Wren does two things at once: sidesteps to put herself between the brook_woman and the shape in the trees, and draws the sword halfway. The steel makes its opinion known with a quiet ring. The Watcher does not flinch. It does not shift its weight or adjust its coat. It simply continues to be there, with the patience of something that has never been in a hurry and does not intend to start. "Does it have a name?" Wren asks, not looking back. "Several," says the brook_woman, from somewhere behind Wren's right shoulder. "None that I'd say aloud at a stream crossing." The pale oval tilts, very slightly — the way a curious animal might, if it had no face to show curiosity with. Not a threat. Not a welcome. The mist holds still between them. Wren's grip tightens on the hilt. Twenty paces. The Thornwood waits.