Queery Forest, open

[Huszaria]

The edge of sight seemed to skitter as if Ulain was caught in the centre of a moving circle, the object beneath a queer lens. Checking the reigns with his spare hand he readjusted the scarlet woollen cowl draped about his head and shoulders, noting the flinches in the mare's gate, her nostrils drawn wide. Reaching inside his cloaks he lifted a wafer to his mouth, chewing on it deliberately, wondering if he were merely overtired. Mayhaps the mare was enjoying the road, he tested his thought, rather than wary of it. But the feeling remained. A sensation of seeing black cats. The mare's ears worked double time, her skin twitching at the touch of the same unseen flies that crawled upon Ulain's skin. "Calm, now, Budzona." Ulain consoled her, more for his own sake. One of her ears moved toward his voice, and she breathed, a certain snort Ulain noted she made when she scented moving water. She had another sound for lakes and ponds. Another when rain would certainly fall.
The oaks of the forest proper thinned to whispering aspens, and willows with but a few winter browned leaves clinging to grey boughs. A stirring wind rattled dryly above the damp air of the water. Ulain fretted while watering Budzona, her hooves sinking into the treacherous edge of bearded roots, her breath steaming before her muzzle even touched the dim water. But perhaps the true source of his disquiet was the ferry-landing, gargantuan poles of foreign timber driven into the riverbed, and a tow-line passing through the mists out of sight. So intent was he on his thought Ulain did not note Budzona's attention shift. His thought was broken only by the chill hand that grasped his arm.
With a start Ulain stepped forward with his available force, swiping his arm out to dash the grasping hand from it. Grasping his hilt even before he could voice the words. "Unhand me!"
The club-foot smiled greasily. "Calm yourself, young master."
Ulain's mouth drew into a thin line, forcing himself to speak like a civilised man. "Your pardon, ferryman. My attention was on my thoughts, I was startled." But belying his tone and words was Ulain's increasing unhappiness. For behind the Ferryman there had appeared to sight the ferry, a low dark shape shifting unevenly above the water.
"There it is." The ferryman's voice floated on the air between them, like oil on water. "These things happen. You are far from home, it seems. Your speech is heavy, and slow. Your are from the plains I deem Is it not so?"
Ulain forced a smile in the face of the Ferryman's shrewd guesses. "It is so. When next will you draw the ferry across the river?"
The Ferryman's face revealed an immense pleasure, Ulain thought. "You are in such a hurry to leave the Forest? And so soon horseman?"
Ulain's brows drew together, his heart felt in his mouth. "No. I have not been here more than a day, on my way beyond."
The Ferryman laughed. "You have tarried here a score of years horseman. Twice, twice now we have had this parley. And I tell you now, as I told you then: I will not allow you to cross until you have satisfied your end of the bargain. You will deliver the package on my behalf. Until then, you must remember your task! This is the third time you have returned, task undone. Your last chance is spent, and if you fail now: your soul is mine, do you understand?"
Ulain now realised the strap of a satchel weighed heavily against his shoulder. A package within to be delivered to the house of the Crone of the Woodhill, to her daughter. "I remember." Ulain knew his young face looked haggard for a moment, resenting the immense pleasure this seemed to bring the Ferryman. "I will deliver it."
"So you keep saying." The Ferryman laughed, though he could not be seen by the waking eye.
"Gods aid me." Ulain pleaded. "Three times I have failed! It is beyond me, clearly. But who, who in all this accursed place could possibly help me?"
--

word count: 705
comments: Anyone wanting to join; you could either be in Ulain's bitter situation, or perhaps have some insight as to how he might find the Cottage on the Hill.

[E'doa A'nii]

Thump -thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. The rapid beating of her heart filled her ears with blood. The endless rushing sound drowned out the crashing of the bushes and brambles as she ran through the woods. Quickly, quicklyThere seemed to be no concern for the cuts and bruises on her person, as the elf crashed through the forest.

Silent as an elephant.

Her hair snagged on a low-hanging tree branch. With a cry she yanked it loose, and kept running. Quickly, quickly!. Thump -thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. One foot in front of the other. Don't look back. Hurry now. Hurry! Her foot caught a log. Her leg twisted under her and ,with a grunt, she landed on the floor in a heap.

