Red hair catches the endings of the sun, glimmering in shades of flame while rippling down a slender figure, a figure which moves swiftly past tree and bush alike, emerald eyes focused, intent. Her steps are paced, even, and with practiced cunning of care and culturing, leaving few prints behind in the blanket of snow that softens all, and the few beams of sunlight that escape the darkening horizon glint off the edge of a dagger palmed easily in this female’s hands. Nothing but concentration is upon her ivory features as she whisks behind cover only to jet out once again in a pursuit of keen clarity and swiftness. Her jade gaze is wide, flesh-toned lips are pressing together in an expression of hunger and an inherited thirst for blood. The hunt is not what it once was for her, however, and this is apparent in her unwillingness to pursue her prey… the wide-eyed deer scampers away into the white night, silently counting its animalistic blessings. Her movements cease and she stands near a rather towering, leave-deprived tree, its bare branches woefully reaching towards a darkening sky, and the huntress’s eyes downcast, partially from the soon-to-be-gone glare of the sunset and partially due to the fact that her dinner just escaped.

“Damn...” she swears softly to herself, sliding her blade into a sheath strapped securely on her right thigh. “I’m not thinking clearly enough....” These woods are tainted to her now, and rushing that deer sparked too many of home-saturated memories. A flash of a long-gone image pierces her mind: the campfire flickers with a cool night breeze, and the sound of laughter and music is in the air… some dance, some eat, some sit and watch the others in a content expression of togetherness and the pure unbridled fact of just being alive.

With a feral-sounding growl, she moves from her position near the tree, severely irritated at herself. If it wasn’t for that damn man… that bastard of a male! If it only did not matter to her, if only they had never met, if only she did not follow his footsteps, if only she did not believe his lies, if only…. What-ifs can do her no good, and she realizes this, for she shoves away these thoughts with an exclamation to the dying sun.

“Damn all’ah this.. an’ah damn him as well!” Valen. The name held so much devotion not so long ago, but she has been scorned – abandoned, all her sacrifices were in vain. She has been led on, deceived... and anger, as well as a need for vengeance, settles in.



She can tell it is time to go... the winds are whispering. As when something tells the wild birds to leave for warmer places, something in these woods is telling her to leave. A chill begins to nestle softly ‘round all, though her body does not turn cold, but inside? Inside, she is freezing... that sort of feeling that cannot be described, as though one was trying to describe a rainbow to a man who cannot see – impossible without losing the most important effect in the explanation.

She begins to walk in an even, measured path, and though the thought of stopping off at that tavern enters her mind, it exits just as quickly. It will bring more thoughts of him, or perhaps the actual man, and the image of him actively engaging in wining that... that worthless, tactless, dishonorable wench back pours scornfully into her mind. That wench made it clear she did not want him before, so why should she want him again now? And why? He had loved her, he must have! With all those nights…. She swallows hard, rage starting to bubble in her stomach, and her chest heavies with the burden of anger. She knows not why he has done any of this, why he has discarded her to try again for a surely lost cause, and this knowledge infuriates her even further. Her fingers are edgy, and they tap and slide against the hilt of her dagger as she moves. For that is what she feels she is pierced with... a dagger such as hers, something sharp and quick, and painfully bleeding....

The forest is still, and the snow whispers its coming with tendrils that brush up against her bare skin. There will be no moon tonight, no beacon for which her path could be lit. Stars? Perhaps... perhaps not, a storm swells soon. The breeze teases against her cheeks, calling her back, away from the town, from that wench, from the undeserving bastard who has his sword through her heart, towards ...home.

Something drops behind her, leaving a large imprint... a longsword, discarded in the small whisps of snow; she moving swiftly through the wood. Run fast, run free, the bare trees murmur, the sky slowly losing its luminosity as the sun disappears beneath the horizon. Go home, go home....

The wind seems unearthly this eve, having a strange coldness that brushes against her flushing cheeks, the forest silent of any activity, and she feels the zephyrs run up against her skin in a caressing coldness, damp from the flakes of snow that filter down from clouds that now loom overhead. The sword is gone, but the dagger...? She keeps her hand upon it, silently debating whether or not to toss it aside as well. But she cannot leave it behind – such a story comes with this blade, the jeweled symbols upon the small hilt marking the hunting tribe to which she was born – those who call themselves the Trin. The Trin, she thinks, a bitter tone to her inner monologue, the tribe I left behind. My people... will they still be there? And still, she runs.



The Trin is one of many hunting tribes that scrounge the woods of Brendal, some fight with one another, and some keep peace and help each other survive. There are clan wars, though, and family loyalty is necessary. Death is the penalty, or... it was, and this is what keeps this huntress wary. Her father, as far as she knows, still leads the Trin, and the name in which he is known is Masen. She calls him no other, nor does any of any tribe, for hunting names are earned, and once earned, it is a matter of respect. A lack of respect can lead to... serious punishments.

With all this recollecting, the fire-haired huntress’ instincts take control, and her concentration wavers, yet still she continues through the forest, dodging fallen limbs and rocks partially covered by the thin blanket of snow, her eyes locked to the darkness looming before her. How long she runs, she will not be able to recall. Darkness settles, yet, as she has guessed, no stars nor moon shall be seen tonight.

She has not thought of her parents in so long, trying not to miss them... but how can one not crave loving attention, especially when it has been ripped from them in one form or another? Masen, she wistfully recollects, he taught me all I know... how I miss the lessons, the stories, and... my mother.

