A goat and a goat girl ????

The night was young.

She left her newest friends - that narrow community she had begun to make for herself - in the shadows of the small village they had made their base and traversed by foot back towards the woods. The trees grew thick, matted, old, but she was determined to find an adventure for herself this time. Away from others away from her mother, emboldened by her new found freedom.

Those small hooves took her up the much traveled old track, covered in dust and mud, pounded by many many boots. Wrapped in a long knitted scarf and with nothing but her own satchel filled with books, wool and knitting needles, Celandine marched into the treeline. Here, the Red Forest was not so much haunted as it was recovering, with the greenery coming back after the decades (or centuries?) of poison by the Forgotten Ones.

She had no sword. No swashbuckling expertise that could fell the foliage in her way. Of course her mother would just wave her hand and the trees would just part but Celandine was no Philomel. She was no great archdruidess priestess queen.

Instead she was a knitter. Who wanted to find her own way in the world. Celandine trudged the treeline for a while, meandering off the track and staring into the dimness beyond. Everywhere she looked there was no clear path. Even where the muddy track ended there was overgrown vegetation. Some odd broken branches or two where trackers and hunters had made their way within, but no obviously overused path. Which was odd, seeing as that track was well trod. What - did the majority of people just come to the edge of the forest, stare hopelessly in and then turn back?

She couldn't be sure. But she knew that some adventure lay within. As if it was calling to her. Rich druidic blood thrummed through her. She was blessed by Drys, the goddess of fauns and trees. She was the daughter of a legend. And she had seen that place.

Last night. In her dreams. The shallow pool within the wood, the light catching the water in a myriad of shattered rainbows, eternally rippling. And at the pond's edge a small wild goat nibbled fresh herbs and roots, a goat which she felt a strange strong connect to ...

Damnit, she thought as she pulled her scarf around her neck and tied it in a bow. Tugging out a needle from her hair - her only weapon, magicked to only be truly sharp when it met flesh.

Else, it was a knitting needle. Breathing in deep she focused ahead and stepped into the embrace of the branches.