The Ent is a large creature, dreaded in legends and by any hunter who'd ran into one. They were as old as the forests they lumbered in, but not trees. Wood flesh, but not wood. Of blood, yet never bleeding. Alive and yet undying. In other words, ageless, fearsome monsters.
Most common folk knew of one hunter, or unfortunate traveler, from towns on the frontier who had been killed by one of the ancient beasts. They lived near the largest trees in the old forests, but would sometimes wander and while it was safest to stay by the roads, but out in the wilds safety was never guaranteed. When the weeds were high, the weather was wet, and the lights dim, the Ent's would be bolder and explore edges of their territory. It was this time of year I chose to enter the woods.
My mother would not know I was leaving, or what hour I left the comfort of her home. Though the flittering curtains at my open window would likely reveal what I had done. I wasn't defenseless, there were several spells on my mind as I entered the woods. My steps were quiet, and I prayed to the gods of this land to let me pass with without being disturbed by any of the beasts that roamed this land when the suns fell below the horizon.
Well, that was not entirely true. There was something in this forest that made my heart beat and my legs tremble with a deep, nearly tangible, need.
After hearing large stomps somewhere to my left, I headed that way.
Many were scared of the Ents, and for reasons that would make most people shudder. Some had seen their friends captured by the forest protectors and ripped limb from limb before their parts were strung up in the branches--Ents didn't eat meat. They'd been seen picking up rogue merchants by their feet before pounding them into the ground until nothing was left but pulp.
Children, because Ents never attacked children, would stumble back into villages if they could live through the rest of the dangers that lived in the woods. There they would be seen crying about how their parents had been taken from them by roots which had wrapped around their ankles and dragged them deeper into the thick undergrowth. Some claimed they'd been grabbed so quickly their faces had been torn off and left to rot in the roots. This was where bloody face mushrooms spawned, or so said the old wise tales.
I had heard these stories, and yet here I was. At the most dangerous time of year, at the most dangerous hour, walking towards the sound of a large beast in the woods. It was late spring and the dark of night, though the way was clear as a full harvest moon hung bright over the tree line.
I was not the daughter of my mother, who raised me. In fact, I was wasn't sure whose family I'd been born too. But, as it had been retold to me several times throughout my life, my tiny newborn body had been left on the doorstep of the witch's hut after heavy dangerous footsteps had been heard receding from the door. And I'd been swaddled in a fabric made of woven holly and a basket of fresh bent yew branches.
