded this day, but it would be enough.
The sun had set, and the western sky was painted with streaks of coral and plum. Even so, sweat beaded at her temples, and strands of dark copper hair were pasted in random patterns over her cheeks. The fire was needed to cook, but she despised its heat.
Pacing about the camp, the soft light from the sky illuminated puffs of dust with each lazy scuff of her boots. Her palms ran up and down the length of her bare arms as if she were chilled. Or perhaps trying to comfort herself.
The earth was too dry. Grass had been retreating further and further from the edge of her campsite. The wide stretch of green between her tree and the lake-edge was no longer green at all, but a pitiable shade of beige as the tender blades curled and withdrew towards their roots. Rabbits and squirrels and fish would remain yet, unable to traverse long miles in search of deeper streams and fresher plants. But the deer were already moving off. She had tracked the Chetwood herd north around the circumference of Nen Harn until their prints vanished into the low hills of the Downs. Past that boundary, she would not venture.
There was no worry for coin. She had always been a frugal creature who needed little to thrive and be content. The earth and its bounty had always sufficed, along with the occasional mug of ale and hot meal from Bree-town. But there was a nagging pain that had begun to fester behind her ribcage, to see the leaves of the ancient trees beginning to darken in color, and curl up their edges to seek respite from the sun's relentless thirst. She loved water, and the lush, swollen verdancy that came from rain-soaked roots. The song of the stream when it churned and bubbled happily after a storm was music to her heart. And now...she was witnessing the slow, implacable starvation of what she loved.
It was not the first drought she had seen in her years. And it would not be the last. Rain would come. Bree-land would not become a desert. But there was a restless anxiety whenever the heavens closed their doors like this. Everything and everyone - from man to animal to crop - would feel the tension and the worry, and seek to preserve themselves in whatever way they could.
Lost in her reverie, she found herself chewing at her fingernail, and looking westward through the darkening trees.
