There is a glade of trees, an oasis among the otherwise scorched pasture, withering in the summer heat. A structure lies within, a cold stone hut, the roof collapsed, the walls bowing outwards, ready to tumble at the slightest breeze upon them. Water trickles from a small pipe in one wall, clean and fresh, obviously the source of the abundant plantlife.
The glade is quiet. Too quiet to be empty. Carefully, eyes darting around always, a hunter emerges from the shadows and into the shaft of sunlight which catches the trickling water and makes it shimmer like diamond. She is thin, too thin, and carries a bow that looks far too strong for her to draw. Kneeling, she cups her hands benath the flow, letting them fill before bringing them to her lips. A little taste first, tongue darting out and lapping at the water, then more urgent drinking. She takes her fill, hands cupped beneath the water twice more, before filling her gourd. All the time, eyes watch around her, ears listen for the slightest sound that shouldn't be there. Slowly, carefully, she stands once more, stepping backwards into the shadows, her drab hunter's garb disguising her sooner than the darkness does, and is gone.