A thought triggers her memories, and she stops dead in her path, her legs heavy and tired from running through the snow, the wind seeming to whisper her name. 'Kyala....' Ræchel’s voice seems so close, and she wants to run faster and longer, never ceasing until she can have that sweet sound fall upon her ears once more – the beautiful voice of her mother.

‘Another song, Ky? But it’s far past night-fall.... oh, when you look at me that way, I canna help m’self... Alright. One more.’



The sharpness of a windblast forces her to consciousness, and she stands quickly, a shivering mass of snow and furs. It has snowed almost two feet since she has last been moving, and the day has already broken. The sun cascades its warmth across the terrain of bleak trees and snow-covered dead grass, and the woman grasps for the tree nearest to her to regain her balance, closing her eyes slowly. Recalling an old technique she had been taught long times back, she concentrates on the warmth of the sun’s glow, which peeks wistfully between snow-clouds, and she pushes the numbness away from her body. Her eyes suddenly snap open, leaving the uncomfortable lifeless feeling behind, and she begins to run again through the woods, as though collapsing earlier had been nothing... as though sleeping in the snow had caused her no harm.

She wiggles her toes in her boots, boots made of leather-skin that run all the way up to her thighs, the knees covered in a steel joint of sorts, padding put between metal and flesh. Her hands and arms are protected with a strong, yet light material made into gloves that reach her elbows, and that same fabric encircles the rest of her body, a plate of the same metal as her knee protection covering the tender skin of her torso and chest, and the flexible fabric attaching each part to the other. Around her shoulders, and flowing down her back is a light cloak, lined with fur, and the outside that shimmery, moveable fabric. There is no longsword strapped to her back any longer, yet her dagger is still in its place upon her right thigh. She wears no jewelry, the woven patterns in her clothing is enough adornment for her. Her attire does not interfere with her movement.

Closer, closer... I can feel the difference in the forest... home is not far, now.... The sun moves slowly in the sky, making its routine arc over the world, and still she runs, barely noticing the difference in light until it begins to pass into night once again, the sky graying and darkening with clouds and the constantly falling snow. Why has she not been home in so long? She has missed this feeling, the freeness of the wild, the untamed beating of the heart in her chest as she moves. Ah, that is it, isn’t it? My heart... she reflects, yet there is no bitterness to her musings as her running continues. If it hadn’t ‘ave been for Valen....

Now back in the forest, she is unable to concentrate on anything else save thoughts of home, pushing the thoughts of Valen and the river-town in which he lives away, and for the first time since she saw him, she is able to do so. The forest has beckoned.

Soon, though she cannot tell how long it really takes, she reaches the clearing between the woods encircling the river-town of Valen and sadness, and the woods of her home. If asked, she will not be able to tell how long she has ran, her mind blocking out the effects of both weather and fatigue as she travels, not allowing time for food or drink. The woods of the fae are now to her left, and she heads ‘round them, farther north to continue her journey. Day passes into night, yet her instincts are still sharp, her body alert.

Something moves.

She stops, her emerald gaze wide, her ears straining for the noise she knows is about. She steps to the right suddenly, just as an arrow whizzes past her head, embedding itself in a tree trunk a foot or so behind her.

“Cease fire!” she calls out, her voice echoing in the stilling night, and ideas buzz through her mind as she identifies herself. “I am Kyala, who goes there? Who shoots upon me?” Silence meets her for what seems to be an everlasting moment.

“Kyala?” a voice finally replies, the tone sounding shocked, as though in a state of disbelief. She knows the voice instantly.

“Darec... Darec, ‘tis you?” And a fur-clad figure emerges from behind brush and darkness, his brown gaze large, and his face breaking into a smile of surprise. Rushing into an embrace, he encircles the woman with his strong arms, and whirls her up in the air, spinning her ‘round in a circle before depositing her back on her feet.

“Kyala... where ‘ave you been? ‘Tis been... years, my cousin. Years too long....”

The woman nods in agreement, her flame-coloured hair rippling with the movement, and her cousin reaches a strong hand towards the woman’s face, brushing it lovingly with his fingers.

“Aye, I know... I was to come back, but... things...” and she is quickly silenced by a touch of his fingers to her lips.

“Shh. It matters not to me, you know. I am not the one who you should be telling.” Darec’s receives silence as a reply, and his smile fades slightly, as though he feels ashamed to bring up such a subject. Instead of more talk, he takes her hand in his, and they begin to walk.

Hand in hand, as they walk, the huntress takes glances towards her cousin, and remembers….



There have been so many times the two have been there for one another, growing up together with the rest of the Trin tribe. Hunting, training, and caring for one another, the two had been friends since they were barely able to walk by themselves. He is the son of Ræchel’s sister, whom died during childbirth. Ræchel cared for Darec as if he was her own, and with Kyala’s brother Jevan the three of them were inseparable – which is slightly uncommon in all hunting tribes. Females generally do not associate with males once the age of awakening has passed.

It surprised all of the tribe when the young girl demanded to awaken with the boys of the Trin, no distraction worthy of diverting her attention to blades and the woods. Her father, having the high power in the tribe, spoke to the rest of the leaders of the Trin families and together they decided to allow the fire-head to try her luck with the males. Awakening constituted of weeks alone in the woods, with already-awakened hunters watching on in silence as they fought nature for food, shelter and warmth without an aid from others. If one grew too weak to continue on alone, a scout would rescue them and bring them back to camp for treatment. The longer one lasted, the more that one was considered “awakened”, and if, at the end of a moon’s cycle, an individual youth returned to camp on his (or, in Kyala’s case, her) two feet with proof of a kill in the shape of furs and skins, that youth was given his name.

