Chapter 52: 52
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The sun was approaching halfway across the sky by the time I had gathered the thistleweed from the outskirts of the Great Forest. The forest itself is bustling with life, and I spend a good half hour of my time watching the changeling fairies scuttle among the fallen leaves, throwing stones at each other, and yelping when they get hit.
Compared to the palace of the vampires, to the high tensions and the fear that every living day may be your last, the Great Forest is serene, a slice of peace in times of war.
I meet two elven hunters trailing a boar on the outskirts- hunters of the palace, well decked in fine armour, gathering food for the nights feasts (which since I have staunchly refused to attend from the day of my arrival.) A fact that, thinking about it now, probably pisses Soren off.
I grin to myself. Excellent.
They direct me towards the most straightforward path to the end, and then move on their way. They don't ask questions, a fact that I am eternally grateful for. I watch them go, unaware they are being trailed by two wood sprites, and stifle a giggle. I had missed this.
An hour later, and the path has stopped, replaced by thorns and spiny bushes extending through meters of forestry like a wall that my small knife would be barely enough to make a dent in. I groan. Clearly, the path hasn't been used in years.
I am going to have to use magic to clear a way through, I think, reluctant to use any more magic than needed. My energy is sparse from reading, and any use of magic may alert the Faey folk of my presence- and not necessary the good kind of Faey folk either. Outside of the palace, I am fair game- to vampires and all manner of creatures alike. I throw my sachet on the ground to free up my arms. I am going to have to be stealthy. Just as I am about to begin casting, a shadow flits through the trees at one hundred paces off. I shrink behind a tree and clamp my hand over my mouth.
I count in my head, slowing my heart rate.
One… Two… Three...
The figure dances through the trees, form rippling with shadows, with each step blurring in and out of existence like a wisp of smoke disappearing into the air. Their face is drawn under the darkness provided by the thick branches overhead, branches that only thicken the deeper into the forest you stray. They seem unaware of my presence, tuned in to some sound, some objective, that leads them assuredly through the fray of brushes and brambles. I daren't move.
A pair of hunting knife gleam, fixed on a belt, flashing at me like two twin eyes, piercing my flesh. Perhaps I would not have realised, perhaps I would have thought nothing of this creature and let them pass like all the other creatures of the forest, had a smell not hit my nose from the distance between us. It lingers in the air, distinct and fresh, dripping with the same familiarity that I have become accustomed to in my days in the palace. Azrael's words spring into my mind, prodding at the edge of my thoughts.
Soren likes to hold a rose by its thorns. Perhaps you should ask him why.
The smell is undeniable. Blood and roses. I swallow.
My mind whirls, flitting from one question to the next. What is Soren doing in the Great Forest? Hunting, I suppose to myself, but that does not explain why he is so close to the end. Nothing lives in the end. Nothing good. Hunting wood be futile. I shuffle on the tips of my toes, straining to catch a better look.
He has stopped now, halting at the frontier of brambles to assess his position. For a moment, he paces back and forth, stopping every now and then to run a finger down the flat of his knife, or flick back a strand of loose hair, then begins to pace again with a fresh and renewed vigour.
I squint at him, confused. He could easily shadow shift through the brambles, surely? I think to myself, lowering onto my haunches and latching onto the side of the tree trunk. Soren's continued pacing seems to suggest otherwise. Something about the end was stopping him. Or perhaps, it wasn't the end itself, but what was in there.
At once the pacing stops, and Soren dives right in. Within seconds, he is lost in the thick bushes of brambles. I freeze. A path? Some external way through? A portal perhaps? All these thoughts rush through my head as I continue to watch, eyeing the spot he had entered, waiting silently, half expecting a return. Nothing comes back.
This could be it, I think to myself, not daring a whisper, less my voice is heard. If he caught me out here, I would surely be questioned. He would think I am following him, and would want to know what is in my bag. It isn't worth the risk.
At least that is what I tell myself as I edge towards the bramble wall. Sure enough, there is a small opening in the brambles, wide enough for me to squeeze by untouched if I am careful. The thorns are torn and broken, skewed to one side, and I wonder as I lean down to inspect them, whether this path had always been here, or whether Soren had carved it out himself. The blood that laces the tips of the thorns gives me my answer.
I breath a long breath, steadying my head, subduing the fear that begins to bubble in my veins. The fear of getting caught. I only need renolsbane, as soon as I find it, I can leave, and he never needs to know. I wait another minute, and then another, the sudden silence of the forest lodging in my ears, waiting with baited breath to see what I will do. Still, Soren does not come back. Steeling myself, I plunge into the bushes.
