The Depth of Perception

Midnight

Oriana startled awake. Moonlight filtered through the opening in their tent, casting a pale glow on everything inside. It was somehow very calming, and she found the memories of her dream quickly fading into scattered details—a roaring black wave crashing over her, a child's laughter.

But the child's laughter didn't fade.

She could hear it still, faintly, coming from outside. A quiet giggle here and there, nothing but the silence of the night filling the gaps. Watching Wrench's form shuffle in her sleep and deciding not to wake her friends yet, Oriana grabbed her bow and shuffled over to the flap that served as the door, crouching under the low ceiling. Then—carefully, quietly—she stuck her face outside.

Not twenty paces from the edge of the camp she saw a white-blue glow fluttering above the ground. This was the source of the sound, and Oriana gasped as she realized what she was seeing. It was a shrike—a rare creature of pure energy. She had heard many stories of them; a mischievous but kind race no more than three hands tall, winged and wreathed in blue flames that didn't burn. But she had never seen one in person. Few had.

Torn between leaving it to its own devices and watching its inviting glow flit about for longer, she realized something. It wasn't going anywhere. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it seemed to be looking straight at her, floating back and forth, doing nothing more than occasionally twittering with soft laughter. Almost as if it was trying to get her attention.

It was then that she felt the cold fire of steel on her throat, and caught a face moving into the light in the corner of her eye. She opened her mouth in shock, but before any sound could escape, a dark hand slid over her mouth.

Afraid to move lest she test the blade's edge, she strained to see her attacker without turning her head. She wasn't able to get a good look before the blade suddenly shifted, causing her to flinch. It didn't feel like it cut her, but if it had the pain could have been delayed by shock.

It took her a moment to realize what had actually happened. The blade now lay flat across her throat, pressed against her but not hard enough to be anything more than uncomfortable. She had yet to make heads or tails of the situation when the face crept forward in the darkness and whispered to her.

"How many with you?" it asked, in a voice far less menacing that she would have expected. As it said this, the blade withdrew and the shrike she had seen earlier approached and alighted on the figure's shoulder, finally breaking the silhouette of the moonlight and allowing her to see the face of her 'attacker'.

It was a man who seemed close to her age, with dark skin and dark clothing except for a glimmering something strung across his chest. His hair—long and bunched together in dreadlocks—was tied back behind his head. The shrike was sitting on his bare shoulder, kicking its legs back and forth and grinning.

Something about his face, serious but not unkind, and the presence of a shrike reassured her, and she decided to answer his question despite his strange behaviour and despite her better judgement.

"Two," she whispered, narrowing her eyes. She looked at his blade, a strange weapon that was curved like a slithering snake and had a golden inlay down its middle. "Why?"

"How many in your tent?"

"I told you, two. What do you w—"

"How many in your tent?" he hissed, more insistent this time.

Taken aback, Oriana turned her head back toward the interior and counted her slumbering companions. Two, just as she had—

Scrambling backwards to her feet, she stood with her head pressed uncomfortably into the low ceiling of the tent and tried to pull an arrow onto her bow. All the commotion caused a stirring in her companions, and Wrench's groggy face appeared as she sat up in her bedclothes, the pale moonlight bleaching her nearly white.