To the Trin, the hunting name held much honor and respect, and once given, it could not be taken away. To scorn one’s name was to disgrace their ability to survive and provide – which, in turn, challenged their very life. Lack of respect of one’s name most likely ended in bloodshed.

The name is taken from the original name of the youth. Hunting tribes name children with two names, a first and a middle, and the last is the name of the tribe. Kyeste Alar became Kyala when she returned to the camp, her auburn head high and her body clad in animal furs.



A fire is burning in the middle of the Trin’s present campsite, a large circle of dancing flame tossing orange and red shadows around all. She knows these people, she is of them… or is she? It seems luck is not on her side entirely, though she does not know this presently, for the first to notice her is her brother.

Unsure of any reaction, she perceives it to be in her best interest to look as though she is trying to catch his attention first, and so she cries out to him, waving a slender arm up into the air.

“Jevan! Jevan, ‘allo!”

The chatter that has been the focal noise in the camp suddenly dies down as one man stands, broad shoulder tense, clothes lined in white winter fir, and an expression of disbelief and wonderment crosses his scarred, warrior face.

“K-Kyala?” he stammers towards the woman, and a smile begins to form upon her lips at him, yet she is not allowed the chance to finish a warm greeting, for his face turns into an ugly scowl. Without any warning, he lunges for her.

His feet propel him into her body, his shoulders slamming into her chest, and she yelps as he connects, knocking her full-force to the forest floor with him atop her. Darec, who had been standing close by, moves quickly now, catching the movement of a weapon being pulled by the attacker.

Jevan moves his sharpened blade towards his sister’s throat, and Kyala is unable to move for that moment, the shock of her brother attacking her freezing her thoughts for a dangerous moment. Luckily, her instincts take president over confusion, and she tenses up to throw him off of her while Darec grabs Jevan’s shoulders, having positioned himself behind the grounded two, and hurls the man in the opposite direction of where Kyala quickly scampers. She addresses her brother with a cry.

“What are ye doing?” Her dagger is in her hand as quickly as his had been unsheathed, and she is taut, poised, her mind reeling with possibilities and reasons.

Yet his answer is of no words, and he grips his dagger tightly, making another quick rush towards the redhead. Darec stops him with a sudden slamming of his fist into Jevan’s jaw, sidestepping into the man’s path towards the female who struggles to her feet.

“Get a’old of y’self! ‘Tis your sister!”

Jevan glances at Darec, snarling. “I know this. Ye know this. ‘Tis my duty.” And the auburn-haired huntress stands unmoving, a silent question hanging with the falling snow.

“Ræchel is dead. As is Masen. Did ye know this, dear sister?” he sneers towards her. At his words, she grows cold and silent, holding the dagger in a desperate attempt to be prepared for what she does not know or anticipate. Her mouth hangs open.

“W-what…?” she finally manages, a daze settling over her. “They canne be! Ye lie!” Her emerald eyes dart towards Darec in hopes he will tell her this is not so. Her cousin’s expression is grave. My parents… what is he talking about?

Jevan seems almost to smile, but it is one of sarcasm if anything at all, and his scowl remains, his eyes slanting and his eyebrows furrowing in fury. “Ye dare ask me these things…. ‘Tis your fault! Where the ‘ell did ye go, ye wench? What did ye think would ‘appen? Ye want t’know, Kyala?” His tone is snarl-like and his teeth clench as though they would shake with despair otherwise as he continues. “Ræchel couldne deal with your disappearing. She thought ye dead! …an’ sickness caught her.” Jevan’s voice seems to choke for a moment, but the moment passes without occurrence and only hardness remains. “Masen couldne take it, ‘e became erratic, slow… unsteady. His hunting faltered. A boar took his life, a mere boar because he was unable t’care any longer. And this… This is your fault!” Jevan takes a breath and his voice turns more into a roar than a mere shout, his fingers jittering his knife in his hands. At his last cry, he dives for her once again, his blade gleaming in the firelight.

She stands there, unmoving, trying to overcome the effects of his words, and Darec, with a sudden burst of strength, tackles her brother to the snow, the blade knocked into a flurry of flakes somewhere in the near distance. The woman begins to back away from the camp, never turning around to expose opportunities for her brother. The rest of the Trin have been frozen in place, watching in silent wonder at Kyala’s appearance and Jevan’s reaction. Jevan sees her moving slowly away, and squirms from Darec’s grasp. Masen taught both his offspring well, this is apparent.

“Oh wait, dear sister!” he cries out scornfully. “ ‘Tis only fair you answer my questions, am I right?” This stops her, only briefly, and she waits in silence, half-shadowed by the night.

“Where did you go that night... where have you been?” His voice was almost screaming, and she winces audibly at the sting of his words, at the memories they bring.

I left for a man! she crones to herself, A horrible, wretched man I met near the river-town.. whom I fell in love with and whom you would have killed had I let any of you know!

“I...” she begins, but her voice fails her, and her eyes fall, downcast. Darec looks upon her, her head bowed towards the snow as if defeated as well. Jevan speaks once again.

“What is it, Ky? You ashamed? Y’should be....” His words are cold.

“Jevan, can we... speak of this elsewhere?” Darec’s voice is soft, and he looks upon his cousins with hope, and worry. Jevan turns his head slightly, only to notice the entirety of his clan in shocking attentiveness towards him and his sister. Jevan says nothing, merely nodding, and motions for Darec to lead the way.