They had her! They had her! For a moment she lay there and whimpered, cradling her leg in both arms, knee to the chest. Then, she leapt to her feet with the ferocity of a dog, her face writhing with some inexplicable emotion. Was it pain? Quickly, quickly! On she sped. Her six feet of height giving her long strides and swift progress. She threw back her head and laughed. It was a cackle, devoid of all mirth; something about it made one's insides squirm. A jarring noise.

Thump -thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Look! There! The tattered Elven maiden hurled herself head long in the direction of a massive oak. She landed on her face, skidding a ways, limp, like a rag doll, along the damp detritus that carpeted the forest. Mercy! Mercy! She bowed making apology. Once. Twice. Head to the ground. Quickly now! They mustn't catch up.

On she ran.

Such fun! Did they think they could get her? Did they? Just let them whisper about that now. She could hear them. Always whispering. Always there. Did they think she didn't know? She shoved her way through a dense pocket of bushes, ignoring the new set of cuts and scratches to add to her vast collection, tripped over her own feet and landed head long at the feet of Ulain, the Lancer. For a moment she lay there. Then, slowly, she righted herself, tucked her knees up under her chin, and stared at him solemnly.

What a sight she was.

Dirty. Her skin which would normally have been a light tan, was the color of the earth from lack of washing. Her sandy-blonde hair was matted and greasy. A tangled mess which attempted to hang neatly to her waist. It failed, and looked more like a tangle of knotted string. Her clothes were faded. The original color of her shirt was questionable, but blue seemed the most likely assumption. Brown tattered breeches covered her legs, their frayed edges a good three inches above her ankles.

Barefoot. Her feet were gnarled and bruised. Dirt-caked wounds seeped red blood onto blackened flesh. Jagged nails graced the tips of her toes. Her fingers were crooked and mal-formed. She only had nine. Skinny. Obviously malnourished, the question of body fat was debatable. She was exerting much too much energy for one so underfed.

Her gaze was hollow. Empty of emotion and life. Green eyes stared at him blankly, unflinchingly from out of black circles. Did she sleep much? Was she aware of the horseman's existence? Then, slowly, slowly, with infinite care, she stood up. Just as slowly she turned on her heel so that her back was to him. Then, she rushed off in the direction of the nearest tree, to embrace it in a hug.

[Ričle]

The house of the crone of the Woodhill was not a place that one could seek to find, but that one was drawn to. It appeared of simple wood and thatch, with pleasant windows and an always open door. But once entwined in its tangle of magic one's thread fell loose from the wheel of time, becoming lost and adrift until snatched up by the hands of its new keeper. The crone was forever the guardian of the Woodhill; the ferryman, her antithesis, the guardian of the river. Few wandered in their wood, and fewer still allowed their threads to fall prey to their magic. But in between the house and the river, beneath the forgetful trees of the lost woods, was Danae, whose thread lay in the hands of the crone.

She stood still; the light breeze gently lifting wisps of her long, dark hair and rustling the needles of the pine trees above her. Always she stood at a crossroads, forever hesitant, for while all roads led away from the house on the Woodhill, all roads brought her to that very place. Long ago she had failed her test, and yet she still walked these paths, a forgotten shadow in this mist of a strange world that was not her own, knowing that she had some puzzle yet to solve. She explored every road, every path, every game trail set before her, always considering her choice carefully - sometimes standing in thought for days at a time. But the end of every journey was the same, and she could not change her fate by choosing. The wisp of shadow that bore the shape of a girl became solid, drawing life from the magic that bound her, and she would emerge again before the house to the satisfied grin of the crone.

Her magic was utterly gone from her in this place, save when she was upon the Woodhill. She felt its absence always, as a part of her soul torn away and a vast bleeding hole in its place. At times she wept, wanting to feel the earth and life around her and no longer possessing that connection for herself. Upon the Woodhill her magic returned, but as a parasite - it was not her own, but her master's. The crone wove Danae's own magic through her, and it obeyed only the wishes of the crone, never sharing its life with Danae. The magic woven by the crone served some greater purpose, but Danae's mind was as misty as what was left of her soul, having suffered such loss of time and soul, and she was never able to realize what that purpose was. At length time would pass, and the crone would release Danae to wander in the woods again until she chose a path.

