The Wolf of the Wilds

The Storm

It was humid, stained with the subtle essence of earth and leaves. An electric quality gave it that little bit of an edge. Drawing in the breath, she mulled it over, before slowly letting it go. Of course, as per usual, the odours of the nightly fire and small animals met her nose. Nothing too unusual there. Only...something was off.

Taking several steps, she pulled the fabric away from the hollowed-out windows and listened. It was too quiet. Birds should be chirping at this hour, and where was the usual clicking of insects?

"The quiet before the storm," she said, stepping away and frowning.

The interior of her home was dimly lit, only a single candle sat dripping on a rickety table, while light crept in through the ruin's crumbling structure. The yellow light illuminated the bottles lining the walls and the musty pages of piles of books. In the corner, a small bundle of blankets sat; it was her bed, as depressing as it looked. In fact, she'd go as far to say that the whole place was rather depressing. With damp walls, pressed dirt floors, and ratty animal pelts hanging to keep out the forest's breeze, it certainly wasn't cheerful.

It wasn't the home of a vicious rogue bent upon mischief. It wasn't the home of lonely hermit, looking to embrace nature. This place was rotten with neglect, holding a stillness only found in death. It was the home of a person waiting for life the pass them by.

Under the pounding attentions of a large storm, the place wouldn't hold. Water slid through the cracks of the old ceiling like a fish down a stream and her books would be ruined if she left them there.

With a sigh, Helena began the slow task collecting her volumes into a sack, being careful with the delicate bindings. "This is what I get for living in the ruins of a human shed," she muttered, tying the fabric shut and lugging it over her shoulder. Swiping a large pelt out of the way of the gaping entrance, she trudged outside into the clearing.

A small garden was set up in the centre, along with a small wooden structure she used for curing meats. A grand oak stood just beyond the tree line, arms twisting up above the canopy of trees. It looked as tired as she felt, the bark left cracked and jagged from years of wear. Heading closer, she patted the tree's trunk in the way one would greet a friend and continued on past. Was she mad? Probably. Did she give a damn? Not really.

Her boots barely sounded against the soft moss, emerald and flickering. Thunder bugs crawled and fluttered around, but there was some beauty in the chaos. Shame it was wasted on her. Soon she reached her destination, an ache taking root in her arms as she placed down the burlap sack.

Yesterday had thoroughly tired her out. She rarely ran that quickly for so long, especially while carrying a five-year-old child on her back. Living in a forest didn't exactly lend itself to a filling diet either, and the harvests had been poor in recent times.

Before her was the entrance to a cave. Dark and foreboding, she leant inside. To her dismay, it'd been overrun by the creepy crawlies, spiderwebs and moths covering the walls. An involuntary shudder ran the length of her spine, disgust tugging at her lips. While she hated insects, she hated storms more, so her course of action was clear. Over the next hour she went about the excruciating task of returning the cave to a habitable state. Above, the sky darkened steadily, the first flecks of rain hitting her cheeks as she cast her gaze upwards.

"There's no more time," she murmured, shoving her things inside and crawling in after. Once under cover, she set down her cloak and settled herself for a long day.

The spitting droplets soon turned to a deluge of pellets. A quiet muttering was now a roar. Thunder, lightning, and the smell of burning filled her senses. Helena had her legs bent to her chest, while her forehead was pressed to her knees. The sounds, the smells, they were too much; too loud to ignore and too wild to sleep through. So instead, she watched, listened, and felt.