The goats were, indeed, thriving. Clean, healthy, and they didn't have that lean look about them most animals got in the winter. Most were gamboling about in the paths their much larger brethren had cleared through the deep snows or climbing the craggy ridges that sheltered the home from the worst of the snows.
"Dangerous trek here," Wilde remarked, to affirm that Emery was welcome to rest here as long as he needed. Emery's grimace was a familiar expression - an attempt at the daily niceties when your mind was on anything but. And if he'd made the journey here, now, just to check on the descendants of his wife's flock, well. Wilde could sympathize with feeling nostalgia for something you could never get back.
"Head on in when you've had your fill of the goats. I've a few things to take care of out here, and then I'll get you sorted. And don't mind Gerda - just let her sniff you so she knows you're not some brigand."
Gerda, it turned out, was an old sow Wilde would take into the woods for truffling. She'd been black once but had gone quite grey in her bristles as well as her eyes. Her sense of smell was keen as ever though and she greeted any stranger by shoving her head in their stomach to get a good whiff of them, before returning to her spot by the cooking fire.
The home itself was an organized sort of chaos. It was warm, clean, well maintained, smelling of pinewood from the floorboards, and the constant aroma de chèvre that seemed to permeate any space Wilde lived in long enough. There were deer pelts and straw rugs on the floor, chests of mohair in varying states of being turned to wool or thread. Furniture was wood, cushioned with wild animal pelts, or cushions knitted from wool.
Dusty books - mostly almanacs, but also a few religious texts and the occasional anthology of fables or tales of brave knights that may spur a brash child to go join a band of mercenaries to seek out storybook glories - cluttered the various shelves along with tools and various statuettes of the saints, carved from wood or bone. Wilde's bow, quiver, sling, and sword were hung by the door, along with his horn and several snares for trapping rabbits and squirrels.
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"Dangerous trek here," Wilde remarked, to affirm that Emery was welcome to rest here as long as he needed. Emery's grimace was a familiar expression - an attempt at the daily niceties when your mind was on anything but. And if he'd made the journey here, now, just to check on the descendants of his wife's flock, well. Wilde could sympathize with feeling nostalgia for something you could never get back.
"Head on in when you've had your fill of the goats. I've a few things to take care of out here, and then I'll get you sorted. And don't mind Gerda - just let her sniff you so she knows you're not some brigand."
Gerda, it turned out, was an old sow Wilde would take into the woods for truffling. She'd been black once but had gone quite grey in her bristles as well as her eyes. Her sense of smell was keen as ever though and she greeted any stranger by shoving her head in their stomach to get a good whiff of them, before returning to her spot by the cooking fire.
The home itself was an organized sort of chaos. It was warm, clean, well maintained, smelling of pinewood from the floorboards, and the constant aroma de chèvre that seemed to permeate any space Wilde lived in long enough. There were deer pelts and straw rugs on the floor, chests of mohair in varying states of being turned to wool or thread. Furniture was wood, cushioned with wild animal pelts, or cushions knitted from wool.
Dusty books - mostly almanacs, but also a few religious texts and the occasional anthology of fables or tales of brave knights that may spur a brash child to go join a band of mercenaries to seek out storybook glories - cluttered the various shelves along with tools and various statuettes of the saints, carved from wood or bone. Wilde's bow, quiver, sling, and sword were hung by the door, along with his horn and several snares for trapping rabbits and squirrels.