The wyldwood, with its suffocating fog and the lurking ravenous glares just out of view, was never truly quiet. Constant hunts and dying howls plagued the monochrome forest, but if someone were to stand perfectly still, the cacophony of fear and death seemed little more than unsettling ambiance. An occasional resounding scream broke out from the looping soundtrack, but it rarely did anything other than startle a resting creature. So a barking horde of brambles stampeding after their prey hardly warranted the attention of any other beasts as they sliced through the woods.

She let loose a shriek of profanities as wildflowers ensnared her ankle and sent her to the forest floor. She should have seen them, a near electric blue in the misty monotonous gray. Tumbling down a steep sloping hill, she wrestled to keep her limbs out of the maw of a hedge wolf. It snapped and snarled as it aimed for her throat. The rest of its pack bounded after them, determined to get a piece of the kill. Reaching the base of the decline, she hit the ground hard and twisted awkwardly to get to her feet. One of the hounds managed to sink its teeth into her calf. Yelping, she somehow kicked it from her leg and continued to flee as best she could with blood trailing every step.

Cursing the density of the undergrowth, the woman wondered why they would chase after her with the amount of iron she wore. Perhaps her human scent overwhelmed the lethal stench of metal. She knew that with the coppery reek of blood in the air adding to the jostling of her chain skirt and heady perfume, she had no way to lose the mutts in the woods. The only choice left was to fight. So reaching a miniscule clearing, she delved her left hand into her satchel for something serrated, threw the bag up into a nearby tree, and spun on her attackers. Brandishing her weapons, the wolves hesitated at the added presence of iron.

She flexed her right hand, polished metal reaching over her nails in sharpened talons. How grateful she was that she chose to take the time to fit the clawed rings on that morning. She did not anticipate a fight and now cursed herself for not carrying her blades on her at all times. Nonetheless, the tipped steel jewelry connected with short chains to a bracelet was more than just an accessory. Nothing could ever be just for show in the Nevernever. Their lethality was proved by the stinging gouges in her sides and the slashes in her shirt from her spill. Sure, they made writing and contact with others difficult, if not dangerous, but they finally got to serve their intended purpose of surprise self-defense. Her left hand occupied a bagh naka, four curved blades resting against her palm on a crossbar between her thumb and pinkie. She may not have had her swords, but she still had a longer knife-edge to put some distance between her and threats, no matter how small.

A few of the hounds hunkered down and backed away, knowing better than to tangle with iron, especially since their prey had deigned that she no longer needed to flee. The more arrogant of the pack simply growled and circled around her. With fewer threats, she knew she could take the rest on without too much difficulty. The woman sunk slowly until she was level with the wolves and then lunged at the one to her left. She slashed across its face and felt its mass unravel as she swiveled. Another leapt at her, but she hooked the blade of the bagh naka in its snapping jaw and slammed it into the ground. The impact sent a flush of glamour like a tidal wave, and the sickening feel of the foreign iron slammed into the remaining pack. More bowed out of the fight.

A final wolf charged, determined to get its reward after such a chase. She not so much as dodged than collapsed on her wounded leg, but she ripped into its flank with her taloned rings. It yipped and whimpered as it landed, limping away with the decision that this kill was not worth its life. She scrambled to her feet and swelled her glamour around her as the pack finally faded back into the woods with defeated snarls.

Puck had been lounging in a color-drained tree, twirling his daggers between his fingers in utter boredom, when the strongest scent of green apples he had ever smelled practically rammed into him. With him being who he was, he naturally followed the trail, becoming more intrigued as signs of a struggle and chase aligned with the wafting smell. Having caught up to the fleeing figure, he kept pace with her without gaining her attention. Once they reached the clearing, Puck idled a tree to watch the brutal slaughter.

He regretted doing so when a heavy satchel smacked into his face.