Sun Mote Copse Caraway Tea

Where Sun Mote Copse met the Cricket Creek bog stood a little hillock that Wraen occasionally liked to perch on and spend a half hour or more, observing the surroundings and reading the scents that the wind brought either from the Heron Lake plateau, from the nearby thicket along with the melodic voices of grouse, from the mountains on the other side of the valley and occasionally even a breeze from the ocean reached her with smells of saltwater, wet sand and distant screeching voices of the gulls.

It was a good place to do your job (technically it counted as patrolling), have time on her own and travel the distances that she was unable to do now. In the past year Wraen had cris-crossed the Hinterlands, she knew most of the territories by heart and she needed only a tiny scent particle, a bit of a sound for her imagination to kick in action and conjure the whole image. And while she walked those dreamscape plains, to the rest of the world she was very still with a faraway look in her eyes.