The bushes rustled with birds.
The slope of the ravine was overgrown, a dense mass of brambles and barberry, a perfect place to nest and prey. No wonder, then, that they were full of birds. Stubborn greenfinches, nerds and warblers chirping, every sound resonated, every moment the sonorous “pink-pink” of finches.
Chaffinches warning of rain, thought Milva, instinctively glancing at the sky. There were no clouds.
But the finches were calling. We could use a little rain at last.
The place in front of the ravine was an excellent post, giving potential for a successful hunt, especially here in Brokilon, a wild forest full of beasts. The dryads who controled a large area of the forest rarely hunted, and men even more rarely dared to venture here. Here, an avid hunter of meat or hides it
