The day grows old as the sun falls ever closer to the horizon. Sylfir is still venturing through the woods, having found the resin of a balsam fir, but not the game meat. It's proving uncommonly difficult for her, and she can't help but feel embarrassed, given her confident display in the Weary Wanderer earlier that day. All she can find are rotted animal carcasses or bones.

It irks her, and not just because her inability to catch a worthy kill bruises her ego. The High Forest is a place bursting with life, and yet it's so quiet. In some places, the pall of death is overwhelming, and she can't bear to stay in those regions for a second longer than she must.

She's spent most of her time looking for the other things on the list. Her efforts have rewarded her with the listed berries and herbs, and she's even found a few small crystals where the ground was soft enough to dig. Her keen eyes scoured the forest for the amber, but like worthy prey, that has also eluded her. Still, she grips her shortbow in her hand, hoping she'll find what she's looking for.

A distant crack of bark causes her to twist her head toward the noise. She sees movement between the trunks of tall red maple trees and quickly realises that one of them has been felled. It's unusual—there aren't many animals in the forest that can do such a thing. Perhaps it is an orc or a troll, maybe a giant that's strayed too far from their usual trampling grounds. Upon closer inspection, though, she finds no tracks suggesting any such beasts have come this way.

She waits and listens.

Another crack precedes the toppling of another tree. It's closer this time. Sylfir backtracks on instinct. Whatever it is, it's coming in her direction.

Sylfir doesn't wish to take any chances. She calls upon her primal magic, pulling on the very forces of nature and focusing them through her ruby ring, nurturing her potential until golden wisps manifest as tendrils that lick her skin. Eventually, they coalesce into an all-encompassing aura—her eyes flutter closed as she takes her transformation in her stride.

When her eyes open again, they see with avian clarity. The beating of her black wings echoes in her ear, and she veers mid-air to fly toward a tall tree branch to gain a better vantage point.

As a raven, she watches movement on the forest floor below. Another resounding crack rings throughout the forest, and she turns her gaze toward its source. Her avian head twitches this way and that as her eyes catch sight of brown, white-tipped feathers shifting beneath the lower tree branches, just as another tree falls. It has the look of an owlbear at first, but as it moves out from underneath the branches, she sees the scarred, mutilated head of a black wolf.

She hops along the branch she's perched on to get a better look. The creature uses its acid-green eyes to search the forest, looking up to sniff the air, and for a moment, she worries the beast has caught her scent. Its face is bleeding, and as it growls, it bares its red-stained teeth.

It has killed recently.

It prowls through the forest until it reaches the place where Sylfir once stood, and it stops to sniff the ground.

Then comes the sound of a low, resonant hum, and Sylfir feels her stomach lurch. She turns her head toward the noise to find a hooded figure beneath the boughs, softly chanting in a language she doesn't recognise. By the pitch of their voice and the way their rich blue robes hang off them, she judges her to be a woman, and with a flourish of her fingers, she beckons the beast toward her.

The beast obliges like an obedient lapdog, coming to sit before her on its hind legs, not unlike those of a giant panther of black fur, a long, thick tail trailing in its wake. Sylfir has never seen anything so strange.

The woman begins to draw on the energy of the surrounding forest, sapping it of life to channel her foul magics to the beast. The nearby flowers whither and the smaller creatures of the forest scatter as the beast heals at the cost of their lives. Sylfir fights the feeling of sickness to observe the horror.

The woman is inflicting a blight on the forest. Her magic has the stink of necromancy, and while it is vile, Sylfir cannot deny she wields it with formidable skill and finesse. She can feel its reach even as high up as she is.

The other birds can feel it, too, and they take to the wing, but Sylfir remains. The commotion of their flight has the woman looking up, however, and she soon locks onto Sylfir with sanguine eyes, though the rest of her face is covered with a cloth mask and a cowl. They seem curious at first but then grow surprised.

Does she know she does not behold a true raven? Sylfir thinks.

The look in her eyes implies she may very well have the requisite discernment to glean her true nature. Sylfir feels caught; she turns and takes to the wing like the birds before her, fleeing the scene with a furious beating of her wings.

She flies for a long time, long enough to know that the woman couldn't hope to follow her. She stays close to the canopy of the forest, searching for a place where she can pierce it to land on the forest floor beneath. Finding a suitable gap between great oaks, she swoops down to the forest soil as the golden aura of her transformation takes her. When she lands, it is not on talons, but on her feet, having returned to her form just before her landing, and her momentum brings her forward in a slow jog before she comes to a halt. With a quick jerk, she turns back on instinct to make sure no one is following her, and after a few beats of silence—save for the rustle of leaves and the bustle of small creatures—she's satisfied that she's not being tailed.