The cousin of the two moves slowly towards the woman, reaching out for her now-trembling hand. She wraps her fingers around his, and allows him to lead her away from the campsite. The Trin need not hear this.
~

Jevan walks in front of Kyala and Darec, looking behind him every couple of seconds as if wary that she will attack him. She has no intention of doing so, keeping in pace with Darec, and clutching onto his hand as they travel. Soon, Jevan turns around, stopping the other two short, and looking at Kyala, his eyes hard, his hands clenched.

“So, tell me, Kya-...no, no, you don’t deserve that name any longer. Kyeste Alar,” he begins again, a sneer apparent upon his features, “where have you been?”

Darec’s mouth drops open at Jevan’s words, the dishonoring of the woman appalling to him. The redhead visibly flinches, and her hand immediately goes towards her dagger.

“You dishonor me,” she begins, her voice soft, barely whisping with the falling snow, but Jevan interrupts her with sharpness.

“You dishonored yourself, Kyeste. I am Trin leader now, and I strip you of your name. You... you are responsible for the deaths of our parents, and you are the one who abandoned the Trin, and you are the one who dares to return. I hold no responsibility for you.” While he speaks, Jevan’s hand twitches. His blade is gone, but the woman knows that no Trin have but one weapon upon their person. She tenses again, her entire state in complete disarray.

“O-our paren-... H-how dare... you.... I....” She trails off, her shock and bleak expression slowly melting away into a scowl, as her dagger appears in her hand. “Take that back, Jevan,” she hisses, not willing to stoop to his level of dishonoring. “Take that back... please....” Her voice almost sounds pleading, for she does not want to fight him, yet honor of her name, of her position in her world demands it.

“Kyeste Alar, ...leave. Leave now.” She almost drops her blade at his reply, and her gaze searches his out. She begins to nod, slowly, not being able to understand her reasons for knowing to agree, but doing so just the same.
Sheathing her dagger quickly, turning from Darec, Jevan, and the camp, she runs. The woman vaguely hears Darec whisper something to Jevan, and catches her brother’s outspoken reply before she is out of hearing range.

“No Darec. I cannot do that... not even for you. She shall die. And I shall be the one to kill her.”



The sun-spun-haired woman continues to run, gaining speed with each step, farther and farther away from the Trin camp, unsure of where to go next. Jevan’s words echo over and over in her mind. ‘She shall die... She shall die...' ...And my parents....

She stops running, choking back a sob that wells up in the back of her throat. Breathing heavily, she collapses against a tree, falling into a soft blanket of fresh-fallen snow, and she begins to cry. My parents... they are dead. Maybe Jevan is right, and it is my fault.

Her mind screams these thoughts as she feels the hot tears stream down her cheeks, stinging cold in the winter air.

“Not Kyala.. not Kyala...” she murmurs through her tears. A slight breeze picks up, seemingly in an answer to her words. The zephyr is surprisingly warm upon her damp face, and she lets it sway about her as she weeps herself into exhaustion. Yet still the warm breeze envelops her in a sort of natural embrace, and she welcomes it, falling asleep against the tree, a load of fatigue and regret.




She awakes to the sound of nothing, which disturbs her greatly. None of the normal winter-forest sounds are about her, and so she does not move. The snow pile has grown overnight, and she is covered in a sheet of cold, wet snow. The woman remembers the breeze then, the comfort it brought. I must have imagined it, she thinks, and lays there, half-wishing Jevan would appear out of the brush nearby, wielding his dagger. Half-wished he would come to kill her.
No longer Kyala... she whimpers inwardly, fists clenching, honor betrayed and torn asunder. Her surprise comes when she receives an answer to her thought. Yes, yes you are, the forest seemed to sing. Her eyes wide, she strains to hear more, but nothing comes.
A night passes without her movement, she losing track of all time, yearning for more of that reassuring voice.
She might have stayed until she died of starvation if Darec had not come along, and she does not have either the strength or want to move as he approaches.
“Kyala!” he breathes out, bending down to scoop her up in his arms. “Kyala, you’ve gone numb... how long have you been here??”
She does not answer, not having the breath, or knowledge, to do so. Shivering in his embrace, the control she once had over her body slowly begins to dwindle. Darec sighs and holds her to him, trying to warm her slightly with his own body.
“Ky, you have not been out here since last we spoke, have you?” He stares upon her pale face, and sees the answer in her mournful eyes. “ ‘Tis a wonder you are still breathing... it has been three nights.” Though near unconsciousness, she still hears his words.
“W-wha...?” she murmurs, and he shakes his head in a silent reply, moving off from the tree in which she has been lying under for a full three days.
“Shh... do not try to talk... ‘tam taking you to my camp. ‘Tave been camping ‘way from the Trin since the night you ran out, hoping you would come ‘round again... I was sure you couldn’t go back, but when I didn’t even... sense you around, I became worried....” He trails off, stepping over a fallen branch before continuing his fast paces through the forest.
The two reach Darec’s cam in a matter of hours, but the woman is now drifting in and out of consciousness, and has been throughout the trip. As she begins to see only blackness, Darec wraps her up in furs.


