Buttercup

A warm breeze stirs the leaves of the trees. Their rustling sounds like whispered secrets.

The air is muggy, but the loamy earth beneath the Wildclaw’s feet is cool. Sunlight shines through the canopy overhead, rays dappled green by the vibrant foliage. Pine and oak, hickory and cedar, maple and birch. Trailing fingers caress the trees as she passes, reading the stories writ upon their bark. The roughness of a grain is a language all its own, one her fingers eagerly explore.

The sounds of the forest surround her. She could walk it with her eyes closed, so familiar is its song to her. In the distance a brook burbles over round stones, worn smooth by long years beneath the water. The branches creak and sway overhead. The wind sighs between the trunks. Birdsong whistles above her, interspersed with the chatter of squirrels.

The wildlife is not disturbed by her presence. Her feet have walked these woods for many years; she is as much a part of it as they are. They know that hers are the hands which tend to them when they are hurt, that she feeds them when they are sick. Bird and bear, snail and frog, lizard and squirrel - no creature in need goes overlooked.

The noon sun overhead catches upon the delicate webbing spun to her side. She pauses before it, head tilted to the side, watching the gentle stirring of the web, its vibrations as captivating as the strings of an instrument. She smiles at the small spider. A nod of her head - a blessing of sorts - and then she continues on her way.

As she walks, she gathers. A line draped over her wings lies heavy with the plants she has collected. Berries, flowers, herbs, and stalks...Each has a place and a purpose. She is selective in what she collects. Now and then she removes an item from one of her pouches and offers it back to the woods. A sampling of tender shoots are left outside a burrow. Perfectly ripe fruits are placed near a nest.

As the forest gives to her, so too does she give to its other inhabitants.

The bag at her hip clacks in time with each step she takes. Within lies the bounty of the forest - driftwood, fallen sticks, bark, and acorns. She wears more tokens in the leaves and flowers twining around her body. No piece is the same. Each has been offered to her by the woods on her daily pilgrimage. She can tell each piece by touch alone, readily identifying the tree or shrub it came from. If she holds one in her hand, she can sense the larger whole from which it was taken. If a plant is sick, its decay will be visible upon the marker she carries. A trunk struck by lightning; undergrowth cut off from its water source; the blood of an wounded stag dripping onto the grass. These are all stories she has read in her reagents.

This is how the forest speaks to her.

This is how it tells her she is needed.

Though there is no path, the way is as familiar to her as the markings upon her wings. She can feel the hum of power as she steps into the small glade. The thrill of it resonates through her, and she feels the pouch at her side grow heavier.

In the center of the clearing stands a hollow stump, beaten and weathered by the elements. Here the birdsong is more muted, and the air is still. Here the presence of the woods is a tangible pressure which surrounds her, permeating the clearing.

Here, her power sings within her.

Deft fingers carefully arrange flowers and stalks around the rim of the stump. The fragrance of pine needles and tree sap suffuses her nostrils. Bright red berries almost seem to glow, reflecting the sunlight overhead.

The reagents placed, she reaches for her pouch.

Her movements are swift and sure as she arranges them inside the hollow. She selects only a few pieces - most of the plants are healthy, and have no need of her ministrations tonight. But here she sets a cracked acorn; there a brittle branch; now a crumbling leaf, spotted with darkness.

Her hands run over each item as she places it upon her altar. Her eyes close as she touches the map of the forest's hurts. A deep breath - an inhalation she can feel swell throughout the entirety of the wood.

She settles onto her haunches, crossing her legs. The echoing birdsong dwindles; the light overhead dims.

Lost in her power, the Wildclaw pours herself into the forest.

She is its keeper - and it has need of her.