I walk through my forest home along the well-trodden path stopping every once in a while, first at a birch and then a small twilight gourd bush covered in small veins of purple and unripe green fruit. Each time I pick a small rabbit and length of rope from the plant and re set the snare. It was a shame the twilight gourds are not yet ripe. They would be delicious. Those same veins of purple would expand to cover the whole plant softening the great delicacies and causing the leaves to become toxic.

I notice a flash of pink and stop. Breathing deeply, I calm myself and take two steps back. Among the dried leaves of the forest floor I see a ring of tiny pink flowers each so delicate they could be ruined with a touch and a stark contrast to the robust pillars of wood supporting the canopy. These are fairy bloom. They only appear for one week a year and are essential for the enchantment of bonded weapons.

With my heart pumping in my ears and three dead rabbits on my belt I dash through the forest, pouring more magical energy into my wind step spell. Excitement driving me faster and faster. The assortments of browns and greens merging with the occasional flashes of colour from the bright insects and plants I almost certainly know by name. turning sharply to avoid the blue feelers of a toxic bogshroom I continue.

I have now seen twelve winters so I can finally go through the trials to obtain the soul blades of a ranger. It is silly that they are called that because even though they are all weapons they often don’t have blades and the nice man who works in the book store told me the bonding enchantment did not have anything to do with a soul. The soul blades are important because they show a person has completed the ranger trials. With those their futures are secure because they can get a free pass to the rangers.

I never wanted to be a ranger. I wouldn’t mind the job but I always wanted something more. I was always fascinated with the study of how things worked and most of all magic. I wanted to become a mage and throw great balls of pretty rainbow coloured flames on my enemies or spend my time looking at how to make lives better with cleaning enchantments on rivers. I knew now that I would never have the chance. No academy would accept a half-breed nobody like me who lived in the woods his whole life. The rangers were the best way to go. Anyway, I was ok to stick to my two meagre spells for now. Besides owning the soul weapons didn’t make you a ranger instantly, it just proved that you could if you wanted to.

I finally see my house up ahead. It is a small log cabin with four rooms and just enough space for the three of us. The first thing my father taught me is that if what I owned was too much to carry it was too much for a ranger. We never needed any extra space.

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I approached my father. He looked up from sharpening his knife. It was his turn to cook today. He was always a kind man with a rough appearance and a series of scars I always thought looked awesome. He got them from his time in the military during one of the great orc wars. They also left him with a permanent sneer though I have never once seen him angry. His hair was a mottled brown that never seemed to stay down or sit still on his head just like mine, except his hair was beginning to show signs of grey where mine held streaks of green like the woodfolk.

“what have I told you about running like that?” he asks without a hint of scolding.

“the noise will alert any monsters that I am approaching and it only takes one well prepared goblin to kill me.” I replied. It was a lesson that had been drilled into me by both my parents and dangerously close calls with the sneaky critters. “But I found some fairy bloom. Can’t I be excited for once.”

“That is no excuse” my father responds” Go and get your mother and give me those rabbits you’ve goth there you can leave with her after you have got some stew down you.” I smile, my father’s stew is the best. I hand him the three rabbits as I begin to walk back to the forest I have called my home for so long. This time showing more caution and searching the area for tracks to reveal my mother’s location.

Five minutes later I have found her sitting in a tree, bow nocked and eyes riveted to the nearby game trail. She is a beautiful woman with the characteristic green tinted skin and hair of the woodfolk alongside their pointed ears. She does have a few light wrinkles from age but still supports her lithe athletic form that my father always claimed was the first thing he fell in love with. I try to sneak the last part of the distance to her seat but she notices. She almost always does. “calling me back for stew today?” she similes towards me with a warm voice everyone likes.“yes” I respond turning as, catlike, my mother hopped down beside me.

Listening to the call of the birds and the rustling of the lush greenery that surrounds me I marvel at my mother’s soundless footsteps and then hear a crack. It is small but out of place in the sounds of the forest this far from the more frequented game trails. My mother seems to have heard it too because she is just as still as myself with her second soul blade, a throwing needle, prepared in her hand.

A goblin rushes from the undergrowth letting out a tiny battle cry and raising its club before collapsing with a needle in its eye. The goblin is a runt. They are used to scavenge and scapegoat the goblin tribes and from the look of the half-starved little goblin it has been mistreated badly. Not that it wouldn’t do the same if the positions were reversed. Killing the monster was the right thing to do, it had threatened our lives.

Slowly we moved on, picking up the pace as we detect the scent of cooking stew. Sitting beside the small kitchen fire place with his hot meaty broth my father begins to fill the bowls with stew. As always it tastes amazing but even more so with the excitement thick in the air, around my mother the most. “I am proud you decided to do the test this year. We leave in an hour; just remember everything we’ve taught you and I’m sure you’ll pass with flying colours. Our little ranger.”

“I’m thirteen years and twelve winters, hardly little mother.” I object

“our little ranger” she repeats with a smile.