Darec is sitting beside her as she regains consciousness, a fire burning close by. I am warm... and I am hungry....
“Ky...?” Darec whispers, a smile breaking across his face. “Are you awake?” She nods once, and begins to try to sit up when he motions her back down.
“Ah, ah ah.. no you don’t... I didn’t wake you for you needed your sleep, but now you need to be careful.... you have to eat, now, but slowly.”
Two days have passed since he found her, which shocks the fire-head. Jevan is searching for her. Once she finds this information out, she readies to stand, wanting to leave immediately before her brother finds her, but Darec will not let her go until she is fully rested.
“Ky... will you humor me perhaps?” Her attention is given to her cousin, who sits with his legs crossed before him on the floor of the tent. Her eyebrows slowly arch, and she settles against the fur blankets surrounding her, sipping on a mug of steaming herb tea.
“You want to know why I left.” Her words aren’t a question, and he gives a slow nodding of his head, rough-ish features seemingly hinting towards the pinking of embarrassment. “I suppose someone d’serves to know.” She takes in a deep breath now, flashes of Valen’s face hovering before her as she closes her eyes to focus her thoughts. She refuses to cry, and all these memories seem to want to do is make her cry.
“When I was sent off t’hunt by myself that day, I wandered towards the forest before the river, tracking what smelled and hinted to be a large buck. I found him drinking from the river, and what a river that is... I had not seen it before that day.” She pauses, the image clear in her mind, the recollection perfect. She can even smell the flowers that were abloom, even feel the hot sun upon her face and glinting off his long black hair, see the reflection of herself in the clear waters. “An’... I met h-him. Valen.” With the speaking of his name, her voice cracks, and she drops her gaze from her cousin’s. A sigh racks painfully through her sleek frame. She tries to continue, but her voice fails her. Darec gives a little bob of his head in understanding, and stands slowly, leaving the huntress alone in the tent. She drinks her tea in silence.


“Before you leave, promise me two things, Ky. First, promise me you will come back again soon.... I have missed you.” Thank you for not mentioning my parents, she silently interjects into the conversation. “And second....” He pauses, his eyes large, and she can see the worry in them. “Be careful. Do not let Jevan find you too soon. When he comes for you, I know he will, and when he does, run. Do not fight him. He has an anger that outdoes all other emotion he has. If you fight him...” He trails off for a moment, as if he does not want to say his next thought, though he continues. “If you fight him, I fear you might not survive.” His words are a whisper, and his eyes do not meet hers. “Promise me.”
“Darec,” she begins, fearing the truth in his statement. “I will be careful. I promise to come back. But to run? I never ran from a fight... I will not start now. To fight my own brother? ...If he makes me, I shall. But not before then.” Darec’s gaze turns pleading at her words.
“Kyala, promise me! Please.” She looks at him with a shocked glance, and begins to nod.
“All I can say is I’ll try,” she half-murmurs, and after a warm hug, she begins to walk away. He watches her leave, and she can feel his gaze upon her.
It has been a week since she left that river-town behind, yet to her it seems an eternity. She heads back in the direction of that tavern, covering her tracks behind her, caution her priority. Though Jevan may be her blood-brother, she knows he will try to kill her, and he might succeed. She does not want to fight him, for he is her brother, but what is she to do? Her promise to Darec, and the fact that she might have to run from him eats at her as she creates, and disguises, her path through the forest.


