Blackfeather Woods Like summer storms, the skies as grey as leaves.

He swept away from the shape as swiftly as he could. Mesa did not know these woods; his path was irregular, jolting from place to place while an eye was kept to his surroundings. He knew soon enough that he could not see his attacker and would have to employ other senses.

By the time he'd slowed for a breath, he'd found his way to a meadow near the forest's heart. There was a single oak-like tree standing tall with a crown of branches, and the air tasted almost thick. He blamed the humidity (it was not the humidity, but the pollen that filled the air).

Wheeling first one way and then another, he hoped to hear the stranger coming, or by chance catch a real glimpse in this open space; but all he saw was a slim silhouette bracketed by shadows, enough to distort.