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.