A day passes since once she leaves behind Darec and the unknown position of her brother. She is wary of entering into the tavern, for fear of what she will find, but she passes the point of mere curiosity. She must know.
The tavern door opens slowly, with its normal, natural creak of its hinges, and she steps over the threshold, her auburn-flamed hair rippling down her back with the movement inside. With her comes a breeze, and she pauses in mid-stride to survey the crowd with intent jade eyes, her booted feet allowing snow to melt upon the wooden floor of this tavern. Taking a few more steps in towards the warmth, the door closes behind her with a soft ‘click’, and a few scattered pairs of eyes meet hers as she looks upon them all.
One set meets hers, and looks away as quickly as it has looked upon, lingering only for a brief moment on the curves and hair of the huntress. Valen. Her gaze hardens, and she turns her head away from his direction, seeking out others as sources of information. She cannot just approach him....
But Mari is there, a petite half-fae in woodland leathers, curled up in a barstool, her bare legs and feet dangling from the chair. The fire-head moves towards the half-fae woman, sitting in a slow, fluid movement beside the brunette.
“Kyala!” the fae exclaims, and is about to bounce out of her chair, just before she notices her new companion has already sat down. “Hi! Geepers, where have you been? It’s been ages and ages... and ages.... Well, no, not really, but still....” The young fae fades off, cheeks flushing from her outburst, and gives a small giggle in an attempt at an apology to the huntress.
“I know, Mari. I have been... busy. Tell me, have you... I mean, do you know...? Oh, forget it.” The huntress sighs, her striking features moving into a small frown, and she settles against the back of the barstool, hooking one leg over the other, her hands clasping in her lap, one over the other.
Mari watches the movements of her friend, her tiny mouth quirking into a perplexed look, and she cocks her head slightly to one side, cropped brown locks bobbing with her movements.
“Valen?” she peeps, and her teeth quickly grab for her bottom lip, chewing on it frantically in anticipation of her friend’s reaction while tossing the object in question a quick haphazard glance to which he looks back without question or comment, black eyes almost apologetic. She returns her gaze back to her friend instantly.
The woman gives a slow, almost painful nod of her head, her green gaze directed towards the floor.
“Aye, I suppose that was surely obvious.” The huntress’ cheeks are flushing as well, and she tosses the tiny woman a shy smile, a glimmer of hope nestling in her eyes, though not quite daring enough to look upon the male. “Tell me, ‘ave you... has he been about often?”
Mari pauses before answering, as though contemplating the effects and complications that, to her, will accompany her reply. “Mmm-hmm. He’s been about... says hi, drinks, you know... the usual stuff.” Mari’s eyes do not meet her friend’s, and she fidgets in her chair, a glimpse of her iridescent pair of fae-wings noticeable as she shifts her shoulders and bottom around on her stool. The huntress normally would have given those wings a few extra glances merely due to the awe-effect that this fae carries about her, with the delicateness and beauty of an enlarged farie.
“It is all right, Mari. Do not stress yourself over this... I shouldn’t have asked you, I know my answer already....” A sigh follows the red-head’s words, and her shoulders slump noticeably due to the cloak hanging ‘round them.
“Umm, Ky? You wanna drink? I’ll getcha one! Firewine, yeah? I know y’like that, right?” Mari desperately attempts to gather up a sense of hopefulness within her friend, and the woman respectfully and appreciatively gives the fae a small nod.
“Aye, I do... Thank you, my friend....” The small figure slides down from her chair, bare feet touching delicately upon the wooden floor of the tavern, and she stands, her head barely above the seat of the stool. As Mari turns from her, the huntress takes in an awe-filled glance at the shimmery arcs and curves of the half-farie’s wings which fluidly protrude from the middle of the small woman’s back, her fur garb made to compensate for the needed flexibility of her wings. She pads softly around the bar, disappearing beneath the counter for a moment or so. Her silent debate on whether or not to look upon him again is interrupted by a voice to her left. The woman swirls her chair around to face the speaker.
“Merry meet, h’ntress. Ah ‘ave heard much of thee, s’please fa’give mah boldness. ‘Tam Savace.” A woman stands before this huntress, one who would stands shoulder-tall to the red-head who sits before her. Sun-stained locks are cropped short, just below the ears, and piercing, large blue eyes that search over the huntress’ face seem sincere, seem friendly enough. The huntress arches her eyebrows, but answers with a polite tone.
“Merry met, Savace... I am,” and she pauses for just a brief moment, a pause that only seems to create more doubt in her mind of herself and her honor, “Kyala.”
“Aye, then... This infah’mat’n’s been known ta’ me, but still a merry met tah ye as well. May I?” Savace indicates towards the chair to Kyala’s right, and the huntress gives a slow nod of her head in acknowledgment before the stranger sits down. Quick eyes make note of Savace’s attire: at least two concealed weapon-places are noticeable to her scrutiny in the grey leather outfit of jacket and traveling pants (normal for most passer-throughs of this tavern), a mid-sized female, seemingly strong enough for perhaps a short fight, yet she does seem slightly delicate. The huntress files this information away for later use.
“So, pray tell, what have ye heard of me?” The fire-head’s attention is turned towards this newcomer just as Mari appears from beneath the bar holding two heavy glass goblets in her hands, a cheery expression upon her small features.
“Here you g-oh! Umm... hi?” Her tone turns into a small sort of squeak as she gives a wary glance towards Savace, fluttering her wings gently to lift her, settling upon her chair while handing Kyala her goblet. The blonde seems to glare at the tiny fae, but that expression is washed off so fast, it doesn’t seem to have existed at all, and a smile finds Mari.
“’Allo ta ye.”
Mari gives Kyala a quick side-glance before returning the greeting, and takes a slow sip from her goblet, holding the heavy glass with both hands.
“As you were saying...?” With Kyala’s prompting, small talk forms and is chatted about between the three females, with the smallest of the trio quiet most of the time, and only interjecting with flushed cheeks and short sentences. The new woman is strange, but seems pleasant enough, and Mari’s companionship and tittering has been missed.


During the conversation, the huntress glances haphazardly in the direction of Valen once or twice, but the third time she does so, he is no longer sitting, but is just disappearing out the door. Distracted completely by now, she excuses herself from the two, thanking Mari for the drinks (turning plural over the course of a few hours) and telling Savace it was a pleasure, and she heads for the door, her steps quick, and her eyes half-lidded.
Valen’s form is a dozen or so steps ahead of her, his shadow thrown over the street by the street-candles lit every twenty feet. Her steps are soft upon the gravel road, a bit unbalanced due to drink, yet she hurries behind him, tossing a hand up in the air and waving to him as her voice echoes through the night.
“Valen!” She pauses in mid-step, not realizing how loud that would have been until she spoke. The figure stops, and turns around, his face shadowed.
“Hello, Ky....” His voice seems so soft to her, his tone so... bleak. Standing there, she feels her heart sink slowly to the pit of her stomach, her feet weighed down and her face desperately expressionless.
“H-‘ow have you been, Valen? ...I haven’t... talked t’you in a while.” Nervously, she resists the urge to bite and chew on her lower lip. If only Mari didn’t do that so often....
“I haven’t seen you around much either, my dear.” He pauses, back-tracking a few steps and approaching her, his brown cloak covering most of his body, and whisking about his booted ankles. “I have been... alright, I suppose. And you? You yourself have been absent, recently.”
She gives a little, almost meek bob of her head. Why does he affect me so terribly? “Aye. I had... family problems t’deal with.”
There seems to be a slight pause in conversation, as both stand there, facing one another and flooded by glass-protected candlelight. Their cloaks flutter in the night air, and the forest seems to sigh around them, the delicious smell of snow pungent.
“Have you heard my news?” His tone seems distant... almost hopeful for a positive answer, yet she shakes her fiery mane negative towards him. Using her silent answer as a prompt, he continues. “The Lady Hawk and I, we are to be wed.”
Silence is still her response, yet he can visibly see her shoulders slowly slump beneath her cloak, and her eyes downcasting as she turns from him. “A ‘appy day ta the two of you, then, Valen. My many blessings....” She whisks into shadows, and he is left with the candle’s glowing around him. There is a movement behind him, but he catches it not, and the darkness slowly envelop him as well, he moving in the opposite direction of her with a deep, heavy sigh.


