Haunted Wood and no i couldn’t get him out

The rose cygnet suppresses that tell-tale glower;
forgive me, she wisps in the entrances of her mind, in silent prayer that her god will hear her. This thrashing monster wrought and wrings her very insides, this fury, the claws and gnaws to burst and scream and leave the heathens she trails behind in tatters; tatters they should be.
she cannot bend over for her cousins' will forever-always, nor will she for anyone but her deity. No, she will rain flame and vehemence on the family once again, for she deems herself the herald of the holy (even though it's self-proclaimed act of lunacy); hymnal and eidolic (but it doesn't exist). 

Carrying that familiar cadence of brooding, falsehood, eerie; they come upon a secluded weald, ah, for reprieve. Rohesia's kinsfolk all insist that The High Elk had yet to lead them to their new haven, new womb, but! All assured, the woman knows he rests within her, in those frostbitten veins. "I will scour for herbs, then," she replies to no particular soul, weaving off between the oak trunks for something to substitute for her apothecary until their refuge is properly claimed.