The brambles are thick, much denser than they had appeared on the outside, swallowing my whole between their cavernous jaws. I immediately regret my decision.
If Ithuriel was here, he could get through easily, weaving in and out of the branches with the nimble ease of a small woodfox. But wishing wouldn't get me through the brambles. I keep treading on.
I emerge from the brambles dazed, but remarkably unscathed. My hands are shaky, limbs weak, but aside from the odd reel of thorns caught on my clothes, I am in a good condition. It takes me a moment to register just how dark things have gotten. The shapes of the trees are no longer visible through the gloom, and without any light for miles around, I have a hard time adjusting to the darkness,
Each shadow appears and disappears, swirling shapes in a void of shapeless creatures and heartless beasts. I spark a small flame from the palm of my hand, and the shadows pan out, illuminating the gnarled bark of ancient trees, creeping silhouettes and twisted roots that coil like giant snakes in the ground. And among them, huge purple flowers opening up to the canopy of darkness, grasping for a light that had long since disappeared.
At the edge of the bramble wall from which I had emerged, small white flowers poke from the soil, their ruffled petals splayed to emit an eerie golden glow. Renolsbane. Part of me fears to breathe as I kneel down, fingers quivering as I draw my knife from the sachet, serving the flowers from their stems. I drop them into a pouch. One… two… three…
Done.. Now I just need to get out.
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The sun was approaching halfway across the sky by the time I had gathered the thistleweed from the outskirts of the Great Forest. The forest itself is bustling with life, and I spend a good half hour of my time watching the changeling fairies scuttle among the fallen leaves, throwing stones at each other, and yelping when they get hit.
Compared to the palace of the vampires, to the high tensions and the fear that every living day may be your last, the Great Forest is serene, a slice of peace in times of war.
I meet two elven hunters trailing a boar on the outskirts- hunters of the palace, well decked in fine armour, gathering food for the nights feasts (which since I have staunchly refused to attend from the day of my arrival.) A fact that, thinking about it now, probably pisses Soren off.
I grin to myself. Excellent.
They direct me towards the most straightforward path to the end, and then move on their way. They don't ask questions, a fact that I am eternally grateful for. I watch them go, unaware they are being trailed by two wood sprites, and stifle a giggle. I had missed this.
An hour later, and the path has stopped, replaced by thorns and spiny bushes extending through meters of forestry like a wall that my small knife would be barely enough to make a dent in. I groan. Clearly, the path hasn't been used in years.
I am going to have to use magic to clear a way through, I think, reluctant to use any more magic than needed. My energy is sparse from reading, and any use of magic may alert the Faey folk of my presence- and not necessary the good kind of Faey folk either. Outside of the palace, I am fair game- to vampires and all manner of creatures alike. I throw my sachet on the ground to free up my arms. I am going to have to be stealthy. Just as I am about to begin casting, a shadow flits through the trees at one hundred paces off. I shrink behind a tree and clamp my hand over my mouth.
I count in my head, slowing my heart rate.
One… Two… Three...
The figure dances through the trees, form rippling with shadows, with each step blurring in and out of existence like a wisp of smoke disappearing into the air. Their face is drawn under the darkness provided by the thick branches overhead, branches that only thicken the deeper into the forest you stray. They seem unaware of my presence, tuned in to some sound, some objective, that leads them assuredly through the fray of brushes and brambles. I daren't move.
A pair of hunting knife gleam, fixed on a belt, flashing at me like two twin eyes, piercing my flesh. Perhaps I would not have realised, perhaps I would have thought nothing of this creature and let them pass like all the other creatures of the forest, had a smell not hit my nose from the distance between us. It lingers in the air, distinct and fresh, dripping with the same familiarity that I have become accustomed to in my days in the palace. Azrael's words spring into my mind, prodding at the edge of my thoughts.
Soren likes to hold a rose by its thorns. Perhaps you should ask him why.
The smell is undeniable. Blood and roses. I swallow.
My mind whirls, flitting from one question to the next. What is Soren doing in the Great Forest? Hunting, I suppose to myself, but that does not explain why he is so close to the end. Nothing lives in the end. Nothing good. Hunting wood be futile. I shuffle on the tips of my toes, straining to catch a better look.
