To Cut Flames from the Air

Chapter II Part II: Arvil the Pilgrim

In the sunny mid-afternoon, a hare made wary progress through the woods. Though the hare did not know it, his kind was revered in these central and southern reaches of the Beoralheome. While the nimble stoat or sable was the preferred fur of those who walked the Sunlit Plains (or dared to traverse the Mink Marshes), the hare's pelt was a staple of forest trade, dependable both in supply and utility. 

The hare remained ever alert as it tentatively traversed the undergrowth. Unlike the similar yet wholly unrelated rabbit, hares were not born blind. On the contrary, they were instead able to run and hide from the moment they are born, a testament to their lifelong alertness. Indeed, alertness was the species' saving grace, for be it man or wolf or chimeric beast, they were in every sense prey for those who walked these woods. 

As it wandered here and there to nibble brush and foliage, his ears picked up a distant sound: the heavy flapping of a hawk's broad wings. Perhaps by instinct alone, the hare recognized the sound immediately and knew that he should be prepared to run. Standing with his weight on his back legs, the hare raised his head and strained his ears. If he could tell where the hawk was coming from, he was in very little danger today.

Of course, there were many details that the hare could not know to question. Why did the sound of the flapping wings indicate a wingspan more than twice that of the average hawk? Why was the air devoid of any new scent? These were frankly not the questions that a hare would care to consider. That is not to say that the hare was ignorant to the peculiarities of his circumstance, as there was a certain detail that left him very confused: the moment he had heard the movement of wings, the direction of the wind had completely changed direction.

An arrow pierced the hare's head just below the ear and behind the eye. 

∘∘∘

Arvil sat beside the fire over which her hare cooked. It sizzled in the pan, oil leaking from the meat. The animals she had caught in these woods were consistently far fattier than those in the mountains around Dragascelge. Of course, she had no reason to be surprised by this, as the greenery was abundant here compared to the rocky and often barren cliffs of Blodafeorde. Frequently, she had been missing her home in the positives. The air is warmer here in the North but was a constant reminder of how far she was from home. The roads were better kept and straighter here but she did not know them well. The meat was fat and tender but its taste and texture were unfamiliar.

She had not expected a short journey, as she potentially had the entire forest to cover in her search and had uncovered no viable leads in the year she'd been searching so far. It certainly didn't help that she was chased out of Hungascelge the moment she'd asked to visit the shrine to contact the very Gods that had sent her here. Still, no amount of inconvenience or homesickness would dissuade her from the cause. It was her destiny to be on this pilgrimage, no matter the hardships that came with it, and it was her duty to the Gods to see it through to the end. 

Regardless, she wished she could find this dragon's head soon. 

The sound of a branch snapping interrupted her thoughts. She stood and turned towards the sound, pulling her bow off from where it hung on her shoulder and preemptively knocking an arrow and spreading her wings. The wind picked up around her, making the fire's embers flare orange. She saw no one, but she heard the sound of feet running heavily away, followed by a sharp cry and the unmistakable sound of someone tripping and falling into a bush. 

∘∘∘

Having been wandering the woods aimlessly for the past three days, Mab was naturally drawn to the scent of cooking meat. Her hopes of having stumbled upon civilization had dwindled as she neared, sensing quickly that there was only one person beside her in these reaches of the woods. She'd thought it was perhaps a member of the Hunter's Outpost, but she did not recognize the soul to be Woodborn as the hunters often were. To her confusion, she did not recognize it to be a Shorefolk or Plainsperson either, though that may have been her hunger getting the best of her better senses. Regardless, it was the first person she'd sensed nearby in days.

She had barely caught a glimpse of the person by the fire before she heard a bowstring being pulled. Not knowing what else to do, she made a run for it. 

∘∘∘

Mab wrestled with the branches that encased her, pulling at her cloak and tugging at her hair as she tried to pull herself away. She put up an honorable fight, but the clear victor of the match was the bush. When she felt the figure by the fire approach, she ceded her effort to escape the bush and tried instead to keep quiet and hope she wasn't noticed.

She held her breath as she felt the soul grow closer. She closed her eyes and started counting birds. She swore she felt the wind pick up around her.

"Are you lost?" she heard a voice say with an unfamiliar accent.

She opened an eye and turned to look towards the voice. She gasped, mostly in awe, partly because she had been holding her breath for several minutes. Before her stood a girl not much older than herself, whose golden hair matched the golden feathers of two wings which sprouted from her back. Of course, she'd heard of the winged Drakesblood, who stayed cloistered in the far peaks of Blodafeorde, but never before had she seen one in person. She stood stunned at the sight of her.

"I suppose I should take your silence as confirmation?" Arvil asked. She had lowered her bow before she approached, seeing that this meeting was far from an ambush. 

"Uh... Uh-huh," Mab said. 

"You are quite a distance from the nearest town," Arvil said. "Are you, by any chance, travelling alone?"

Mab nodded.

"Do you happen to be travelling from Hungascelge?" Arvil asked.

"No!" Mab was quick to reply. "I... I'm not from Hungascelge, no."

"I see," Arvil said. "How long have you been lost?"

Mab averted Arvil's gaze. "Uh, three days."

"Three days? That is quite long time to be wandering the woods alone," Arvil said. "Where are you from?"

Mab stayed silent, not knowing what to say. 

Arvil knew the silence well. She knelt down, gently placing a hand on Mab's shoulder. "Are you in trouble?"

Mab nodded.

"Can you tell me what sort of trouble you are in?" she asked. 

Mab shook her head.

"Do you have anywhere you know that you can go?"

Mab stayed silent, still averting her gaze. 

Arvil sighed. She moved her hand from the girl's shoulder to her arm, before pulling her out of the bush, using her other arm to pull away the branches that she'd tangled herself up in.

"What is your name?" Arvil asked.

"Mab," Mab said.

"I am Arvil," Arvil replied. "You must be hungry. I have some meat that you can eat."

Mab nodded. "Thank you."

"There is an old structure not too far west from here where you can settle for the night," Arvil said. "I can lead you there, and I can stay with you. No one goes anywhere near the structure, if you are concerned about being followed."

"Why not?" Mab asked.

"Because it is cursed," Arvil said.

"Oh..."

"By the way, you haven't happened to have seen the head of a dragon anywhere around here recently, have you?" Arvil asked.

"No?" Mab said.

"Right, of course," Arvil said. "It was a silly question."