Shrill

Visualize it, the voice in the piccolo once taught Asuna.

The breath of the green. The hum of dancing leaves, the groan of old branches. Listen to them—their cries of joy and pain.

Her mother taught her to listen to the white demon in the piccolo. It would teach her many things, she said as she placed the unremarkable instrument in Asuna's hands.

"What things?" Asuna asked, wearing an expectant smile.

Her mother smiled in return, running a finger through the child's red hair and tucking it behind her ear. "Do you trust me?"

Obviously, Asuna nodded, a twinkle in her eyes. Her smile dropped when she realized her mother wouldn't answer. Her mother sighed affectionately, her hand on her cheek.

Feel nothing but the forest, mother's voice melted into mercury. Not your enemies' gazes. Not the glint of their weapons. Not their threats nor pleas. In time, they shall be one with the forest.

Awakened in a cold sweat, the storyteller gasped and shivered. She held the wool blanket around her body, trembling.

Are you okay?

"Oh," her voice cracked as she shuffled around under her blanket, "no, yes, I'm fi-"

She turned to the voice with an embarrassed grin, and the air greeted her with a lone gust.

Right. It'd been a while since the others left.

Her breath still quick and heaving, she chuckled. It kept her heart from sinking deeper. She needed to stay afloat if she was to wander on her lonesome.

Fire. Burn their lungs, flush them out of their nooks and crannies. Invite them out of the dark onto your stage. Let their thirst for blood sate you—feed the soil their charred tongues, feed it their smoked lungs, feed me, feed-

She poured a bowl of water over the dead fire pit before kicking the sizzling ashen wood down to dust. No sparks? No smoke? Seeing it was fine, she nodded to herself.

Forest fires were no joke, her mother taught her once.

The storyteller dusted off her tattered clothes. She then retied the cloth she'd used for a pillow around her waist. The blanket was folded, rolled, and then tied to the bottom of her bag. She would've hummed had she any shred of faux cheer left, but what would keep her smile from falling apart then? Instead, she soaked in the melody of rustling foliage and the birds' accompaniment, pulling her hood up over her crimson hair.

Double-check her piccolo in its holster, her dagger in its sheath, and done. Stiff neck and runny nose aside, her clean-up time was improving, which made for a good morning.

And then she was on the road again—a lone traveler walking on foot. Nothen was two days away, wasn't it?

The storyteller's grin bloomed at the thought of fresh company. Tavern-goers and fire-sharers. All the drunkards and widowers, merchant kings and fish-eyed deserters, even the smithy's wife! She was eager to hear the same stories she'd heard her whole life, perhaps a few new ones.

Feeling the muse's tug, she unsheathed her trusty piccolo from her belt. Placing it to her lips, she blew gently, casting a light, warm tune into the cool morning breeze. A ditty, one her mother taught her.

The piccolo was a temperamental beast. In the clumsy lips of an amateur, it would shriek and grate. She was no amateur, though. She hoped she wasn't, playing it as often as she did then, practicing it as hard as she did way back when.

It was the only thing she had to do in her spare time. Mentally compiling, revising, and rehearsing stories wasn't the type of thing she had the energy to do on the road—especially not on that particular one.