It was these words that caused Merlock's head to snap fiercely back and forth several times. It was as if her companion tried to deny the simple truth of the matter. His amber eyes catch something. There - where the bark of the tree is gouged deeply by the raiders - is a glint of metal. His massive form lumbers over and sniffs at the area. He paws at the dented tree. Ever alert, Moriah walks over and leans over his furred shoulder. He huffs and lowers his face so she can see it.
She pulls the arrow out of the tree bark. Its edge is still sharp. The fletch portion of the arrow is dyed mud red. It is the Riverfolk raiders again. Her slender fingers held the shaft of the arrow. Through her partial vision, she could sense the weight of it. Too heavy for hunting. It was forged to puncture armor or bone.
"They are getting closer," she murmurs to herself.
Merlock hears her, of course. He nods, somehow, a dip of his head and shoulders so slight it almost escapes her penetrating gaze. His body swings to the side as he moves around her in a semi-circle. He is corralling her with a casual ease and inevitability. She casts a glare at him, though only for a heartbeat.
The path forward should be obvious. She slides the arrow into her belt and rises to her feet. She stands tall amongst the forest trees. Her eyes shut and a lone hand reaches out to the energy embracing the Alderwood.
It comes alive to her - the woods. Every root and every nest in the trees. The raiders' trail is a greyish wound throughout the forest. It bruises her magics. The memory is faint but still present enough for her to sense it. Three persons. Their feelings of being hurried and afraid to the point of desperation. She can taste it in her mouth. They double over their trail once...then twice. They circle the edges of the woods surrounding her village. Then, the sordid steps head south.
Disgust fuels her words, "They are search for a weakness. Scouting the same paths." She tilts her head and listens to the wilderness around her.
Merlock growls lowly in his throat. It is the closest he gets to cursing in his animal form. He forcefully steps ahead of Moriah. His snout is low and ears are twitching in the uneven breeze.
They stalk the path. Each step is carefully placed and measured to lessen their presence. It is a cautionary dance. She keeps her senses focused on the very vibrations in the air around them. Not just to seek out the trail left by the raiders but to feel out the shift's in the forest's mood. Around her, she can touch with her mind's eye when the wind goes taut and when the very trees hold their breath. Before each time, she raises her gloved hand and signals to Merlock. He freezes, as if made of burnt iron.
In the next half mile of travel, it happens three more times. Always as they went south. Always as they came closer to their village border. She stops dead in her tracks once more. The air is fouled. Bitter, metallic, like the smell of a bloody carcass left in the sun too long. Her lips part ways as she tries to speak to her companion. She can taste it now - something unnatural laced in the wind.
"Poison," she whispers.
His teeth grind against each other as he growls low in his throat. Not bothering to hide the noise, his paws slam into the dirt. There, half-buried in the grass: a chunk of meat, slick and stinking. The odor rises up from it with the upward breeze. Moriah takes a step back and covers her mouth.
She nudges it with her staff. The surface is pock marked with man-made holes. Black rot is leeching out and dripping down its side. The poison is old. It is not meant for them. It is meant for something else. Something bigger.
"Trap," she mutters to her animal friend.
With concern, he stares at her. She can see the question reflected in his eyes. "For whom," it asks.
She looks away. He follows her gaze and wonders if the forest will tell him something different than what is on her mind. A sigh slips past her lips. Knowledge that cannot be denied or withheld any longer.
"For Guardians. For Bears."
She sees that he wants to deny the truth of what she said, that the raiders cannot know of them. Of the Elven Guardian or him. They have been careful. So very careful. He starts up the path. His pace has doubled. She draws the hood of her cloak over her head. Her fist tightens around her staff.
Unlike the raiders, they know this place. Their home for so long. They abandon any pretense of furtive tracking. Soon they come to a shallow creek. The cold bites into Moriah's ankles. This is too close to the village. Too close to their sacred home. They have always caught them long before any intruders could cross this particular section of the forest.
In the not too far distance, she hears the thrum of the raiders echoing towards her. The brush of panic in their steps. They were hardly skilled or experienced in combat. But they must have been well paid. They were very determined.
She stumbles once - just once - over a a half exposed root. Merlock, her ever faithful friend, is beside her in half a breath's time. She can feel the thump of his heart through his chest. It is wild and hot. Something entirely untamed. He stands so close to her that she can smell the fear in his breath and the glistening of it on his fur.
"I am fine," she assures him. Pushing his shoulder, she says again, "I am fine. Really."
He is rock solid still. His burnt colored eyes hold hers with a pointed stare. She remembers. He has seen her bleed before. He vowed to do anything to keep it from happening again.