Leaves the color of sunset fell to blanket a cool earth. The warm winds had left the Whitewood, and the summer birds went with them. The birch were bare and the oak gave up it’s acorns. All the forest was alive with a sense of urgency. To prepare for the snows to come, and make good use of Fall’s bounty.

A red squirrel clambered through the fallen leaves, cheeks fat with fresh acorns. It scampered from sight to sight, never stopping to bury it’s treasure. Coming to the tattooed hand of a young man.

Fiádh smiled at the little creature, taking one of the acorns. “Thank you, little friend. I’ll be sure to tell the hawk and the fox to leave you alone next spring.” The squirrel scampered off, and the young druid tossed the acron into a basket of woven tallgrass and tree string. He had two baskets, and with both nearly full so quickly he rose from his bed of leaves to carry them home. And with time to spare, thank the gods.
No sooner had he gotten to his feet, than he felt the lase of a twig-bundle on his bare back. The young druid wheeled round and met with what he feared to see.

Old Enid. The elder of Whitewood was glaring at him. She had changed with the seasons. She wore a cloak of fox’s hide and maple leaves in her hair. Whether or not the old woman put those leaves in her braids herself, or if she even knew they were there, Fiádh could not tell. And he certainly wasn’t going to ask. Old Enid’s bitter voice came to his ears, with another lecture. “You buffoon!”

Of course. “Buffoon? What is so baffoonish about collecting acorns?”

“Did I say the acorns were buffoons? Or their collection? No! I said you were the buffoon. You! Pay attention so I do not have to suffer another of your stupid questions.” The wise woman inspected both baskets. “Which one is for your home?”

Fiádh pointed to the basket on the right. Nodding thoughtfully, Old Enid walked to the basket on the left and kicked it over. Sending many a dozen acorn tumbling into the ground and down the hill. The chief’s son belted in frustration and confusion. “Why would you do that?! Those were your acorns! For your winter bread!”

“I can collect acorns myself. Unlike you, apparently.”

Fiádh let out a sigh of exasperation. “The squirrels? Yes they brought me what they could find, but it did take work to get them to do this. I had to give them each something in return.”

“Oh, I know. You promised one that the fox would not eat him next spring. You promised another about the hawk, and another about the snake. How will tell them that? Tell them they cannot eat a squirrel because it gave you an acorn? The fox and the hawk will laugh. The snakes would too, if they were able."

“I am not so sure. We are druids. They would listen to us.”

“I am a druid. You are a boy who with a bit of magic and not enough winters behind you to use it properly. The gifts of The Horned God do not allow us to change nature. Not the fox’s, the squirrel’s, or our own. So next time you have to pick up acorns…just pick them up your damned self.”

The young druid gave a sigh of defeat. “I thought to…save on sunlight. We have so little of it as the days grow colder.”

Old Enid was quiet for a long moment. “…go home, Fiádh. Enjoy the sunlight you saved. The first snows will fall soon, and then none of us will have that much sun.”

The chief’s son smiled, and moved quickly down the hill with his own basket of acorns. “I’ll make it up to you when Spring comes!”

“Damn right you will!” Old Enid called after him, even as his form faded into the valley between her cabin and his village. “Blackberries! And you’ll pick them yourself this time!” The old druid shook her head and began collecting acorns.

Fiádh ran all the way back to the knotted branches that protected his village. Carrying the acorn basket to his mother and father’s hut. “Mother! I brought them! Where is father’s spear? Old Enid says the first snowfall is close, I wish to hunt elk before then.”

Gwyn rose from her labors at the fire. “Your father is out, tracking bale-eye.”

“Bale-Eye?” The concern in Fiádh’s voice was palpable.

“The monster has been coming closer to Whitewood than before. He wasn’t to know where it’s going.” To ease the worry from her son’s eyes, Gwyn smiled. “I have something for you.” Reaching beneath her bed, the wife of the chieftain revealed a second spear. A redwood staff, engraved with the symbol of a great Elk with massive branching antlers. The head of the spear was made of forged steel. Broad and thick, with the top and sides rounded to a sharp edge. Making it a spear to be thrust, thrown and swung about if needed. Fiádh ran his finger along the edge of the blade, drawing a small bit of blood across it. “What kind of stone is this?”

“Not stone. Steel. People from beyond Whitewood use this in all their weapons. It is prettier than stone, and far more dangerous. My Grandfather took it from a foreign warrior, and my father gave it to your father as a wedding gift. Now it is yours.” Gwyn took her song’s face in her hands, and kissed his forehead, gazing into his bright green eyes. “Now go bring back that elk you promised.” The chief’s son was ushered out of his mother’s hut. Appreciating his new spear as he strode out to hunt. Practicing with it with swings and thrusts. All with the simple yet lethal efficiency of his people.

“A fine weapon. I should bring mother and father back two elks for this!” He spoke to the spear as if it had ears to listen. “Though I doubt your steel could make me run faster. That’s fine, I’ll take care of it myself.”

 Breathing deep of druidic magics, his form changed from man to wolf once more. Fiádh shook the falling leaves off his grey fur coat moved to hunt. There was something more thrilling about hunting as wolf. Fang and claw were far more challenging and intimate than hunting with a spear or knife. It made him feel closer to the woods, the beast, and his home. His wolf’s nose caught the scent of blood on the air, and he followed it with haste.

 Tracking something as a wolf made the whole concept seem foolish. What hope could a man have to best a beast in tracking anything? The scent of blood became stronger and Fiádh felt a hunger grow in his belly, and excitement take root in his heart. This was met with fear, as the smell of blood mingled with new ones. 

Smoke. Steal. And death.