marshmarrow
aurelius rex
After acknowledging Iiolete with a nod, she had returned to the caravan to idly feed her mare and give the appearance of being too occupied to talk. Rubbing the horses velvet nose, her ears twitched as her eyes saw the soft glow of the campfire, accompanied by a faint song. She blinked, the singing stopped, but the beacon remained.
Before she could take a step, the light was gone, blocked by a presence inches away from where she stood. She turned, blinking, and it was gone. In its place, a scene that spelled death. Darkness poured in. Immediately, Faythe stood in fighting form, a weapon in each hand with her teeth bared. She swung her daggers against the blackness, but she seemed to only cut through air--the shadows reforming immediately after each assault. Angry at her uselessness, she swung blindly, the translucent blackness seeming to smirk at her wasted effort.
There was nothing physically imposing about Faythe Leander: also known as Madam Fuzz, Kittenclaws, and a myriad of nicknames that became sillier as they went on. Though her collection of scars rivaled most battle-hardened warriors and males seemed to think her pretty enough, the abandoned princess had the same light-colored hair and small build as a thousand other Silvestri women. Human girls, however, have always been tall--a full hand taller than Faythe by the time she trained with them as an adolescent. That meant they could run faster, reach farther than Faythe, much to her frustration when she was the only non-human apprentice of a strict swordsman. Once, one of the girls had managed not only best Faythe at sparring, but to take her practice knife away and hold it over her head, taunting Faythe to jump for it while the other noblemen's daughters laughed. Faythe, all four stones of her at the time, had punched the girl hard in the gut, grabbed not only her own but the girl's wooden dagger, and ran as fast as she could while the girl struggled to breathe.
Almost two decades later, for Faythe Leander, that was still the extent of her strategy. She took what he wanted, however she could get it, leaving the details and aftermath for others to deal with.
Her attentions were torn away by the sight of two of the other girls being towed deeper in the woods, with Ash not far behind. Snarling, Faythe chased after them, leaving the shadows to be destroyed by someone capable enough to destroy them. She could help what was real, and left the rest to the Fates. She sprinted after her comrades, nimbly avoiding tangled branches and gnarled roots, her mind only trained on what was being taken from her.
She was going to vomit: that was the only thing Faythe could think. This was a nightmare so awful that she was going to be sick before she could stop running. Either vomit or suffocate, or do both at once.
Grammatic
Ronan
Teh Frixz
WlfSamurai
Before she could take a step, the light was gone, blocked by a presence inches away from where she stood. She turned, blinking, and it was gone. In its place, a scene that spelled death. Darkness poured in. Immediately, Faythe stood in fighting form, a weapon in each hand with her teeth bared. She swung her daggers against the blackness, but she seemed to only cut through air--the shadows reforming immediately after each assault. Angry at her uselessness, she swung blindly, the translucent blackness seeming to smirk at her wasted effort.
There was nothing physically imposing about Faythe Leander: also known as Madam Fuzz, Kittenclaws, and a myriad of nicknames that became sillier as they went on. Though her collection of scars rivaled most battle-hardened warriors and males seemed to think her pretty enough, the abandoned princess had the same light-colored hair and small build as a thousand other Silvestri women. Human girls, however, have always been tall--a full hand taller than Faythe by the time she trained with them as an adolescent. That meant they could run faster, reach farther than Faythe, much to her frustration when she was the only non-human apprentice of a strict swordsman. Once, one of the girls had managed not only best Faythe at sparring, but to take her practice knife away and hold it over her head, taunting Faythe to jump for it while the other noblemen's daughters laughed. Faythe, all four stones of her at the time, had punched the girl hard in the gut, grabbed not only her own but the girl's wooden dagger, and ran as fast as she could while the girl struggled to breathe.
Almost two decades later, for Faythe Leander, that was still the extent of her strategy. She took what he wanted, however she could get it, leaving the details and aftermath for others to deal with.
Her attentions were torn away by the sight of two of the other girls being towed deeper in the woods, with Ash not far behind. Snarling, Faythe chased after them, leaving the shadows to be destroyed by someone capable enough to destroy them. She could help what was real, and left the rest to the Fates. She sprinted after her comrades, nimbly avoiding tangled branches and gnarled roots, her mind only trained on what was being taken from her.
She was going to vomit: that was the only thing Faythe could think. This was a nightmare so awful that she was going to be sick before she could stop running. Either vomit or suffocate, or do both at once.
Grammatic
Ronan
Teh Frixz
WlfSamurai
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