At these times Danae felt the most alive, though she was little more than a transparent breath of color and shadow; perhaps seen to the living as a ghost, or an image in a dream. Always there was the puzzle, and a choice, and the hope that she might escape her prison to solidify again as herself in some new place. But the more time passed, the more trouble she had remembering what someplace else might be. Years went by and time was completely lost to her; she knew nothing but the house upon the hill, the paths in the woods, and the voice of the crone. Her name she recalled when the crone called her by it, but even that was forgotten when she wandered by herself.

The breeze felt familiar, and the touch of the grass beneath her feet, and the smell of the pitch in the trees. She had wandered far in her journey, taking unfamiliar paths, and she paused - again at a crossroads - considering which path to take.

(OOC: No character profile for Danae yet... the description wouldn't apply at the present moment anyway, and I'll supply physical details as needed.)

[Huszaria]

The sun cast its strength into the west so that its pale light now seeped through the trees in tones of cold tea. The stiring wind now revealed its bite, chattering in the mould of the forest floor. Taking immense solace from the huge warm presence of Budzona, Ulain lead her at a pace that allowed her to graze, stopping as often as she deemed any hank of grass worth her attention. As gradually as the darkness overtook the horizon, Ulain's memories rose in his mind, out of his cold, buried heart, like the leaves oversteeped at the bottom of a bitter cup.
Blood or gold. Those were the terms. Generations earlier than the farthest real memory: Ulain's kindred had passed through this place; and there they had sought passage of the Ferryman.
"What were they like?" Ulain had asked the clubfoot, when first they met; for Ulain had been sent to do and to fetch for the Ferryman: an ancient agreement that it was now Ulain's fate to fulfill. At a glance the Ferryman's colourless eyes had recognised Ulain as the heir of his kindred.
"Much as I find you Ulain." He'd said, never needing to be introduced. "Travelling they came to me, brave and free. Hungry for riches they were, and for valour. For passage they asked me, and I offered them more. Lordship Ulain! Lordship! A wide land to call their own, battlecries to cast their enemies before them! All these I gave them, and so it was I ferried them. A gold coin for each of them, and for each of their heirs unto the end of time."
And how dearly-bought their lordship was. Gold laid upon the eyes of the dead, to pay the Ferryman, lest he take their souls. And when tides of defeat swept in, like that which left all of Ulains family slain, when there was not enough gold, one of the living must go: living blood to pay the price for the dead.
Ulain shivered free of the recollection. The weight of his heart, of his thoughts, and of the satchel a terrible burden in the gathering dark. But seeing Budzona's eyes and ears Ulain wrested his thought free of his mourning.
A shape moved in the trees. Budzona turned to face it, but did not seem of a mind to flee. Wishing his small cross-bows had the strength to fell game, Ulain watched thinking it must be some beast from the trees. So it was the wood-wretch fell before him.
Budzona shifted back from the wood-wretch, seeming more indignant than afraid of it. Ulain looked upon it, upon her, and somewhere within the wide cold plains of his heart he felt a thawing. He remembered the kind words and gentle hands of his childhood, born under the skies. Hardly daring to move, lest he break the spell of her appearance, he waited. He watched Budzona, fearing what was chasing the wretch. But the mare grazed on in a businesslike manner -knowing she would need to provender to keep herself warm in the night.
Seeing to Budzona's reigns Ulain gently approached the wood-wretch. A part of his right-thinking mind wondered if this phantasm too were one of the Ferryman's glamors, sent to waylay him. But in his heart he felt differently. Gently he spoke, not knowing if the wretch spoke any tongue of men. Gently he reached for the precious wafers that were all he had to eat. Gently he poured water from his canteen.
"By the gods. You make my plight seem fair indeed. I feel ashamed of myself, never have I had misfortune to compare with what I fear has befallen you." Ulain offered his cloak against the threat of the cold. "Come, I should make a fire, but not here. A ways we should go, away from the chill of the river. Follow me."

--
word count: 660words.
comments: I would write that Ulain had led your character to the comfort of fire, Eddy, but I don't want to auto her in any way. I think, if it pleases you, you can write about the fears or comforts of the camp, and the night. If you write of a fire, make it a goodly one, that Riele's character might see perhaps...

