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Black Ice
Long, slender fingers loosley gripped the dagger that would save or end her life. She crouched lightly, eyes closed as she waited for death to come sliding into the clearing she had made her home. They were close, she could feel them, a shudder of the wind, caressing her skin with cold fingers.
Her old clothes had long since turned to rags, so she covered herself in white fur leggings and tunics that she had made. No shoes held her small, white feet as she walked in the forest, no shoes since her old ones had grown thin.
The wind shuddered again and brought images of men, leading horses with muffled shoes. Almost silently they crept, swords loosening in leather scabbards. She counted five large, strong men from their muffled footsteps. She could tell they were Forest men, by the silence of the way they moved.
As one, they entered. Still with eyes closed, she noted positions. One stepped forward and the steel shiver of a sword being drawn sliced the air.
"A girlie. And we were expecting some difficulty, weren't we?" his voice was old, but strong and smooth, bringing to mind the feel of soft, worn leather. The rest of the men laughed, more steel coming out of scabbards. Her onyx black eyes flashed open and she saw them, beginning to circle like vultures.
One tired of waiting and charged her, his roar splitting the cool night air. She stepped too close for swords, flowed into a graceful spin that brought her knife onto his throat, and neatly dropped him to the ground. She stepped delacately back to avoid the growing pool of blood, and resumed her earlier position as if nothing had happened.
Casually she glanced up when two more men came at her. One she dispatched quite easily, whipping her knife into his lung with a dull thud. He crumpled to the ground, gurgling, and promptly died, drowned in his own blood. The other walked warily, making soothing sounds as if to a spooked animal.
Tranquily she stood, weaponless and defensless as he circled her, closer and closer. When he was close enough to touch, she exploded into movement. On his belt he carried two long, curving daggers, honed to a killing edge. These she expertly stole and spun one over in her hand, facing out. She stepped in close and swiped one across his neck and the other across his stomach.
The last two men stood amazed as their best fighters were cut down, seemingly without effort. She turned her deep, fathomless eyes to them, knives reaching like macabre divining rods. One cought the second-in-command in the throat, instantly felling him like a sack of potatoes. The other she held loosely, expertly. She looked at him, expressionless in her silence.
"That became a difficulty, girlie. You never know what will happen." he called as he slid off his horse and readied himself for a fight. In truth, he knew he could not win, and her speed and agility had left him shaken.
"I do not want to kill you, but now that I have seen what a danger you are, I must." Suddenly, he began to cough. Blood rose from his lungs and began to suffocate him, some spraying from his mouth in a fine mist. He clawed at his throat, ripping his soft flesh, trying to clear it. She watched impassivly as he fell at her feet, drowning, bleeding out, blood coating his clothes in a slippery, red sheath.
"What... what treachery... is this?" He gasped out, his last breath, his final words.
"Treachery has no meaning in the Forest. You who have awoken the wrath of the Forest will die." Her voice was lilting, flowing quickly, like liquid onyx. Beneath the beauty was a veiled malice, cold as ice, solid as iron.
She ran through the Forest, silent and smooth and glowing in the moonlight like a ghost, leaving the bloody scene behind. She caught two horses as they stopped to drink from a dancing brook, a roan mare and a black stallion. Searching their saddlebags, she found enough provisions for three weeks, wineskins, bedrolls and spare clothes. Packed in with the clothes she discovered a hooded cloak of purest white, glowing silver in the light of the full moon which she swept over her shoulders. On a banner was the insignia of House DelMonte, a bloodred moon on deepest black, ringed by twelve silver stars.
"Deamon, come." she called as a shadow shifted, revealing huge, pale blue eyes and the tip of a black nose. The great, dark hellhound slipped out into the pool of moonlight, eyes blazing. He silently slid alongside her horse and looked at her. Holding out the banner, she commanded, "Hunt."
She climbed upon the stallion with a few calming nickers and pats, convincing him she ment no harm. The roan followed quietly, whooshing every once in a while and clamping on the cold bit. She walked them back to her meadow, stopping near it as the horses shed away from the sticky, bloody smell of death. Quickly she gathered her small amount of worldly posessions. This included a piece of mirror as large as her hand, two extra tunics, a pair of leggings, the dagger she had thrown, a small fish net, and a hard, carved longstaff with blades attached to both ends which were retractable.
Making these into a bundle, she dropped it into the stallion's saddlebags.
"Both of you are wanting names." she whispered to the horses. The stallion snapped at her , bad tempered. "Satan will be your name, ill-fated one. Your name is Princess, my peach."
 Serenity Valley · Wed May 19, 2010 @ 01:03am · 0 Comments |
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