The Witch's Bridle (PatricianHavelock & Alexandra1405)

[MoldaviteGreen]

Shades of vermilion and burnt umber set a golden glow across hardened features, casting other sharp angles and defined lines in gloom. Chiselled jaws were hidden beneath wiry brush, stubble having long ago turned into unattended beards. Leathery skin of all shades were smeared with the remnants of the hunt; crimson gore, chestnut mud, dark coals. Once pristine clothes had become crumpled and worn, decorated with their own fair share of horse hair from week-long journeys. There wasn’t a single pair of legs within the party that did not ache, not a single soul that hadn’t grown weary, but each blood and dirt-smeared face was adorned with a smile; the kind that would reach into otherwise hollow and dull eyes. The fire was prodded with the carved end of a sharpened stick, embers fluttering from the hacked logs that lay blackened in the glowing red. The speared rabbits were turned slowly on their spikes, skins cast aside to be dried and crafted into a set of gloves for one of their wives. Their small grove of sanctuary was perforated with the scent of roasting rabbit flesh and precious whiskey kept in metal hip-flasks and only withdrawn from their layers for special occasions; special occasions being nights most dire for morale. Although, such a thing didn’t appear to be low under the dim, vermilion glow of the Blood Moon.

A stout red-bearded man stood by the fire, gesticulating boldly to his kin as his eyes shone with excitement as he shared his tale of reminiscence. Rounded cheeks were flushed a rose pink from the whiskey warming his veins. The sharpened stick which he held tightly with curled, muddied fingers slashed through the air, albeit a little clumsily despite his enthusiasm, as he mimicked the slaying of a beast. “And then dat nasty, scaled beast o’ a wyvern rose from its nest an’ devoured de bloody fool whole!” His grin almost split his face, cutting from ear to ear as the men about him shook with belly-laughs, one spitting a mouthful of liquor into the dirt as he cackled. “That’d be de last of dat dim-wit and good riddance!” The men slapped their knees, clapped one another on the back, one even falling from their log to roll on the ground in laughter that jerked tears to the corner of his eyes. There was one sole figure, however, who sat nestled in the shadows; silent and seemingly content to watch on from a distance. Yet, their lack of laughter was keenly noted by the storyteller, the red-bearded man turning to point the sharpened point of his makeshift sword to slender, pale throat. “Me story don’t humour you?” Whatever laughter he had earned quickly dissipated, the men growing still, the air seeming to grow cool.

The gloom was pierced as gaze lifted from the silver hip flask held between olive hands. Liquid gold eyes were slow to rise, taking their sweet time as if they felt they owed no explanation to the story-teller; despite the sharp wood pointed at delicate juncture of exposed throat. Instead, sharp chin was lifted as amber eyes leveled with his far more mundane, though narrowed, pair. It was a motion that was both a dare and an action of defiance, as metal flask was lifted to crimson-stained lips and a slow swig was taken; the notch of her throat bobbing with the swallow. She may have been blanketed in the gloom of swirling shadow, as if she had the uncanny ability to wrap it about her form like a woolen rug, but the men about her knew exactly where her free hand laid; tucked beneath the maroon cloak that fell about narrow shoulders, fingers dancing over the ebony hilt of obsidian blade. Pupils were feline slits, rather than circular in shape, and they dilated as she watched the looming threat who lingered above her. One shoulder rose in a casual shrug, the flask lowered to be balanced on knee, as she shifted a little forward on the fallen log of which she perched, the wooden stick dimpling the flesh at the notch of her throat. Those golden eyes lingered upon the story-teller’s face, as if she weren’t bothered in the slightest, before she glanced down at the silver sheen of the flask. Silvery voice cut through the silence like a freshly sharpened blade, licking at the men’s ears as she coldly stated; “I rather liked the company of that dim-wit. I think you should have a little more respect for a dead man.” Looking up through dark lashes, she watched as rose-pink burst into furious red across his cheeks by way of response to the offensive remark, something that she knew spoke true. The corner of her mouth twitched, the beginnings of a sly smirk as she added; “At least he knew how to throw a blade.”

“Aye!” One of the men shouted, looking up from the sharpening stone he’d been running along the length of his long sword. “Careful with your tongue, lass.”

