Butch the Wereboar

Mist beads on the heather as Butch and his son work through the brush. The boy points out bent reeds and split mud, and Butch slows to show him what each mark means.

Butch gives a low, approving grunt and sets his shield against one shoulder, the familiar weight making his stance easy. The boy straightens at that, trying to copy the shape of it with both hands and a serious face.

The son glances toward her, then back to Butch, a grin breaking through his concentration. He asks about the shield next, not the axe, and the moor falls quiet around the question.

Butch and Sable share a look in the mist, warm and wordless. Ahead, the brush opens toward their timber home, and the path feels easy for once.

Butch stops beside a fresh pair of prints where the mud still shines wet. He crouches and taps the deeper heel mark with one thick finger, then shifts his son’s attention to the dragged edge beside it.

The boy kneels, mimicking the shape in the mud with careful hands. Butch nods once and angles his shield toward the track line, showing how a body blocks wind and leaves its own story behind.

Sable smiles from the path edge, her gaze flicking past them to the heather. For a heartbeat, the long grass there seems too still, as if something is listening behind it.

Butch lets the lesson settle, then points out a second trail crossing the first, faint as a whisper. The boy’s face brightens with certainty as he follows both lines into the mist, while Sable’s smile thins at the dark patch in the reeds.