Myrken Wood.
She sat atop a hill, looking at the walled town just visible in the distance.
Myrken Wood.
The name rolled experimentally off her tongue in a voice made harsh by disuse. She'd had the name from a group of merchants who stopped for their nooning not thirty feet from where she had been resting. Myrken Wood, they had said, and it was as well for one such as she would not, could not be reading words on a sign.
Perhaps this would be the place. Far enough, perhaps, that she might stop running. The winter had been harsh - some of her memories were vague, particularly of snowstorms that should by rights have ended her. Her pack was thin and light, with but a change of clothes slightly less tattered than those she wore and a limp sack nearly empty of the grain it had once held. But the winter was over now, spring was at hand.
Spring. A time of new beginnings.
Myrken Wood.
She stood and shouldered her pack.