[E'doa A'nii]

She stared as he approached, eyes wide with terror, fingers clawing absent mindedly at the tree bark. Stay away. But he came not more then an arm's reach, and moved so slowly. Was it that he heard them too? Even this one spoke so loudly. Surely, he heard them.

And what they spoke would give any man pause.

They spoke of death and blood. Memories of horrors to terrific to forget. Pain so deep it shattered the soul. Hope and fear and betrayal. Blood and death and longing. Concepts so awful to chill the air and freeze the mind.

His lips moved. She dropped. The tree was forgotten. Once now, twice. Head to the ground. She groveled at his feet, grunting a whimper. Mercy, mercy! Slowly, his words pierced the dense fog that crowded her mind. Slowly, she understood him. He would not hurt her. The mouth that wasn't. She snarled at him. Bestial, wild. Backed away from the hand that held the wafers.

But he offered them, so she investigated. Ages without food had rendered her with no hunger... only the lions that clawed at her stomach; wrenching her insides at night, so that she did not sleep. Could she take it? She stared at the proffered food warily. Prices and torment and burdens to bear. Hands that fed you and pulled out your hair. She snickered. Her sound put a horse's whinny to shame, and made the hair prickle.

In the end the bony, filthy fingers hastily snatched a wafer from his hand. Retreating once she had done so and sitting on her haunches, like a dog, she nibbled the tidbit absently, eyeing him mistrustingly all the while. He offered water too. Water, she was not so desperate for. She came across that much more than food. Prices and torment and burdens to bear. Drink of the blood and tear out your hair. She picked at an open sore festering on her arm while contemplating some invisible something just behind the horse.

She was not cold. Not because her skin did not prickle with goosebumps, or her uninsulated body shiver from the air, but because she did not feel it. Icy fingers kiss the dead. Eyes of glass without a head! She allowed him to drape the cloak over her person, his presence already forgotten in the interest of teetering about in little circles, and grunting at or about something.

Quickly, now. Quickly! He was moving away from the water.

She followed him from a distance so far as to make her presence questionable. She blent in well with the forest, and tracked him silently. Always there. Always lurking. How much of Ulain she was aware of was hard to say. Only the occasional faint cackle, or whimper served to remind the world of her existence. She arrived at camp a bit after he'd set it up. She would have arrived sooner but she had paused to engage in conversation with a rock. Or was it the leaves around the rock?

The camp was simple enough. A circle of stones laid out for the fire in a little clearing by a dirt road. Heartache and terror side by side. blankets rolled out to sleep on. A rabbit she brought to cook for dinner. Prices and burdens and heartache to pay. A little of blood to pay off the way She had thrown it at his feet, all mangled and twisted. Blood on her hand to mix with the dirt.

She would not eat the rabbit. Not a bite. Instead she sat a good ten feet from the massive campfire, staring at the bright red coals under the logs and hearing the laughter. Yes, it laughed. Long and loud. Mocking. It filled the air above with it's foul breath. Grey, to cloud the air and eat the sky. She could see it's orange eyes. The great yellow heat which leapt from it's mouth and burt the whispers in the air. Heat to clean and burn and sear. Watch the fire turn to fear. So big. It must not be so big! They would see! They always saw. Ever they whispered, but this monster could show. Soon the magic path would bring them. Soon. Very soon. She played with her fingers in the little dirt path and laughed.

When she was not staring at the campfire, or the horse's endlessly grazing muzzle, or eyeing the footpath, she was watching Budzona's eyes, or Ulain's actions. Funny, but she never met his gaze. Not once. But she watched everything he did; even when she wasn't looking straight at him. And always, she kept her distance.

His cloak was half off her shoulders and trailing in the dust. At one point it caught on something as she shuffled about the camp site in one of her moments of preoccupation. She leapt screaming from it, only to return immediately and pummel it into the damp ground. Forgetting this seconds later she picked it up the muddy garment and folded it up like a pillow. Then she lay her head upon it and closed her eyes. Did she really sleep?