Amber eyes slid sideways to their corners, spying the man with blackened fingers and setting him with a scowl. I will be careful with my tongue when this idiot learns how to hold his own. Nothing more was said, her gaze returning to linger upon the silver flask she balanced on her knee with but one finger, as if it held all the secrets in the world. Yet, despite her quiet and rather sudden submission, the sharpened wood only pressed firmer into cartilage of throat, though this didn’t deter her from raising the flask for another swig. She wouldn’t be frightened by the man whose weight shifted from foot to foot with the effect of strong liquor, nor would she be frightened by a poorly shaped piece of stick. Instead, eyes lazily glanced at the masculine faces keenly watching the interaction, their eyes curious.

“I know how to throw a blade,” the story-teller grumbled, almost incoherently. Knuckles paled with the tight grip he kept on the stick, similar to those of his other hand that was balled into a fist at his side. He stood above her, but he cast little shadow over her, already blanketed in the gloom that fell heavy and swirled about knee-high leather boots. His insistence that he knew said skill was rather humorous considering his current weapon of choice, his stance comical as his hands began to shake with anger. “He was nothin’ but a lump a meat. Good for nothin’. He slowed us down.”

“Interesting.” The singular word clung to the chilled air, absent of breeze, as she lifted her face into the glow of their fire, features finally revealed. Wisps of snow-white hair fell about the sharpened angles of her face, those eyes glowing intensely with a building defiance as she dared for the drunken fool to go on and say more. He has believed that he rules over us for far too long. These bastards won’t step up and say something, happy to keep under his thumb. Enough is enough. “I seem to remember Karlin differently.” There was a blur of motion, far too quick for liquor-affected brown eyes to recognise. One moment, the sharpened end of his stick was pressed to pulse-point, over an artery that would surely bleed red with any further pressure, and the next it had been swatted from his tight grip and laid discarded in the dirt by the fire. Flask was set against the log, carefully placed away before she’d back-handed the makeshift weapon away from vulnerable throat and risen from where she’d been perched comfortably. A growl rumbled deep, beneath voluptuous flesh hidden beneath black leather bodice and silver chain-mail; a sound that was equally threatening as it was primal. Crimson cloak’s hem was tattered from years of wear, never to be replaced, and fluttered about ankles just as one was brought up towards sternum. The sole of leather boot connected with the ample flesh of abdomen, the story-teller sent tumbling backwards to fall upon several of the other man in a clumsy sprawl.

There she stood, having shed the gloom that had welcomed her warmly into the shadows, set aglow in the amber of the fire. White hair was an un-earthly shade, glistening like silver hair as strands fell from the messy, high-ponytail to cascade about sharp cheekbones. An ear peaked from beneath snowy hair, pierced several times over with silver studs and delicate hoops, a meaning behind each that was known to none other. Tall in stature, she dominated the space before them, the darkness beginning to swirl at her feet. There was nothing of colour about her, the leather of her bodice and skin-tight pants decorated with bronze buckles and layer over a chain-mail shirt. Long sword had been set against the fallen log hours ago when they’d made camp, but she bore another weapon that was often far more debilitating that the former. Steel nails had been fashioned, curved elegantly and sharpened to a point that could carve through flesh, worn over her own like a dangerous piece of jewellery. Zemira, in that moment, was a force to be reckoned with. Those liquid gold eyes burned with rage as she stood over the fallen story-teller who now fought the supportive hands of his brethren in attempt to stand.

“Witch bitch.” He snarled; his words a slow drawl as his feet shuffled in the loose dirt as he struggled to get to his feet.

The curse seemed to be lost on her, though not entirely ignored, Zemira suddenly growing still and becoming distracted. While the story-teller continued to struggle in the dirt, almost rising to stand only for his leg to give way beneath him as he grew increasingly desperate in vengeful, she stood, her face slowly turning in the direction of the thicket of underbrush, as eyes narrowed into the darkness. A weathered and calloused hand shoved the red-bearded man to the ground, urging him to be still and quiet, while the rest carefully watched on as Zemira glared into the gloom.

“What is it that you hear?” One inquired, though his question went ignored for another few moments, enough to quicken several heartbeats from eerie lack of response. They had travelled with her long enough, employed her services for enough time, to understand that Zemira knew of things that they could not; and that when she grew still and quiet, it was because she sensed something. The men rose from their felled logs, their motions slow and calculating as they began to unsheathe long swords and lift axes from the dirt. They stood with squared shoulders and white-knuckled fists, ready for whatever it was that was about to burst from the forest surrounding them and the darkness that concealed whatever threat loomed.

