Winterwoods jolted awake with her heart pounding in her chest. Sitting up, she trembled in the darkness of her room, unsure of the questionable fear that pricked at every ounce of her body. Something was terribly wrong. It was still very dark out, probably long before dawn. Her room was silent and still and, from what she could tell, everything was as she left it.
The familiar smell of beeswax, cinnamon and flowers drifted softly from her day's work downstairs, a muted light still radiated from the hearth below, and an occasional crackle of burnt wood reached her twitching ears. Everything in her home seemed normal. Yet, the heavy sensation that something was wrong still weighed in her mind. She felt herself drawn towards the door downstairs, to the outside… out to the woods. With a shudder, she pulled off her blankets and slipped from her bed over to the nearby window.
The need for certainty was the only thing that compelled her to work up the courage to peer through. Her bedroom was on the second floor loft of her cottage, and it gave her a vantage point over the small clearing on which her home stood. A stream babbled softly across her lawn, drifting past her rose bushes and vegetable patch before flowing off into the woods.
And there it was, as she feared… It was happening again. Every night, for many months now, they did this. The woods were fogged over and dense, and a soft light illuminated the gloom of the forest outside just enough to make out the outlines of the nearest trees. It filled her with a deep sense of dread, though she was unable to place why. It wasn’t uncommon for fog to roll through the woods, especially in the autumn.
Conflicted, Winterwoods turned her attention up to the sky. The moon had waned completely, leaving nothing but a few paltry stars which, try as they might, illuminated nothing. So why were the woods so bright in the fog? Where was the light coming from? Curiosity finally rising over fear, Winterwoods silently made her way down the to the front door. Slowly, and with trepidation, she cracked open the hatch and peered outside.
Nothing had changed in the distance; the woods were still gloomy and lit softly by the mist. Stepping outside, the crisp autumn air nipped at her ears and nose. The smell of leaves and damp soil met her nostrils, which was usual for this time of year, but something new caught her attention. Something she couldn’t quite place lingered in the air, it was subtle, and sweet like roses, yet vaguely minty. Winterwoods prided herself on knowing the scents of flowers, and this scent was different. This scent felt new to her.
Nose to the air, she glanced fearfully towards the nearby treeline. She stared hesitantly for a few minutes, thinking hard about what she was about to do. Finally, she reached for her shawl and her satchel for gathering plants. She clicked the door shut behind her and, with the faintest resolve, set out towards the forest ahead.