A Fireside Tale, Part One

The forest was quiet—to the untrained ear. To those in tune with nature, however, it was a veritable symphony of sound. Birds called to each other. Wolves urinated on trees, marking their territory. Insects carried about their duties, finding, eating, and collecting food. And, nearby, a branch snapped under the hoof of a proud stag.

Fifteen feet above the forest floor was a man, kneeling on a branch. He was hard to see in the foliage—his skin was the same shade of green as the foliage, and his hair and eyes were a dark black. His armor was also colored in the tones of the forest.

He was decidedly not human.

He was killoren, a race of fey that was perhaps equally the most and least understandable of all fey. They were humanoid in shape, but they were tied to nature in ways that were inexplicable. They were guardians, protectors of nature. This one, however, was not a protector. Not anymore.

The stag drew nearer, unaware of the being above. The killoren's breathing was undetectable, timed perfectly to coincide with the breezes that passed through the woods. The stag took another step, and the killoren leaned forward, dropping blade first on to the hapless beast. The tip passed through fur, flesh, spine, slicing into and out of the creature's neck with almost no resistance.

The beast was heavy, but manageable. The fey lifted the animal over his shoulder and winced with pain, blood seeping through the bandages wrapped around his chest, under his tunic and armor. He began to walk through the woods, looking for a clearing. After about a half an hour, he found one—a large meadow, with a stream running through the opposite side. It fit his purposes quite well, other than the group of tribal tents he could see near the stream.

“Hells,” he rasped. He hadn't been particularly cautious, stepping out of the trees in broad daylight. He frowned as he saw three figures near the circle of tents take note of him, two of them pointing in his direction. A few more joined them, and eventually raised their hands in greeting.

The killoren sighed and began to trudge towards the tribe. He wanted to reach back and check that his sword was clear in it's sheath on his back, but he refrained—it would be blatantly obvious, and wouldn't send a particularly friendly message.

“Hail,” one of the men said as the killoren drew close. They were humans, and obviously a fairly primitive group of them. “I am Ezul. Do you come in peace?”

The killoren's eyes darted around the tribe, taking in each tent, each scrap of clothing worn by the members. They seemed to have no particular clan symbol, not that he could see. “I do,” he answered eventually, his voice raspy. “I am Forsaken.”

Ezul exchanged a glance with the man next to him. “Who was it that abandoned you, friend killoren?”

The killoren shook his head. “You misunderstand. My name is Forsaken.”

“My apologies, friend. I've never heard of one of your people using a word in the Common tongue as a name.”

Forsaken frowned. “It isn't common. I—” he was interrupted by a bolt of pain as he tried to shift the stag's weight on his shoulder. He grunted, falling to a knee, and the the stag slid off his shoulder, falling unceremoniously to the ground. The world tilted sideways crazily, and everything went black.

A/N--I know, this is pitifully short, especially considering how long it's been since I posted.  Still, it's something, and hopefully it whets the appetite for more to come.

Carrion, Part Two

Note:  This is Part Two of the story.  Part One can be found here.

A wise man is good.  A wise teacher is better.  A wise student is best.  --Davin Swiftfist

Naomi grit her teeth and winced as a particularly sharp pain moved through her head, as if a shard of glass was slowly pushing it's way through her brain.  The reins fell from her hand as she reached up to grasp her forehead, a slight gasp of pain escaping from her lips.

"Whoa," she heard Quarian say to his horse, before she felt his reassuring palm on her shoulder.  "Are you all right, Naomi?" he asked, the concern evident in his voice.

Quarian Moonbreeze was one of those people that couldn't just leave something be.  The elf looked at all the problems in the world as personal affairs, wrongs that he had to personally set right, like an old hero from one of the songs he sang so often.  Often, his sense of pure, unadulterated goodness was endearing, and his exuberance sometimes made her feel as if maybe the five of them really were heroes, righting wrongs in a world desperately seeking saviors.  Other times, like now, after a night of little sleep and with the knowledge that there was absolutely nothing he could do to help (and he should know it), it was merely annoying.

"I'm fine," she said, opening her eyes to meet his concerned gaze.  "It's just a headache."

He nodded, a pure, honest sympathy in his eyes, and she sighed, feeling ashamed at her annoyance.  "Let's get going, Quar.  I'll be all right."  She took the reins again and clicked at her horse, urging him forward once more.

They rode on at a leisurely pace, giving their horses a break.  They'd been on the road for well over two weeks, and they hadn't seen any Imperial Wardens in a period well longer than that.  If trouble were to break out in the rocky wilderness they rode through, it would certainly be best if the mounts weren't already exhausted.

"How much longer to a town, Quar?"  Zedar, asked, urging his steed even with the party leader.

"I'm not sure," the elf replied, twisting in the saddle to pull a map case out of his pack.  He unrolled it and stared at it for a few moments.  "We're nearing Sindesta.  Elven town."

"The forest proper is at least a day's ride away," Zedar said, shading his eyes with the palm of his hand and peering at the landscape.  "Looks more like two."

"I'd say it's maybe a day's ride once we're inside.  So that leave's us two to four days until we see civilization again."

"I don't know how civilized it's going to be.  We're in the middle of nowhere."

"I, for one, have had quite enough of what you consider civilization, Zedar," Sev'tai said from behind Naomi.  She twisted around to see a sneer on his well-tanned face.  "Prostitutes.  Gambling.  Stone and smoke and not even the slightest hint of respect for the natural, real world."

"Yeah...." Zedar said, wistfully, "Sounds good, doesn't it?"

"No, it doesn't sound good, you--"

"Okay, okay," Quarian said, raising his hands in the air, the map waving in the wind like the flag to some strange country.  "First of all, it's a proper Elven city.  Elven.  As in, I hate to disappoint, but I daresay you'll see few prostitutes, and even less stone."

"Much more sensible."

"Second of all, I haven't had a proper bathing in over a week, so at this point I'd consider a deep well and a bale of soft hay to sleep in civilization."  He rolled up the map and shoved it back in it's case before stuffing it back in his bag.  He began to twist the guitar firmly strapped on his back around, asking, "Anyone have a request?"

"Not now," Naomi hissed, her face alert.  The road they were riding on led through the lush green hills of the region, avoiding the large rocky deposits that populated the landscape.  Her eyes darted back and forth, taking in the lay of the land, the small herd of cows that could barely be seen to the far East of the road, the single hawk soaring high in the air.  Then, she slowly and quietly slid her rapier free from her sheath.  "We're not alone."