Zemira said nothing for a moment more, instead hastily returning to her own felled log to snatch up the long sword and flask; setting both into their respective leather straps at her hips. “Don’t follow me.”

“Just where do you think you’re go—” The question was pointless, nothing but the gloom left to hear the black-haired man demand where she intended to head off to at such an hour, with such clear intent. Instead, the mercenaries were left to themselves, surrounded by eerie shadows that seemed to twist and turn into creatures at the edge of their vision, the witch they had employed in order to keep them safe on their journey, having vanished from sight.

Consumed by the darkness that so warmly welcomed her, leather boots crushed drying leaf litter under rapid steps; steps which were made with a need to get somewhere particularly quickly. Zemira moved in silence, nothing but the soft creak of her leather body armour to give away her approach as she ducked and weaved her way through the thick underbrush of the temperate forest, leaves slick with moon-lit dew. What she had heard could not be mistaken, could not have been passed off as a trick of the night or a delusion. The men had so firmly believed that they had wandered far from the wyvern nest they had encountered, the scene of the red-beard’s enthusiastic story, that they had settled down into the grove in complacency. This forest had a rather eerie ability of twisting time, allowing the travellers within its brush to believe they had been wandering for longer than they have, each twist and turn of their journey appearing the same as previous. It did not surprise her that they would have been foolish enough not to watch the moon, to settle within a grove that appeared all-too good to be true. Karlin very well may have been devoured by the wyvern, and the red-beard may have slain the beast before it had crawled from its cavernous nest, but not one had stopped to consider what it had been defending. Maternal instinct was strong in all creatures, even more so when one is guarding a nest of precious eggs.

Forest floor suddenly gave way beneath foot, a cliff edge appearing in the darkness before her that caused olive hand to snatch at a thick branch of the tree beside her in order to steady herself from a near-fall. Interesting, she pondered, golden eyes narrowing to thin, feline slits as she assessed the hollow beneath her. The red-beard had claimed to have slain the beast, after it had swallowed the most tolerable of their lot, and yet there was a startling lack of corpse. There was, however, exactly what she expected; a cluster of liquid-silver eggs huddled together in the various pelts of kills, glowing beneath the moonlight which pierced the green canopy above. Wyvern eggs were rare, could sell on the black market for a decent amount of coin, and Zemira was relieved that the red-beard had been blind enough not to have spotted them. Left alone, they had the chance to hatch, but taken from their cluster and shaken, they’d remain nothing but pretty artifacts to be set upon mantelpieces.

Spying a way to carefully descend into the hollow, Zemira picked her way across the leaf litter, taking her time to shuffle down a sharp decline before leaping the rest of the way down. Ankles jarred a fraction upon landing, leaving her to stand for a moment while the sting subsided, admiring the cluster before her that seemed to shiver with her presence. Bold enough, she stepped forward, beginning to move towards the eggs in order to peer a little closer. She’d been foolish, perhaps, to believe the red-beard’s claim that he had slain the wyvern, that he had severed reptilian head from serpentine neck. The ground shook beneath her as a beast crashed down upon the other side of the hollow; maw open, saliva dripping from fangs, serpentine flickering as it roared loudly enough to split her ears. The wyvern was looking particularly well and alive for something that was supposed to be dead.

“Fuck.”

Leather boots dug into dirt, iron nails clutching at clumps of grass as Zemira fought her way back up the sharp incline. Feet slipped on the dew, the witch falling to the ground only to shove to her feet in a desperate attempt to escape. Earth shook with the steps of the wyvern, the beast easily stepping over its cluster of precious eggs and towards the snow-haired intruder. She grappled for a hold, barely managing to haul herself up onto the cliff edge and clamber upwards as the beast unleashed hellfire. Rolling, spine slammed against the base of old oak, the flames splintering as they struck the hollow’s sharp edge, but the heat was hellish enough to cast her cheeks a hot red. “That fucking bastard.” This would be the second attempt of an intruder eyeing her eggs, and there was no doubt that the beast was beyond furious. So furious, in fact, that it launched itself into the air with several beats of leathery wings, her cluster momentarily forgotten in the rage.

Zemira didn’t need another reason to bolt, shoving to her feet to turn on her heels and sprint through the underbrush. Twigs snapped against her face, striking against delicate skin and leaving behind streaks of beading black. Cloak caught on the thicket, another tear made in the crimson cloth in her desperation to flee from the beast that was too far gone to reason with. Hand slammed into rotting wood as Zemira vaulted herself over fallen log, breath leaving stained lips in misted puffs of air. There would be no hiding from a creature so hell-bent on destruction, and those men were nothing but useless lumps. The wyvern roared above her, spying her through the canopy as it dove and crashed into several oaks, sending a tree splintering sideways and crashing into the earth before her. Path was diverted, the witch making a sudden change in direction, her pace quicker with the fear.

