Goat Field

A cramped, muddy field bordered by gnarled hedgerows and stunted oaks, its damp earth scored with the tracks of boots and tires. The late afternoon light filters through a bruised sky, casting long shadows that swallow the edges of the clearing. Tall wet grass clings to legs with each step, releasing the sharp scent of crushed vegetation and the metallic tang of rain-soaked soil. Beyond the field’s shallow dip, the Welsh countryside stretches in sodden patches of bracken and gorse, its usual quiet shattered by the hum of Gavrok’s starship orbiting overhead. The field serves as a fleeting crossroads where pursuit halts and dread gathers—a fragile membrane between concealment and discovery where a decoy goat’s bleat stills the soldiers’ advance.