Tears stream slowly down her cheeks, numbing the flesh due to the cold wind that begins to blow around her. She collapses against a tree, letting her body slide down towards the ground, a heap of snow and sobs.
An arrow clunks into the tree trunk a mere millimeter from her face, grazing her cheekbone and slicing flesh, embedding a few strands of hair into the tree. Kyala’s to her feet in a flash, dagger in hand, and stance ready for another attack, though her mind is quickly whirling as to who this might be. Her brother?
Another arrow is heard whizzing through the air, and she manages to dodge it, throwing herself to the snow-covered ground as soon as she notes the sound. A small thud is heard behind her, and Kyala whirls around just in time to have a foot slam into the underside of her chin.
The huntress flies backward with the momentum of the kick, but manages to balance herself before she is knocked off her feet. Thankfully still standing, she readies her dagger and sees the figure move towards her with graceful practice and poise, and Kyala slices, side-stepping to the right the attack made by the unknown assailant.
The shadowed figure yelps, and it is a woman’s voice, no question of that. The outline is of decent height, though the face and body are covered with black netting to mask the features. With a determined growl, there is more movement, and a searing pain fills Kyala’s left side. She groans in the knowledge-filled loss of blood more than the ache of the new wound, buckling under the blade, and the figure quickly retreats, taking the dagger with her, leaving a hole in the huntress as the auburn haired woman falls in a heap upon the forest floor.


Darec has been walking for hours, knowing how to trail his keen cousin thanks to an old, pre-arranged way of leaving a “scent.” Kyala has swept away her tracks, yet left small knicks at a certain height in trees almost randomly chosen, and Darec knows the pattern.
He passes the path towards the faes, and notes her marks trace to another direction, one which he takes, ever-alert and attentive to the forest around him. The trail ends, and a path begins almost immediately afterwards, a gravel, man-made road of sorts. There is the scent of water nearby, a large stream or river perhaps, and he lets his nostrils fill with the moisture-tickled wind. But there is a noise close to him... a groan, perhaps? He tenses, his hunting blade quickly in hand, and moves slowly, cautiously towards the source of the sound.
There, on the forest floor! A shape is huddling over, rocking slowly back and fort in a mess of limbs and dark-stained snow, a low moan emanating from the creature. But whom (or what) ever is on the ground notices Darec’s approach, and begins to move accordingly, raising what seems to be a head raise towards him, and long hair falls from the pain-creased face of Kyala. Before another sound could be made by her, she falls face-forward.


Darec’s face is her first glimpse of the world beyond closed eyelids as she slowly begins to regain a semblance of consciousness. Oh, damn, does my head hurt.... She winces audibly, and is met with a quick maneuvering of a mug into her hands, steam curling from the contents. Her eyes are weary, and she accepts the mug with a slight shaking to her balance, bringing it slowly to her lips for a cautious sip. Darec’s voice is soft, soothing.
“I’ve hidden you here for a few days, and Jevan thinks you dead, so you have time to rest... and heal, hopefully.” His eyes hint towards casting downward, and her emerald ones seek his out.
“I feel... as though I’ve been stabbed.” Her mouth attempts a smile, now, but it is a mere twitching of the corners of her lips, and nothing more.
“You’re lucky t’be alive, Ky.... An’ you need to heal quickly, Jevan’ll wonder where I’ve been an’ll come looking for me sooner or later, and if he finds you here?” Darec’s expression alters instantly, his eyes widening, and he gives a little shake of his head. “Let’s not have that happen.”
Kyala sips what she has decided is tea without commenting, allowing her body to calm itself down for healing to occur.