The forest broke away from about her, leaf litter no longer underfoot but instead replaced by long grasses that whipped at sprinting thighs. The plains. A wide expanse of wild grasses that stretched beyond all imagination until the end of the southern border of the continent. Now there really was nowhere to hide. But what Zemira didn’t account for were the spotting of sheep and goats that peppered the area about her. Dinner for the wyvern that could be a distraction. The roar behind her, the burst of flames that licked at her heels, said otherwise. In her fright, her desperation to flee and survive, Zemira hadn’t spotted the gathering of tents and open fires, the figures that clustered about the red flames seeking heat from the chilled night’s air. Instead, she ran forward into the darkness, only glancing over her shoulder once.

But once was enough.

Toe of leather boot caught an unseen stone. Centre of gravity was tipped forward as she lost her balance. Agile body sprawled into the grass, jarring a shoulder as back of skull struck dirt. Long sword clattered to the ground at her side, the sheathe torn from her belt. Saliva dropped onto her face, scolding bare skin with the heat from its maw, the wyvern looming above her now, those fangs poised. Was this how she was going to die? Would this be her final chapter? Heart pulsed against ribs, almost rising into throat as fear flooded black-liquid veins.

The night was split with white-light, a pulsation that flattened the grass about her and would have jolted the nearby tents. It was blinding, enough to stun the wyvern as she tried to wriggle out from under it. If those nearby hadn’t noticed the commotion, they would certainly be aware of a presence now.

 

[PatricianHavelock]

The world came slowly back into focus, first the sound of it as screeching turned to sharp ringing and finally began to resolve into the dull sounds of the flurry of activity all around Zemira as the flash of light and presence of the monstrous creature roused any and all to action. It was hard to track what was happening as sheep bounded by, the cantering of horses as well, and the shaking of the earth beneath her was all but indistinguishable from the feeling of weightless reeling as what she saw struggled to keep up with what could be understood. Everything blurred as her head could barely be kept on straight, but the presence of the wyvern, staggering backwards under a hail of arrows and spears, unleashing a gout of flame at several of the tents and charring more than a few creatures . . . one of whom fell to a messy heap in front of the witch girl, what at first appeared to be a horse and rider, flesh melted together from the heat of the wyvern's flames but proved to be something else entirely.

Where human torso met a horse's withers and shoulder, she could only be looking at what was once a centaur in the prime of life scant seconds ago, but now only a stinking and smoking carcass.

The tents, the herd of animals, the spears and arrows, all of it made plain that she had stumbled into something nearly as dangerous as a hunting party or a wyvern nest. The nomadic clans of centaurs were barbarous and wild, and might be moved to treat and trade with human settlements, but there were plenty of other unsavory tales and more than a few hosts of the horse-men that were just as likely to pillage and maraud as find more honest and civilized ways of living. No matter which these turned out to be, it was difficult to imagine Zemira would be welcome in their midst with the wyvern as her guest to their encampment. One of the creatures rode past her full tilt without looking at her, but his swaying tail brushed past her as he hefted a spear high to his shoulder and launched it at the scaled beast, now a pincushion of javelins and arrows and heavier shafts with wood or bronze points. In almost no time, they had formed a wheel around the creature, ringing it in and constantly peppering the beast from every side.

All the more impressive was that they were herding it by this method, getting it further away and closer to the edge of their encampment, rather than recklessly trying encircle and set upon it all at once. The barrage continued until the beast slipped, attempting to take flight as it thought to make good its escape and the toll their weapons had taken upon its wings and limbs became apparent. At that moment, the roar of their charge began, as one more colossal of their number, bedecked in a smattering of boiled leather plates as well broke off and plunged his lance deep up and into the neck of the creature, tearing inwards and then with inhuman strength wrestled it downwards, pinning the wyvern to the ground by its neck and keeping it twitching but still alive for the moments it took for others to trample forward, bashing it with hooves and stabbing with spears or sickles as they set upon it en masse.

The result was grizzly and swift.

