Poppy woke to Lawrence’s tusks gently prodding her stomach. The thick boar was snuffling around the halfling’s burrowed haven, eager for her to rise, but unwilling to leave the burrow without her. At twice her size, the animal could have trampled Poppy in her sleep, but instead it kept a safe distance, nudging her with its snout and poking at her sleeping form with its tusks, ears flattening and jumping to attention as it circled around the halfling’s makeshift bed of broken grains stalks.
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, then wrenched herself awake when she noticed her companion’s mood. Something was happening, or else there was some new animal or person in her field. Grumbling to herself, she clicked her tongue at her companion; the boar immediately trotted over and sat next Poppy as she scratched his head.
“What is it?” she whispered to him. His ears perked up and he gave a sharp snuffle. Poppy frowned. So much for the relaxing morning she’d been looking forward to.
The ranger pulled on her clothes, each garment stained and knit with stalks from the fields in which she’d dug out her home. As she strapped her gear to her belts, Lawrence resumed his pacing near the burrow’s tunnel.
Poppy slung her bow over her shoulder. Her fingers flicked over the flecked arrows sticking out of the quiver strapped along her side. Eight arrows left. Need to make more today or the next, she thought with a grim smile. She enjoyed the process of arrow-making. There was a calm sense of accomplishment to be found in making her own tools, the same tools that let her hunt, kept her fed, and kept her alive.
Poppy pulled her long, vibrant red and chestnut hair back from her face, tying its waves up in a high bun. She clicked her tongue and Lawrence turned his shaggy snout to her, attentive and expectant.
“Is it bad?” she asked, hand outstretched to the riding spear she kept hung on her wall.
The boar snorted and growled. Poppy nodded and removed the spear from its place. Its steel point was still sharp, but was marked by nicks and scratches from a half-dozen previous encounters. She’d replaced the shaft three times, and digging out the speartip after its last use had been a messy endeavour; the bear’s stomach hadn’t been pleasant to burrow through.
Seeing her ready, Lawrence stood at the tunnel’s entrance, wiry tail wagging back and forth. Poppy hadn’t realized how her breathing had spiked, and took a moment to calm herself before waving Lawrence down the tunnel. He was a big boar, and his sides and back scraped the tunnel’s walls and ceiling, whereas Poppy crawled out with little trouble, though she took care to keep her bow and spear from catching on the tight passage.
The ranger and her boar snuck out of the tunnel’s exit, pushing through the thicket of brush Poppy had cultivated to cover the burrow’s mouth. The spring morning had broken late with light rain sprinkling the eastern mountain range, sending errant rainbows streaking upward to disappear toward the pale golden sun.
Despite her companion’s unease, Poppy couldn’t help but admire the beauty and bounty of her field. Its stalks swayed under the gentle breeze that rolled down from the north. For a brief spell, the ranger forgot herself and let her mind wander to her daily activities of foraging and hunting. If she spotted any birds grazing, she might risk an arrow or two in bringing them down. More arrows required more feathers after all.
Lawrence grunted and Poppy remembered herself. Pulling up the hood of her grain-woven cloak, she pulled herself up onto Lawrence’s back. Sitting upright, she peered over the fields around her.
The strangers stood out immediately. The group of four were walking along one of the most obvious trails through the grain, their mail and armour glinting in the sunlight. Each carried lumpy burlap sacks over their shoulders in the wearisome way of travellers who have grown accustomed to spontaneous obligations they must endure over long, uncomfortable distances.
Poppy ducked her head below the grain’s top line and urged Lawrence forward. The boar eased into a steady lope, cutting a wide circle through the pale millet where barley had begun to invade in sporadic bundles. Poppy and Lawrence drew close enough to hear the four travellers as they marched in file.
First came the pompous, half-elf brute in dragon-marked scale mail. His laugh rolled out over the fields like a sudden gust, and Poppy disliked him immediately. Next came a figure bundled in robes, belts, and scarves who seemed to glide along the ground rather than step, then an oddly tall dwarf dressed in grubby soldier garb marked with an improvised dragon sigil similar to those emblazoned on the brute’s chest. Last in line was a man carrying a scythe, though Poppy refused to believe him a farmer. Though he stepped with the farm tool as a walking stick, there was something off about him. His smile was light and airy, chuckling at the conversation held between his companions, but his eyes snapped back and forth over grain tufts toward Poppy whenever she moved closed. While each of the four was curious or distasteful, she found the last in line worrisome, flattening herself to Lawrence’s back whenever his head swivelled in her direction.
The four walked at length through her fields, winding their way south through the rolling hills of grain. They had made no move to destroy her home, seemingly marching crosscountry in pursuit of some far-off destination. At first, Poppy presumed them lost, but they kept a steady direction through the first day, and so pulled her curiosity along in their stead. Come nightfall, they cut bare a clearing along their path, made a rudimentary campfire of the chopped grain, and set to relax and rest for the night.
Poppy could have returned to her burrow. The four had journeyed beyond the fields she called home, but something uncanny beckoned her to keep close to them. Lawrence trotted off to find his own dinner digging up roots, making sure to keep clear of the strangers, though he needed no suggestion from his companion. The boar would’ve been happier to return home, but Poppy seemed intent on following these odd-smelling travellers, so he stayed close to keep her guard and company.
Poppy felt the weariness of the day’s travel creep up on her. She settled in between the stalks and let herself fade into the field. Her eyes closed, and she listened to the four as they ate their meagre meal of toasted grain and mushroom gruel. They grimaced at the tall dwarf, but thanked her all the same. Poppy frowned. If they were scavenging off the land, they must have eaten through their rations long since.
The ranger mapped the countryside in her mind’s eye. She was about a day almost directly south of her home, were she to return. Several more and the group would reach the merchant’s highway, that busy and noisome Wood Road. Poppy was tempted to click at Lawrence and ride home, but lying in between the green and golden stalks, an odd compulsion held her back. Lawrence returned to her before the moon rose, lying next to her and nuzzling against her miniature frame. In their humble camp clearing, the four strangers unknowingly mimicked her example, each stretching out in turn to sleep under the bright waxing moon that filled the night sky overhead.
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