Stone Circle sit with you in the trenches

olden years had made her senses sharp. and she feels the stranger's gaze on her long before he'd approached the mouth of the hut. her eyes slide over him, unhurried, to note every detail.
the man was young, lean. tempered by bleeding wounds and freshly cut scars that told of a warrior’s life. and there was a crimson hunger in his eyes. like a dagger, ready to be unsheathed.
and yet, the slight caution in his posture suggests he had yet to fully embrace the mantle. or maybe he simply found her strange.
she gestures with a jut of her head for him to enter,  "sit," an order, but not unkind. she already begins to tuck dried yarrow between teeth and collects a ball of fresh moss she'd soaked earlier in the creek.
"your name, young warrior."