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The path back from the Esteemed House of al-Fasek winds its way down the mountainside over a course of meandering switchbacks. The forest that grew sparse on the way up thickens as you descend. Short and hardy pines give ground to grand and towering oaks whose canopy sits high above you and cast perpetual shade upon the forest floor. A cool breeze flows between the trunks like a gentle draft, its chill a reminder that in but a few weeks time the moon shall dip below the horizon and leave starry sky empty until her sister rises again with the coming of the Spring.
Bird flutter northward against the colder nights, following old migratory patterns as ancient as the trees themselves. Small creatures with fluffy ears gather nuts that have fallen to the ground for the coming winter, adding them to their stash. A few brave predators eye the horse upon which Ruth sits with hunger, but scatter with the rustling of the leaves. Wolf and bear and mountain lion cannot understand the tongue of the forest as you can, but they have keener intuition for the gossip among the trees than most Humes do.
The gossip speaks of a greedy old willow, and the Child of Yggdrasil who crowned her queen of the forest.
You lead the white horse bearing your prize through the forest by the reigns, as one might lead their pet through a crowded city street by a closely held leash. The horse whinnied in fear when it first caught scent of the creatures eyeing it, and nearly bucked poor Ruth off its back in its attempted to break free. It calmed quickly beneath your touch, but the stares of hungry predators itching to pounce keep it on the tip of its hooves, especially as the evening turns to dusk.
Ruth's temperament matches that of her horse, though she wears her anxiety more visibly upon her face. No doubt she would have tried running away by now, had the choker about her neck not forbidden it. Instead, she hisses her complaints softly, fearful that too loud a noise will bring the beasts down upon you.
"Why did you leave the path, you <span class="mu-i">sel buzo</span>?" Ruth hisses a pair of words from a language you don't quite recognize. While the exact meaning is lost to you, the twisted snarl on her face is all the context you need to know that the beak-nosed woman is insulting you. Her words, whatever they may be, slide off you like tepid water. Of all the Humes you've met on your Travail, Ruth is the last person who's opinion you would care about. "You're going to get us lost, if the wolves don't eat us first."
"It's faster this way," you tell her.
"A faster way into the stomach of a wolf, perhaps," she grumbles, eying the golden eyes of a beast that's been watching her horse with ill-intent. "Not that I believe you. If you cared about speed, you wouldn't have given me over to Zahra to be bathed and forced to dress like a <span class="mu-i">servant</span>. You could have just left me in soiled clothes, or stripped me down and paraded me naked, if you cared about speed. I will not forget this humiliation..."
