A cluster of pines stand on an otherwise lonely hilltop. Long ago, they were planted by a hag who lost her coven. Desolate, she planted trees all around her cabin, tending them like she would have cared for her sisters. As her grief lessened, though, she became weary of staying in the same place all the time. Eventually, when the trees were only about six feet high, she coaxed her cabin to rise again and, on its chicken legs, was borne away. The grove still has an uncanny, mournful air about it. Stepping into the trees, the sunlight already feels watery and weak; lingering there too long, one grows cold. Some have said that they have found the marks of bird feet, too large for any natural bird, imbedded in the soft carpet of needles below the trees, indicating that the hag may sometimes return.