Kyala’s side is screaming in the pain and torment collecting now for four full days. She nurses it when it needs tending, but such a wound is deep, and takes months to heal... months she does not have available. So, with teeth clamped together and fists clenching, she slowly builds up a better grasp on her old flexibility. Time is on no one’s side, as per usual, but has also ceased to care even in passing for the huntress.
Dusk is just beginning to fall, the shadows of the snow-laden trees casting eerie shapes upon the white canvas. The sun trickles its presence away, as the sky bursts into flame-colored rings of clouds and air, the beginning-of-night promises murmuring with the winter wind. Kyala stands panting, one arm outstretched and holding her up by a tree trunk, the other clutching her right side in agony. She groans loudly, and her neck gives way to her head, which topples over forwards, leaving rippling waves of auburn hair pouring around her shoulders and back.
“Darec...!” she calls out, obeying her cousin’s requests to cry for assistance if she feels it is needed, yet she stands there, slightly hunched over, and there is no sound that would suggest Darec is approaching. She gives another hail of his name, but it is to no avail. So with a gathering sigh of pain and weariness, she grits her teeth against one another and moves towards their make-shift campsite. Each step gives more to the dull throbbing at her side, but she blatantly ignores what she terms now as discomfort as the campsite reaches her eyes, her tracks slow through the snow.
There is something... wrong as her gaze surveys the general outlook of the scene before her, the tent made of leather and sturdy branches is sturdy, yet the flap is open and fluttering gently with the breeze, and cooking supplies left scattered near the flickerings of a dying campfire. Her muscles tense, causing her to wince softly, and she hears a movement from inside the tent. Her blade in hand, she moves slowly for the entrance to the tent.
Horror tears apart her features, and her dagger falls into a tuff of snow outside the tent as her emerald gaze turns saucer-like, her mouth letting out a scream of dismay. She kneels suddenly beside the blood-drenched form of her cousin, his brown eyes rolled back into his head, and his chest heaving sporadically.
“No! Darec!” she screeches, her skillful hands moving frantically to cover the gaping wounds in his chest and sides, but there is nothing she will be able to do. There is a growing circle of darkness beneath him, and his life streams past her desperate fingers. “No.. please do not die....” Her words are too late, falling upon deaf ears, and she gives out a death-wail, tossing her head back and shrieking to the heavens, her voice echoing through the air.
She tears out of the tent in a frenzy, her nails ripping through the leather of the tent and knocking it to the ground. Her teeth are bared and she dips down for where she knows her blade fell, collecting it in a swift gesture. There, her brain screams, I knew it! Him.
Jevan stands before her, his bloodstained longsword outstretching in her direction, a feral snarl upon his mouth. “I thought that woman could take care of things, but I guess I underestimated you... no matter.” He pauses, his eyes narrowing in her direction, glittering in the flames of the campfire. “Now it’s your turn.”
“Jevan, how could you?” she roars, her fingers gripping the dagger intuitively. “How could you?” He does not answer her pleas, taking up a swift stride and swinging his sword in an even arc through the air, slicing towards her head.
Her eyes quickly widen and she lets her knees collapse, ducking in order to miss the hit of his sword. Her dagger flies upward swiftly, and as he moves it hits deeply into his upper thigh, and he gives out a growl of pain. She removes it just as quickly from his skin, and readies to strike again, bouncing up to her feet using the balls of her feet, as he has already taken a few steps back due to the wound that now trickles blood down his leg.
“Wait a minute!” she roars, and a pause in both speech and movement is found, something mentally clicking in the huntress’ mind. “The woman in the tavern... Savace. She was who attacked me, wasn’t she?” The confronting tone she uses almost makes the question sound like a statement –or an accusation. “And she’s dead?”
“She’s dead. ...and she was so highly recommended. Bah!” His face contorts into a look of pure hatred. “You bitch. You dishonored all, and you are responsible for the death of three now, the girl’s of no matter; Darec’s charge was treachery. Yours is murder. Both require death as punishment, and it is time for your sentencing.” He pauses, his voice even, his fingers curling wantonly on the hilt of his longsword, ignoring the blood he is losing from his leg. “I am almost sorry, Kyeste.”
“You do not sound convincing to me...” she hisses, her knees bending, readying herself to attack, and she leaps towards him, her dagger slashing for his chest, for that small crevice between ribs... the fatal wound.
He sees her preparing, and she misses her mark by crucial inches, while he takes his longsword to her back, cutting a long slash through fabric and flesh. She cries out in agony, but her dagger is buried Jevan’s midsection, and he flails back while she goes head-first to the ground. He looks down, and it almost sounds like he begins to chuckle, while Kyala struggles to stand, her back afire with pain. Arched forward because of the wound, she struggles to keep balance, now disarmed. Eyes darting wildly around for anything to be used as a weapon, Jevan gives a battle cry and rushes her, taking his longsword again and aiming for her neck. She ducks down, and his momentum spins him around, sword taking him in a twirl. Kyala takes this opportunity to reach around him, his back now to her, and removes her dagger from his belly. This gives him enough time to yelp and turn around to face her, sword ready, yet his head is spinning from the lack of blood.
She is not in much better shape, her belly aching from the earlier wound, and every inch of her back feels that slice he made. Holding the dagger with an unsteady hand, her face clenches in despair.
“You dun’ understand, Jevan! Please... I did not mean any harm to anyone. Not t’anyone,” she begins, her tone weak from exertion and weariness, yet she is not allowed to continue, for he snarls once again, grinding his teeth upon each other and stepping forward, lunging his sword point-first towards the huntress. She almost seems frozen, but the breeze picks up then, turning into a low roar, and her long auburn hair bursts around her. Not being able to see, she instinctively throws herself against the ground.
Jevan, half-blind himself by her waves of hair and the flurry of snowflakes that accompany, continues his attack, and he trips over her grounded body, his midsection hitting the hilt of his sword as it sticks into the ground, flipping him over and depositing him flat on his back a few feet away from the huntress.
Groaning, she pushes herself up to a sitting position as quickly as possible, furiously brushing away the hair from her face, and looks towards where her brother lay, his upper half arched from the ground.
His eyes are open to the sky that he faces, yet they are unblinking, unmoving. His expression now stays in an utterance of painful amazement, and through his chest pokes part of a double-edged axe, one Darec had been using to cut firewood, having placed it with one side imbedded into the ground.
Kyala stares upon the face of her dead brother as the snow beneath him colors crimson, and her face tightens, tears welling up in the depths of her jade gaze. With strength from an unknown source, she manages to her feet, resisting the urge to stagger and collapse, and she begins to walk, or limp, rather, in the direction of the river-town. Her feet carry her with slow, haphazard steps, but she has no doubt she will reach the town... her will is strong.

08/04/2012

Author's Note: a short I'm still working on

Posted on 08/04/2012
Copyright © 2026 Anastasia Lyn