Days in midsummer were good. Always. The forest grew lush with foliage, and the animals were always full-bellied and contented. Summer was the time the Forest Mother could, for once, feel at ease—recline against the vivacious woodlands and rest peacefully, knowing the flora and fauna were thriving even without her watchful eye.

That's how it was, at least. Before whatever ousted her from her goddesshood. When she'd heard the Skorungr mention a hunt for wild boar, skepticism blossomed immediately—prey animals had been strengthened by the abundance of warmth. Even without such an augmentation, a swine was not an animal to underestimate; they're strong, broad-bodied, bearing formidable tusks and an impressively strong wit.

Mielikki would not join the hunt. She was not built to fell such beasts. Instead, she stood along the treeline with small bits of plants in her grasp—a sprig of saskatoon berries, a small pile of oak leaves with a bundle of moss. She had not packed a lot—just enough to know that in the off-chance that someone gets injured, they won't be helpless.