Zemira was not spared their attention for long however, as the heavily armored and helmeted among them, clearly their leader, their chieftain and now sliding a massive battle-axe from his back began to canter towards her at a lazy pace. Piercing dark eyes gleamed from within that helm, but he made no effort at expedience or to run her down, merely sauntering towards her, the implicit threat of the axe at his side the only show of aggression. All around her was blackened earth and trampled tents. It was as if Zemira were at the center of the storm of violence and chaos and yet had escaped largely unscathed, which was more than could be said for the dead centaur near to her, or the wyvern, or the herds of this clan which were scattered in every direction.

 

[MoldaviteGreen]

The earth had shaken beneath her, the explosion of light knocking the wyvern back just a step. Blood rushed loudly in her ears, heart throbbing against ribs as if it wished to be free. Zemira had faced down a great many of monsters, but she hadn’t been bound in the fashion that she now found herself; the witchroot splinter embedded into her ankle. Insurance, they had said upon her employment, that she would have no reason to lead them into danger when she was tasked with the opposite. Initially, she had thought it foolish, the imprisonment of her innate power simply souring whatever good will she had towards them. The group of mercenaries had hoped to sway her, to ensure that she would deliver them safely unto their destination, but instead they had forged an enemy who counted down her days until she lead them to the doorstep of their King’s grand castle, to be rid of the witchroot that drained her. It had left her defenceless against the wyvern, the piece of wood that pierced her flesh which her body so eagerly welcomed and sealed within, leaving the blinding light the only thing that she was able to generate with great focus and desperation. Even then her skull felt as though it were about to split into two.

Yet, the wyvern’s attention had shifted elsewhere, Zemira momentarily forgotten with the approach of what first appeared to be riders. Eyes stung from the brilliant white light that she’d forgotten to close her eyes for, her vision blurred and mind addled. They carried with them the musky scent of equine, but there was something far more metallic underlying. Zemira rolled onto her belly, metal claws digging into loose dirt as she tried to get to her feet. Legs refused to support her weight, crumbling with each attempt, leaving the white haired witch to crawl through the long grass away from the wyvern that was screeching under attack. Meat struck into dirt before her, flesh charred almost to the bone; Zemira taking pause as she startled. These were no horse-back riders.

Centaurs.

The wyvern soon became the least of her worries. Zemira knew enough about their kind to understand she’d be received rather poorly; having sprinted almost into their camp with a wyvern in tow, bringing upon destruction and death. Not only did she trespass, but she was the maker of trouble and the bringer of chaos. They’d see to it that she was sorely punished. Like a wise person realising that their saviours could potentially serve a fate far worse than being roasted alive, her fight to escape became all that much stronger.

Twisting at the waist, momentarily-forgotten long sword was snatched from its resting place among tall wisps of grass, only to be dragged through the dirt as Zemira struggled to get to her feet even still. The earth shook beneath her, dropping Zemira to her knees just when she was sure that she’d manage to stand. Teeth grit tightly, the muscle in her jaw pulsating with the clench as she was reduced to crawling through the long grass. Smoking corpse drew her to a pause, the features of a weathered face deafening her senses. The raging wyvern, the thunder of heavy hooves that rushed forward in attack, every piece of chaos reigning on about her no longer registered. The heat that licked at her back wasn’t felt, Zemira’s attention entirely stolen by the fallen warrior who laid out before her, skin blackened and charred.

Thoughts pummelled the forefront of her mind, a violent peppering against her skull. Who had he been? Was he the first to rush forward in order to defend a family? A lover? How many years had he traipsed this earth? What had been his name? How many would cry when they learnt that he had been the first to fall to the wyvern’s wrath? Zemira edged closer, coaxed forward by the blank look in those unseeing eyes. It wasn’t lost on her that this centaur would still be alive should she had not brought the wyvern to the clearing in her terror and attempt at escape. This was the least of which she could do.

Witchroot burned angrily deep within flesh, searing the insides of muscle and cartilage as she moved to scoop the centaur’s blackened face to rest atop her lap. The scent of burnt flesh didn’t deter her. She needed to do this, not for herself but for the creature that had so bravely rushed forward in order to defend his people, without so much as a second thought. Limp head was heavy upon her lap, his neck arched at an angle not natural as olive fingers dragged slowly through wiry hair; like a mother soothing a child. Strands of white hair fell about her face as Zemira bowed her head, sitting in the grass with long legs tucked beneath her, her body beginning to throb as the witchroot objected.