He has stopped now, halting at the frontier of brambles to assess his position. For a moment, he paces back and forth, stopping every now and then to run a finger down the flat of his knife, or flick back a strand of loose hair, then begins to pace again with a fresh and renewed vigour.
I squint at him, confused. He could easily shadow shift through the brambles, surely? I think to myself, lowering onto my haunches and latching onto the side of the tree trunk. Soren's continued pacing seems to suggest otherwise. Something about the end was stopping him. Or perhaps, it wasn't the end itself, but what was in there.
At once the pacing stops, and Soren dives right in. Within seconds, he is lost in the thick bushes of brambles. I freeze. A path? Some external way through? A portal perhaps? All these thoughts rush through my head as I continue to watch, eyeing the spot he had entered, waiting silently, half expecting a return. Nothing comes back.
This could be it, I think to myself, not daring a whisper, less my voice is heard. If he caught me out here, I would surely be questioned. He would think I am following him, and would want to know what is in my bag. It isn't worth the risk.
At least that is what I tell myself as I edge towards the bramble wall. Sure enough, there is a small opening in the brambles, wide enough for me to squeeze by untouched if I am careful. The thorns are torn and broken, skewed to one side, and I wonder as I lean down to inspect them, whether this path had always been here, or whether Soren had carved it out himself. The blood that laces the tips of the thorns gives me my answer.
I breath a long breath, steadying my head, subduing the fear that begins to bubble in my veins. The fear of getting caught. I only need renolsbane, as soon as I find it, I can leave, and he never needs to know. I wait another minute, and then another, the sudden silence of the forest lodging in my ears, waiting with baited breath to see what I will do. Still, Soren does not come back. Steeling myself, I plunge into the bushes.
The brambles are thick, much denser than they had appeared on the outside, swallowing my whole between their cavernous jaws. I immediately regret my decision.
If Ithuriel was here, he could get through easily, weaving in and out of the branches with the nimble ease of a small woodfox. But wishing wouldn't get me through the brambles. I keep treading on.
I emerge from the brambles dazed, but remarkably unscathed. My hands are shaky, limbs weak, but aside from the odd reel of thorns caught on my clothes, I am in a good condition. It takes me a moment to register just how dark things have gotten. The shapes of the trees are no longer visible through the gloom, and without any light for miles around, I have a hard time adjusting to the darkness,
Each shadow appears and disappears, swirling shapes in a void of shapeless creatures and heartless beasts. I spark a small flame from the palm of my hand, and the shadows pan out, illuminating the gnarled bark of ancient trees, creeping silhouettes and twisted roots that coil like giant snakes in the ground. And among them, huge purple flowers opening up to the canopy of darkness, grasping for a light that had long since disappeared.
At the edge of the bramble wall from which I had emerged, small white flowers poke from the soil, their ruffled petals splayed to emit an eerie golden glow. Renolsbane. Part of me fears to breathe as I kneel down, fingers quivering as I draw my knife from the sachet, serving the flowers from their stems. I drop them into a pouch. One… two… three…
Done.. Now I just need to get out.
The sun was approaching halfway across the sky by the time I had gathered the thistleweed from the outskirts of the Great Forest. The forest itself is bustling with life, and I spend a good half hour of my time watching the changeling fairies scuttle among the fallen leaves, throwing stones at each other, and yelping when they get hit.Compared to the palace of the vampires, to the high tensions and the fear that every living day may be your last, the Great Forest is serene, a slice of peace in times of war.I meet two elven hunters trailing a boar on the outskirts- hunters of the palace, well decked in fine armour, gathering food for the nights feasts which since I have staunchly refused to attend from the day of my arrival. A fact that, thinking about it now, probably pisses Soren off.I grin to myself. Excellent.They direct me towards the most straightforward path to the end, and then move on their way. They don't ask questions, a fact that I am eternally grateful for. I watch them go, unaware they are being trailed by two wood sprites, and stifle a giggle. I had missed this.An hour later, and the path has stopped, replaced by thorns and spiny bushes extending through meters of forestry like a wall that my small knife would be barely enough to make a dent in. I groan. Clearly, the path hasn't been used in years. I am going to have to use magic to clear a way through, I think, reluctant to use any more magic than needed. My energy is sparse from reading, and any use of magic may alert the Faey folk of my presence- and not necessary the good kind of Faey folk either. Outside of the palace, I am fair game- to vampires and all manner of creatures alike. I throw my sachet