Sometime in the night the lions came and chewed out her stomach. She writhed in silent agony, bent over and clutching her middle. Shying from the light of the campfire (which had plenty of wood and burnt on merrily), she huddled against a low bush. He must not see! To fight the lions was to bring more pain. And when the lions left they came. The whispers the fire ate were replaced by cold fingers that stroked her flesh and chilled her bones.

But morning would come soon, and then they would be here...

Hold! They came already! Why come so soon? Too close to the magic path. Wild beats roamed the forest at night. Wolf calls and owl hoots rent the night silence. But there was not a cricket to be found. Ocassionally a rat scampered through the leaves. A raccoon found its way to the camp and nibbled on whatever bones had been thrown away.

By morning Elvina had curled under the warhorse's feet.

----

(How is that? If I need to add more/clarify, let me know)

[Huszaria]

Ulain second guessed his fit of compassion many times during the night. Every time the wretch moved she re-quickened Budzona's attention, so that the mare would paw at the ground, stamp, and pace about with the audible flick of her tail.
The chill grew more keen, into groping hands. Many times in the night, though he buried this thought deep, Ulain wondered if the most merciful thing was the draw a blade and end the wretches misery once and for all. He glanced about, seeing that there were enough stones to raise a low cairn for her. Two things happened when even for a moment he entertained this line of thought: he felt as if the very trees could smell his malevolent intent, and it seemed the rumour of their branches took on a menace. But, moreover, when Ulain thought along these lines he found the old forgetfulness come upon him; by contrast when the wretch shifted or was racked with some terror so that Ulain's concern was quickened, he felt his mind come clear. He schooled his weary heart in this counsel, and bolstered his determination guessing now that his fruitlessness was a glamor of the Ferryman.
In this way he at length came to sleep, and when he woke, the wretch was at peace -sleeping it seemed in the space between Budzona's four hooves.
Ulain stood, feeling the sense of calm. His brow furrowed, as he struggled to retain a line of thought so unfathomable.
He mused, trying to look through the dirt and scars, was the wretch's feelings, her very thought reflected around her? Her fear tainting the honest shadow under the leaves into the darkness of fear; her panicked breath putting an edge on the wind that made it prick and pry. Could she be an elf?
Knowing, if she was ever capable of it, that the Wretch could not speak with him -though she seemed able to understand him after a fashion- Ulain considered how to turn what he guessed into a course of action. How could he try to reach her more gently, less confrontationally, through her link with the earth, water, fire, wood and wind? What was it about Budzona that had created a safe space, where his own concern had not?

[E'doa A'nii]

Elvina woke with a start, but, not finding the terror from which she fled, set about petting Budzona absently. After a moment she seemed to realize that Ulain too was awake. Instinctively, she leapt away from his horse. Touch that taken, live to die. For a moment she stood there fixing him with a gaze of terror. In a flash it was gone behind a wild cackle. She was rushing towards him as fast as her legs could carry her.

Before she reached him, she stopped suddenly, as if on cue. Just out of arm's reach. Leaning in, she peered into his eyes. Was it curiosity? Shutters drawn tight, they fear the light! Her stare was both questioning and fearful, as if she was afraid of the answer. Lights that poke and prod. Lights that seek and glare!

Prices and torments and burdens to bear. Hands that fed you and tore out your hair! She seemed to be done with her examination and so whirled on her feet to go back to where she had begun her evening the night before. Picking up the muddy cloak, she donned it and came back. Once,now twice. Head to the ground. Mercy! Mercy!

Then, she began to pick up the camp. Follow the curse to spare the stick. Flee the bony feet that kick! and again, Quickly! Quickly! she could hear them already...

----
(She asks of him his name and his expectations of her. She begs his apology for touching his horse and muddying his cape. In anticipation of orders and need to amend she picks up camp.)

