Wary of what he might carry on his hooves, Rille enters the Forest by way of a stream cutting through the woods. Running water cleanses, absolves: the black dappled Vanner treads carefully through this anointment until he is well past the Thicket’s borders. Only then does he step carefully from the stream to stand upon its humble bank and take stock of his surroundings. The trees are taller, here, spaced more generously to account for the venerable sentinels sharing both earth and sky, and the wide path before him is blessedly littered with old pine needles. He draws in a deep, appreciative breath of the conifers scattered among their oak and maple cousins, nostalgia engulfing him in so strong a wave he must close his eyes and stand fast against a sudden wave of homesickness.

It passes, flowing out from him like the tide. Rille opens his eyes to a golden mid-afternoon on Luthien and twists his ears, listening. He listens past the pleasant burble of the water near his hooves and beyond the scuttle of small things rifling through the underbrush, tunes out the song of the wind rippling so invitingly through the leaves and the whistling cries of the birds above until his focus narrows on the low creak and groan of each great tree that sways overhead: the Forest hums, a slow, drawn out harmony, each tree a note critical to the greater song.

Slowly, he allows the rest to trickle in: the birds, the wind, the water, the innumerable lives threading urgently all along the forest floor— for here is the symphony of the land that birthed his dam, vibrant and lively and light. Rille takes a tentative step forward. It is a little like entering a sacred realm, a land spoke of in legend and so distant as to be thought of as unreal, imaginary, a story. He takes another step and then stops, overwhelmed, his mahogany eyes cast upward in reverent disbelief.