Amid the quiet, she frowns as she turns her thoughts back to the beast, and more importantly, to the woman. Khaliss and Alfie recounted seeing a man, yet it was clear that a woman was the beast's companion.

She shakes her head. No, that woman is not the beast's companion—she is its handler, Sylfir suspects. Her mind wanders with thoughts of who this woman could be, who she might work for, and to what end she terrorises a sleepy village at the edge of the High Forest.

But as the sky grows ever darker, she rids herself of such thoughts. Eventide has come, and she still hasn't found suitable prey for an offering to Eilistraee. Her earlier misfortune might be a blessing in disguise, however, as she has landed near what appears to be a boar's burrow. At this time of the day, they are most active, and she turns her sharp eyes to the ground. A few minutes of searching sees her find fresh tracks, made by a hoofed animal and far enough apart to belong to a boar, she is certain.

She grows quiet to enter the right state of mind, and when she has achieved it, she begins the hunt. Her footsteps are careful, every movement measured as to make the least amount of sound. She wends her way through the forest for a good while, keeping close to the tracks but still paying attention to her surroundings, sensitive ears picking up the late evening song of birds and the chirping of crickets. This part of the forest seems to be more alive than the region closer to Summerfall, having not suffered the withering touch of the beast and its master, and for a moment, Sylfir could trick herself into believing all is well.

This feels like hunting deeper in the forest where her home lies. Most of the time she hunts like this—alone—but sometimes she ventures into the woods with her father, his keen senses honed from centuries of ranging. They haven't done that for years, but she wishes he was here now—she could benefit from his hunting skills. She doesn't doubt that he would have found a worthy offering in half the time she's spent in the forest.

Following the tracks, she finds a place where the trees grow thin, giving way to a small watering hole threaded by a narrow river. It's there that she spies her prey—a healthy boar, and a male, judging by its protruding tusks. It doesn't look fully mature, and she's fairly certain it is just light enough for her to carry. She takes her shortbow in her hand, sliding an arrow from the quiver at her hip.

It shows no signs that it's aware of her presence, its back turned to her as it dips its head to take a drink. She sidesteps, keeping close to the trees as she finds the right position, just to the right and rear of it. Her gaze focuses just as it lands on the creature's ear, and she settles, nocking her arrow and drawing her bowstring until it kisses her lips at the cupid's bow.

A few dilated seconds pass as she calms her nerves, and then she releases the arrow.

It flies through the air so quickly that the animal has no time to react to the whistling sound it makes. The arrowhead punches through the ear to pierce the brain, and it drops dead in an instant, its head sinking into the shallow water at the banks of the watering hole.

Sylfir rolls her head back and sighs. Finally. She has what Khaliss asked for.

She goes to the felled boar, reaching down to drag it out of the water. With deft fingers, she takes out her hunting knife and pulls at its belly, slicing the skin to butcher it with precision and care. A swift slice of the throat exposes the oesophagus, and she reaches into the cavity of its carcass to take all of the organs out in one fell swoop, grimacing as she pulls them loose from the slimy membranes that keep them anchored. Wrinkling her nose from the smell, she leaves them where they lie in the forest for a scavenger to sup on them, then removes the head with careful slices of her hunting knife to remove the unnecessary weight.

Next, she takes the knife to the front trotters, slicing between the front and back toes before going to its hind hocks and piercing a hole in the flesh between the fibula and tibia. When she's done, she looks the animal over and then pulls a roll of rope from her pack. She unrolls it to a length she deems suitable, then wraps it around the hunting knife at the point she wants it cut, pulling it toward her as she pushes the knife's cutting edge away, and the tension is enough to sever the rope. Then she ties it around the front left trotter, embedding the knot in the groove she cut into it, then threads the rope through the hole in its left hind hock, pulling at it to bring the legs together. With sharp motion, she does the same for the right fore and hind legs, turning its body into a kind of two-sleeved pack.

Looking around, she searches the terrain for a ledge or a slope. She finds one, but it's farther away than she'd like, though she has little choice but to travel there. Then, taking the boar by the hind legs, she drags it through the forest, its thick, bristled hide bumping over tree roots and collecting loose leaves. She eventually reaches the gentle slope and places the carcass on it, laying it on its back so she can slot her arms into the gaps between its tied legs before hauling herself up with the aid of gravity. It's not the heaviest boar she carried, but after hours of hunting through the forest, it's beginning to feel like it.

A tired sigh falls from her lips as she takes her map from her pack, unfolding the creased parchment, hoping to gain her bearings. Though the High Forest is her home, it is vast, and this part of it is foreign to her. From what little she can glean, she's a lot farther from Summerfall than she'd like. It will probably be nightfall by the time she gets back.

She shakes her head before taking the first step on her return journey, following the narrow river downstream.