[Huszaria]

Ulain thought he'd made a break-through. Somehow the antics of the elf-wretch were a form of charades. To lean into his face, a questing sense of desire writ in her own, he guessed she was asking him one thing.
"Ulain." He said. "I am Ulain." And feeling that he was making progress connecting with her left him feeling strangely elated, and more full of purpose than he could remember feeling since he enterred the wood. He watched on helplessly as she struck her head, and he refrained from stopping her. Her sense of penance was her own, and he would not so suddenly assert his will over her. "It really isn't anything to fret about. It is a cloak, a proper Lancer's cloak, it was made to get weathered, and washes clean no matter how much gets on it, even blood." This said as he settled in beside her breaking camp.
Carefully he tried to get her to come close, to try and set her up for the small victories of fastening the buckles of the saddle-packs, Budzona's girth. In a way he approached her in the way he would a nervous foal. By endeavouring to make her contact and interaction with him end with the pleasure or reward of something. A smile, and kindly spoken word. The offer of a crumb of wafer.
He walked on her right side, the great body and solidity of Budzona on her left. In between them he hoped she would feel somehow looked after -that somehow that might help.
Conscious that she was in fact an elf, Ulain tried to set her up to keep her in mind of the goodness and gladness of nature. For if there was shadow, and cold, and fear -there was also sun-warmed glades alight with motes of sun-goldened dust and the wings of moths and butterflies. He laughed at the sight of a deer darting out of sight, he whistled along with a warbling bird, always trying to bring these glad pass-times to her attention. Discovering a great flat mushroom he stopped to gather it into the foraging-sack. He called another break in their walk to share in the delight of finding a few strawberries, taking the time to pick them as if it was the most important thing they could be doing. He stopped to look up at the branches of a particularly maginificent oak, to scuff amonsgt the litter at the base of a chestnut. Tha strangest thing was, during all of this, putting all thought of delivering his package aside, he never felt more clear-headed.

[E'doa A'nii]

Ulain. The elven maiden did not seem to acknowledge the utterance of his name, but she understood it. Master of one, master of none. Elvina snickered. Muddy beetle squashed and dead. Flower's poison turns the head! She paused as his forgiveness became kind words, a look of deep suspicion and fear clouding her face over.

But at his mention of blood she shrank back, tripping over herself and the cloak to get away.Flesh that's rent and bones that break. Bind the hands that hold the stake! She grabbed the first thing she could find and began picking up camp. Ulain moved to help her, but he stayed on his side of camp. Master bends like whip of twine. Twists and turns- Oh where's the line? For the most part, she let him stay on his side of camp, and pick up from there. He inched himself over, gradually drawing near as the clean-up progressed. So it was, at first, that she left things to be put in the saddle bags, close enough to the horse, but far enough from Ulain that she could get away before he reached them; seemingly oblivious to the smile of encouragement offered her way. Lip-turns and blessings, what follow's the scourge.

Eventually,though,her desire to be near the horse began to win over her dread of the lancer so that he was able to stay closer on her right side with Budzona on her left. Caught between the man and the beast, Elvina sought escape by going underneath the horse's legs to stand on the other side. This put the warhorse between Elvina and Ulain. So stroking the horse eased more of her fear, and soon she was putting things in the saddle bags too. Only, if Ulain kept his distance. If he came too close, she was off and bouncing away to do something else.

Still suspicious of his intentions, she refused his wafers.

They kept along the path, a slow meandering pace that chafed at Elvina. Swiftly, swiftly, free. Slow to die on bended knee. No longer did she feel caught between the lancer and his horse. Now, she welcomed even the closeness she feared, if it would give her space from that she feared more. Heartache and terror side by side.

He seemed in a jolly mood. Laughing at the deer that ran past, while Elvina hugged the horse in fear. Fingers that rend and tear and shred. Hear them scratching in your head! He whistled with a bird. She laughed then. It was a dry, mirthless laugh. Akin to the braying of a donkey, and not much warmer. Hear not the whisper, seek no reply. Answer the danger, find out to die.

Curious of dawn and dusk and day. See not for all decay. So while she did not seem to notice the mushroom go into the sack, she did linger close enough to his strawberry picking to eat a few; the red juices staining her lips and fingers. Sweet is the blood of tree. Sweeter still the blood of you and me. Elvina did not seem interested in observing the oak. She was much more interested in running about chasing some invisible something.

Elvina did linger behind to investigate the leaves he'd previously investigated. Hopping wartfrog pays the way. Finding naught she returned to her place between the man and his horse. For awhile, as they walked she stared at him contemplatively.

Find the line: all is fine.

Shine to kill, and grey of blood. Here the needles for the flood.