“Eguzkiaren azpian mendebaldeko lurraldeetan loreak udaberrian igo daitezke, zuhaitzak ugaldu egin daitezke, urak korrika egin, zoriontsuek abestu egiten dute. Bestela, gaueko hodei ilunak eta piztiak badituzte, Elven izarrak harribitxi zuriak dira, ilearen adar artean.” The pad of thumb swept down between brow, along sloped length of nose. “Hemen bidaiaren amaieran iluntasunean sakon lurperatuta egon arren, dorre gotor eta altuetatik harago, mendi aldapatsu guztietatik haratago, itzal guztien gainetik Eguzkia eta Izarrak betirako murgiltzen dira: ez dut esango Eguna amaitu denik, ezta Izarrak agur ere.”

The tight grit of her jaw was the only indicator that Zemira struggled with the radiant heat that scorched her flesh from the inside, the buried witchroot doing its upmost best to absorb whatever power she was trying to access, to dampen the magic that she so stubbornly tried to use. There was a sting to her eye, the salt of a tear gathering in the corner from the excruciating pain that threatened to steal consciousness if she so stubbornly continued. Yet, shaky fingers continued to comb through fire-crisped hair, her thumb sweeping slowly between brows several times over as if she were attempting to soothe a restless babe.

Her voice was barely a murmur as she whispered; “In western lands beneath the Sun the flowers may rise in Spring, the trees may bud, the waters run, the merry finches sing. Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night and swaying beeches bear the Elven-stars as jewels white amid their branching hair. Though here at journey's end I lie in darkness buried deep, beyond all towers strong and high, beyond all mountains steep, above all shadows rides the Sun and Stars forever dwell: I will not say the Day is done, nor bid the Stars farewell.”

There came no blinding white light. There came no shift in dead muscle from a corpse reanimated. Instead, the spell in which she spoke simply cleaved aching soul from charred carcass, gifting peace in the eternal slumber. Zemira kept as she was, combing fingertips carefully through hair as she remained deaf to the chaos about her. It wasn’t until the world grew quiet, save for several pained cries, that her senses returned; the pungent stench of burnt flesh licking at her nostrils. She didn’t dare move, unable to pry her hand away from wiry strands as she continued to console a deadman.

At the edge of the forest, where oak trees met tall grass, the mercenary band watched on, not daring enough to venture out onto the grassy plains to join in the centaur’s battle against the wyvern. They’d been inspired to venture away from the safety of the glade after the roars of the beast had reached them, soon followed by a blinding light that had sent red-beard toppling over in his drunken stupor. Only once the wyvern was pinned to the ground, its life bled out into the soil, did the men move forward; jogging through the hip-high grass to where they could spot strands of silvery-white hair that beckoned them closer. It would seem, however, that their witch had attracted the attention of another, a heavily armoured centaur moving lazily towards her, clear with vicious intent.

“I’ll be damned if he gets that fucking witch,” Red-beard snarled, running that little bit faster before he and his men skidded to a stop, just a couple of feet from Zemira. His lip upturned in disgust as he realised she was cradling a corpse, one with skin charred and peeling. Swords had been drawn, the men ready to take a stance to defend what they believed to be theirs. Zemira’s services had been paid for in advance, and she did not come cheap. The story-teller, straightening his spine and puffing out his chest as he motioned to Zemira with the tip of his sword, met the centaur with a hard stare. “She is mine. I paid good coin for her.”

“Aye,” another called, his voice scratched as he stepped up beside their self-nominated leader. “We paid for her. She owes us safe travel.”

The mercenaries weren’t given a moment of Zemira’s attention, the young woman remaining kneeling in the soil, the weight of limp head upon her lap. Dirt smeared olive cheeks, thin lines of black decorating skin where limbs of trees had greedily sliced into flesh with her desperate attempt to flee. White glowing hair fell about the soft shape of her face in messy tendrils. She said not a word as the centaur approached, looming above her and back lit by the Hunter’s Moon, the silvery light catching the edge of battle axe that winked at her in threat. Odd as it was, she had been terrified by the mashing maw of the wyvern who sought to protect its cluster of eggs, yet she didn’t feel the slightest bit frightened as the centaur slowly approached, his threat of violence unspoken but surely present. Instead, sharp chin rose in defiance, a show of cocky disregard as Zemira continued to cradle his fallen kin. Golden eyes glimmered in the darkness that swallowed her, tendrils of smoke curling about her folded legs.

One thing was for certain. She was not something to be possessed and she’d be sure to make it clear.