Once upon a time, there was a star. Below the star, there was a village. In the village, there were people — people, who herded snails. They sheared the gastropods, for wool grew on their shells. The snails', not the people's. No humans have shells in this tale. That's a lie. Anyway. One such snailherd started a cult.
The Second Star flickered in the sky. As always. It was visibly closer every passing day and all who lived in what remained of the village knew it would eventually fall. Precautions have been taken, preparations have been made. One and all — child, adult, or elder — were ready for whatever was to come. Another lie. They weren't.
Gillan sat by her cabin's open window, her chestnut curls lightly flickering in the nightly breeze. She stared at the star. She hoped quietly, hiding it even from herself, that this one would bring something good. What she hoped for loudly, was revenge. She had no choice but to hope for that.
A knock sliced her daydream in half. She turned to the door in a trance. A local boy informed her that all was ready. Gillan nodded in an automated understanding and closed the door. She sat on the floor, staring at the lines oak made in the door's wood. Her locks sat with her. The girl looked at the patterns they fell into every time she shifted her head. That reminded her.
Braids. Gillan's life had been nothing but braids for the past four years. Having her mother's hair was both a blessing and a curse. She could feel her scalp slowly ripping off every time she bound her curls into a tress, but she couldn't stand to watch the pain splitting her father's face every time she let them fly freely. At least there was a place of her own where she could do just that.
Everyone could have a house at that time. After all, the Good Neighbours' frenzy had only destroyed people. Gillan got up. Doing that was an achievement of its own. She reached for the assortment of laces she used for braiding. As always, it was riddled with stray hairs, ripped by the tress's binding. She ran her finger through her hair. The locks shifted, squeezing — as if afraid of what was to come next. Indeed, they were.
Having turned her glorious mane into a few pitiful braids, Gillan exited her cabin. She lived near the salt line that encircled the village. The idea had been spear-headed by her father, who after the carnage vowed that no fairy would enter anyone's home. Ever. Except for the ones that were already inside the barrier. But those have been tracked down by the bloodhounds. Every single one of them.
Birdsong — a pixie — quietly watched from the cabin's rafters as Gillan closed the door being her. She let out a faint trill of encouragement moments before the lock snapped.
Gillan's head hurt. Every root of every hair flamed with aching and discomfort. With every step she took like this, more and more pain did it provoke. Her locks seethed, trying to undulate as they always did, but now unable — encaged in a laced prison. She trotted in this manner through the knee-high grass, that stung and cut her legs, as if nature itself was opposed to what had been done to her otherwise majestic curls.
Even the thistles were against her. The tiny, purple raincallers, protectors from all evil, the most-honest plants. Blind in their oath to humanity, they pierced into Gillan's calves, provoking a thin stream of crimson for every one of them she passed. She pulled her sight away from the carnage upon her legs and lifted her eyes hill-ward.
That's not a good term. The village had hills all over the place. In this case, though, the hill Gillan looked at was the Hill of Calling. Being the tallest of the ones upon the village was spread, it got that name from being the centre of that one snailherd's cult. It was on that hill that fae hunters were named, given their regalia, and told to go into the woods to kill a pixie or three. And it was time for Gillan to join them.