[Ričle]

Danae walked slowly along the forest path, her feet bare and her eyes cast down upon the ground before her. The path was the same as the one before it; covered in roots, moss, and dried leaves fallen from the pines that towered overhead. The trees she passed were the same as the ones before them; thick bark in patchwork patterns, sap oozing from their cracks. The birds in the trees, the brook running down the hill, the smell of the air and soil and trees; all were the same. Seasons and weather had abandoned her senses, and those details that leapt to the imagination to give the trees, the brook, and the birds each their own distinguishing personalities in her mind's eye were gone from her. Her feet were bound to their steps, her direction was bound by the path, and her mind was bound by the magic of the forest, and by the prison that she had made for herself. At times she would fade away almost completely, but the desire to wander the paths would always call her back. And the paths she wandered led always, unfailingly, to the Woodhill.

Voices penetrated the dull drone of sound in her ears. Voices? How long had they been speaking? Minutes and hours ran together, perhaps she had heard them for a day? Danae looked curiously up from the path, and turned her head to seek the source of the voices. It took her some time, for sounds and images reached her mind through a coarse filter and she could not pinpoint the direction of the source of the sound. She walked a few steps farther and found herself at another crossroads, with a man, an elven woman, and a horse walking down one of the paths nearby. Their backs were to her, and they did not know she was there.

The words of the speaker were difficult to understand, and Danae realized that she had not heard anyone speak for a very long time. Except for the crone, but her voice was different, and always in Danae's mind as much as in her ears. Visitors to the forest were unusual, but Danae had encountered them before. Often they didn't see her, and would pass very near to her or walk through her near-transparent form entirely. Sometimes they noticed her and would flee the path entirely. But these individuals she saw before her now were caught in the forest's web, as she was. No, not both of them; only the taller one. Was that why she had come out of her daze, and noticed them?

She looked down at her hand. It had become nearly opaque in the soft light that filtered through the trees, though she knew it would pass through any physical object that she touched. But it was something; a semblance of life returned to her.

A choice again. To walk her own path, or follow theirs? It was no choice, thought Danae. She had no passion, no feeling, no clarity left to her save the hope that she would one day solve her puzzle and be free from this place. Perhaps they would find the path out of the woods where she could not. She stepped silently and treadlessly behind them, her eyes upon their backs instead of on the ground. Moving forward.

[E'doa A'nii]

Wind is a curious thing, blowing here and there and everywhere. It is invisible, but tangible, silent but all pervasive. Ever necessary for life. Most life takes it for granted. What is wind but the air we breathe? What is wind but the sound in the trees? What is wind but the storm that destroys, or the breeze that cools?

Not so the elves. The elves understand the secret of the wind, and listen for the wisdom it contains. Most of them anyway. Those who have not lost Touch. The wind always listens. It knows. What it knows it remembers. What the wind remembers it speaks. The wind is always speaking to any who will listen and listen well. A fact little known among the Unentwined but discovered by those of their kind who are unusually perceptive and erudite.

So it is that the wind speaks today.

It rustles through and about Danae's feet, scattering the detritus and pebbles shuttle, shuttle, punk, pink, rabble, crinkle Tousling Elvina's hair, it brushes the cheek of the lancer. Wisssshhhh....hhhaahhh Skirting through the trees,Swishhh, woosh and trailing off. Again it comes full circle, ruffling Budzona's mane, tinkling with the gear. ffffff...chinkle chinkle

At least these are the sounds heard by the untrained ear. The careless listener does not discern the soft voice of the wind, nor does it decipher the delicate syllables so uttered. But a careful listener knows. The attentive does not hear the sounds of the wind through the forest. No, the careful listener hears the words of the wind.

It rustles through and about Danae's feet scattering the detritus and pebbles. ...Prisoner of treachery and power: Take comfort of thy redemption... Tousling Elvina's hair, it brushes the lancer's cheek. Seek the way of the living, for the dead know the way. Skirting through the trees. None can find the way but the lost! Again it comes full circle, ruffling Budzona's mane, tinkling the gear. Lost is the way to those who know it well. Let not thy knowledge deceive thee.

People say elves think too much. Elves say people listen too little. They're both right and both wrong.( But that is a discussion which the Author will carry on some other time.) Elvina neither listens nor thinks enough. As such she is oblivious to both the ethereal being who follows so stealthily and the knowledge of the wind.