Zenobia's Woods

Chapter 1 ~ Miss Wilting

It was Autumn, but despite this, it was still unbearably hot. Zenobia had been inside all morning, avoiding the worst of the boiling sunlight.

 She was strange like that, she wanted to be pale. Just like she wanted to be strange. So she sat by herself at one of the large, bay windows, and watched the trees move with the wind, Their leaves becoming gradients of orange, red and auburn. 

Occasionally she'd see a carriage or two along the narrow dirt road just outside, The hooves of the horses filling her with thoughts of what it would be like to be riding one. A top such a large and regal creature, the clip-clopping of hooves on dirt and stone. The wind in her long, wild hair and the soft huffs and grunts of the horse. She thought it to be quite exhilarating.

Zenobia wasn't all alone out here, in the dark woods. No.

Salem was a funny little feline, dark as night with vibrant, golden eyes. He had been a gift from her Pa' when she was born. Salem was old, but healthy as the horses pulling carriages outside. The old cat was lazing on the beaten and worn cot by the other window, next to the cupboard and boiling pot.

 Zenobia tucked a strand of her raven-like hair behind an ear and got up from the window sill, stretching her arms in the air. The ceiling was low, therefore her fingertips brushed the wooden roof as she let out a bored yawn. Salem lazily opened one, crystalline eye before turning over and curling up again. Zenobia rolled her eyes. He was so lazy.

Zen glanced out the window once more, dark eyes searching the sun-lit forest before she picked up a hand-crafted dagger, her satchel and turned to the lazy old cat on the cot. 'Right, up yer' get, ya old fleabag!' She said sternly, reaching for him with her bony hands and stuffing him inside her satchel, a soft grunt of protest being heard as he gave up on struggling.

Zenobia was wearing a black, long-sleeve shirt with a torn white collar and some black riding pants she had found. The girl tried to keep herself scarce most of the time but she sometimes allowed herself into the village to trade prey for supplies. 

Zenobia was a hunter, she loved the thrill of catching small rodents and animals, the look of pleading in their eyes as she finished them. It was all quite masochistic. It gave her a rush. 
The girl stepped out of the hut, her bare, pale feet hitting the soft grass and stones gently, trying to be silent. She could see the smoke from the chimneys above the trees and hear the sound of the villagers. It was all a little too loud so she turned away from the village and started off silently towards the deeper parts of the forest.