Woodland nearing Kennick's Camp, ~2pm Sunday May 5th, 1771
Maggie was not lost exactly: she had simply been following her feet, wandering aimlessly hither and yon in hopes, perhaps, that some man would jump out at her to be knocked flat. It chafed, to be constantly told she was at particular risk when no dafter than any man, nor less fleet than most, and that going freely would be held against her should 'anything' - that one thing - happen to her. Since she had left the borrowed church bonnet at the Sextons', the ruddy glow of her hair in the dapples shone naked to the greenwood, though she had her shawl for any matter of public decency. It wouldn't still the gossips' tongues, of course, even with the silence of Widow Sexton.
She'd left the trails oft-visited with her father (who held no such threats over her head, nor ever cared she wasn't a son, save for occasionally asking with a slightly confused rememberance if she'd like new material for dresses) and those made by foxes, barncats, martens and other slinking things with sharp teeth and moonlit eyes, and now scrambled amongst trackless tumbled rocks and trees heading into the giant's ditch. The woodland smelled thick and green and good, mulch and moss yielding gently under her feet.
A woodpigeon hurled itself into the air like a gunshot, light lancing through its wings. Maggie squeezed through a gap between boulders and dropped down onto loam spotted with old beech leaves like coins, grinning to herself, and looked up to see three men standing not ten paces away.
This message was last edited by the GM at 11:12, Fri 21 Oct 2022.