on the ground to free up my arms. I am going to have to be stealthy. Just as I am about to begin casting, a shadow flits through the trees at one hundred paces off. I shrink behind a tree and clamp my hand over my mouth.I count in my head, slowing my heart rate.One Two Three...The figure dances through the trees, form rippling with shadows, with each step blurring in and out of existence like a wisp of smoke disappearing into the air. Their face is drawn under the darkness provided by the thick branches overhead, branches that only thicken the deeper into the forest you stray. They seem unaware of my presence, tuned in to some sound, some objective, that leads them assuredly through the fray of brushes and brambles. I daren't move. A pair of hunting knife gleam, fixed on a belt, flashing at me like two twin eyes, piercing my flesh. Perhaps I would not have realised, perhaps I would have thought nothing of this creature and let them pass like all the other creatures of the forest, had a smell not hit my nose from the distance between us. It lingers in the air, distinct and fresh, dripping with the same familiarity that I have become accustomed to in my days in the palace. Azrael's words spring into my mind, prodding at the edge of my thoughts.Soren likes to hold a rose by its thorns. Perhaps you should ask him why.The smell is undeniable. Blood and roses. I swallow.My mind whirls, flitting from one question to the next. What is Soren doing in the Great Forest? Hunting, I suppose to myself, but that does not explain why he is so close to the end. Nothing lives in the end. Nothing good. Hunting wood be futile. I shuffle on the tips of my toes, straining to catch a better look.He has stopped now, halting at the frontier of brambles to assess his position. For a moment, he paces back and forth, stopping every now and then to run a finger down the flat of his knife, or flick back a strand of loose hair, then begins to pace again with a fresh and renewed vigour. I squint at him, confused. He could easily shadow shift through the brambles, surely? I think to myself, lowering onto my haunches and latching onto the side of the tree trunk. Soren's continued pacing seems to suggest otherwise. Something about the end was stopping him. Or perhaps, it wasn't the end itself, but what was in there.At once the pacing stops, and Soren dives right in. Within seconds, he is lost in the thick bushes of brambles. I freeze. A path? Some external way through? A portal perhaps? All these thoughts rush through my head as I continue to watch, eyeing the spot he had entered, waiting silently, half expecting a return. Nothing comes back.This could be it, I think to myself, not daring a whisper, less my voice is heard. If he caught me out here, I would surely be questioned. He would think I am following him, and would want to know what is in my bag. It isn't worth the risk. At least that is what I tell myself as I edge towards the bramble wall. Sure enough, there is a small opening in the brambles, wide enough for me to squeeze by untouched if I am careful. The thorns are torn and broken, skewed to one side, and I wonder as I lean down to inspect them, whether this path had always been here, or whether Soren had carved it out himself. The blood that laces the tips of the thorns gives me my answer. I breath a long breath, steadying my head, subduing the fear that begins to bubble in my veins. The fear of getting caught. I only need renolsbane, as soon as I find it, I can leave, and he never needs to know. I wait another minute, and then another, the sudden silence of the forest lodging in my ears, waiting with baited breath to see what I will do. Still, Soren does not come back. Steeling myself, I plunge into the bushes.The brambles are thick, much denser than they had appeared on the outside, swallowing my whole between their cavernous jaws. I immediately regret my decision.If Ithuriel was here, he could get through easily, weaving in and out of the branches with the nimble ease of a small woodfox. But wishing wouldn't get me through the brambles. I keep treading on.I emerge from the brambles dazed, but remarkably unscathed. My hands are shaky, limbs weak, but aside from the odd reel of thorns caught on my clothes, I am in a good condition. It takes me a moment to register just how dark things have gotten. The shapes of the trees are no longer visible through the gloom, and without any light for miles around, I have a hard time adjusting to the darkness, Each shadow appears and disappears, swirling shapes in a void of shapeless creatures and heartless beasts. I spark a small flame from the palm of my hand, and the shadows pan out, illuminating the gnarled bark of ancient trees, creeping silhouettes and twisted roots that coil like giant snakes in the ground. And among them, huge purple flowers opening up to the canopy of darkness, grasping for a light that had long since disappeared. At the edge of the bramble wall from which I had emerged, small white flowers poke from the soil, their ruffled petals splayed to emit an eerie golden glow. Renolsbane. Part of me fears to breathe as I kneel down, fingers quivering as I draw my knife from the sachet, serving the flowers from their stems. I drop them into a pouch. One two threeDone.. Now I just need to get out.
