The trees have to be tied down by sunset. When the Woodsmen come, they always try to run.
The girls who are skilled forgers fashion little iron stakes to drive through the roots of the trees and into the earth, anchoring them in place. With no gifts for forging between the two of us, Boróka and I haul great length of rope, snaring any trees we pass in clumsy loops and awkward knots. When we finish, it looks the spider web of some giant creature, something the woods might cough up. The thought doesn’t even make me shiver. Nothing that might break through the tree line could be worse than the Woodsmen.
There was once a village on the edge of a lush forest, known far and wide as the safest place in the land. The evil creatures of Grimm had not attacked there since long before anyone could remember, and it was said that the woods themselves protected the people from harm: as long as no one dared to enter the charmed forest, it would keep the monsters at bay.
Good evening dear readers!