The sun’s light had begun to fade as the day passed into dusk, a cool breeze accompanying the growing shade of the forest canopy as the first stars started appearing in the sky. Gharen Wolfsong wearily looked skyward and gauged his heading, hefting his satchel slightly on his shoulder and adjusting the sword that hung at his side. He had been following game trails in the lesser-known areas of the shroud for the last day and a half, looking for signs of the huntress Khit Jakkya. Despite his dogged persistence, he hadn’t held much hope of actually finding his quarry, much less her clan.
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He’d taken a roundabout path to Gridania, specifically for the calming effect the forest usually had upon his mind. Normally in this place where one could seemingly become lost forever, swallowed whole by the forest itself, he felt most at home—at  peace.
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He turned from the game trail and began walking west, his tired mind wandering to thoughts of his sister, their fight, and his failures to impede Nero and the destruction left in his wake. They had taken their toll upon him. Sleep had become an elusive thing, and when he was able to, it was plagued with nightmares, the false memories given to him by Raelisanne Banurein seemed stronger as a result of his sleeplessness, replaying in his mind and further stripping him of his ability to rest, not unlike what she had inflicted upon him a cycle ago now.
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Since returning to the shroud, he could not shake the feeling that he was being followed, yet despite all of his efforts, he had seen no signs to verify his suspicions. He approached the river that acted as a natural barrier to separate the Sylphlands from the rest of the Shroud, the roar of the river rapids below nearly drowning out the creaking of the bridge’s assembly. Each step seemed to add a weight upon him. When he was at the bridge’s mid-point, he stopped, gripping one of the ropes that assisted in suspending the bridge as he looked at the segmented footing beneath him, tiredly rubbing at weighty eyelids.
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That feeling of encumbrance spread to the rest of him, and he was overcome by a sudden feeling of disembodiment. Looking up toward his destination, he spied a faceless figure in the shade standing at the end of the bridge. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and, out of a fugitive’s habit, he looked over his shoulder at the other end of the bridge, where another shadowed figure now blocked his retreat. Knowing instantly his peril, an equally knowing but leaden hand drew his sword, turning his attention back to the first-spotted figure.
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Sheer surprise and martial force struck him in tandem, the first figure having bridged the several yalm gap in mere seconds; it grabbed his sword arm in a vise grip and leaned in, easily beginning to twist Gharen’s arm and blade toward himself. Unable to move his feet, Gharen struggled vainly, attempting to deprive his blade of the taste of his own flesh. The shadow proved too much, however, and the blade began to pierce his flesh. Gritting his teeth and stalling his breath, he became aware of the heady scent of iron as his tunic became matted with spreading crimson, droplets of the same splattering upon the bridge’s uneven planks.
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Waves of pain spread through him, his muscles convulsing, brow gleaming with sweat as he strained to counter this sudden assault. It was not until he felt the blade emerge from his back that his held breath broke with a gasp, gravity immediately claiming victory as he collapsed to his knees. The assailant’s grip withdrew in that moment, its head cocking aside as it simply watched him, no doubt satisfied with the outcome. Gharen wavered upon the bridge for what felt like an eternity as his lifeblood spilled upon the bridge. He looked up past the mass of shadows into the evening sky, trying to utter final words, as if the wind might carry his apology to her, but no words came forth. Instead, he slumped to the side, and gravity completed what it had started, carrying him hastily, headfirst into the rapids below.
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He’d taken a roundabout path to Gridania, specifically for the calming effect the forest usually had upon his mind. Normally in this place where one could seemingly become lost forever, swallowed whole by the forest itself, he felt most at home—at  peace.
Â
He turned from the game trail and began walking west, his tired mind wandering to thoughts of his sister, their fight, and his failures to impede Nero and the destruction left in his wake. They had taken their toll upon him. Sleep had become an elusive thing, and when he was able to, it was plagued with nightmares, the false memories given to him by Raelisanne Banurein seemed stronger as a result of his sleeplessness, replaying in his mind and further stripping him of his ability to rest, not unlike what she had inflicted upon him a cycle ago now.
Â
Since returning to the shroud, he could not shake the feeling that he was being followed, yet despite all of his efforts, he had seen no signs to verify his suspicions. He approached the river that acted as a natural barrier to separate the Sylphlands from the rest of the Shroud, the roar of the river rapids below nearly drowning out the creaking of the bridge’s assembly. Each step seemed to add a weight upon him. When he was at the bridge’s mid-point, he stopped, gripping one of the ropes that assisted in suspending the bridge as he looked at the segmented footing beneath him, tiredly rubbing at weighty eyelids.
Â
That feeling of encumbrance spread to the rest of him, and he was overcome by a sudden feeling of disembodiment. Looking up toward his destination, he spied a faceless figure in the shade standing at the end of the bridge. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end and, out of a fugitive’s habit, he looked over his shoulder at the other end of the bridge, where another shadowed figure now blocked his retreat. Knowing instantly his peril, an equally knowing but leaden hand drew his sword, turning his attention back to the first-spotted figure.
Â
Sheer surprise and martial force struck him in tandem, the first figure having bridged the several yalm gap in mere seconds; it grabbed his sword arm in a vise grip and leaned in, easily beginning to twist Gharen’s arm and blade toward himself. Unable to move his feet, Gharen struggled vainly, attempting to deprive his blade of the taste of his own flesh. The shadow proved too much, however, and the blade began to pierce his flesh. Gritting his teeth and stalling his breath, he became aware of the heady scent of iron as his tunic became matted with spreading crimson, droplets of the same splattering upon the bridge’s uneven planks.
Â
Waves of pain spread through him, his muscles convulsing, brow gleaming with sweat as he strained to counter this sudden assault. It was not until he felt the blade emerge from his back that his held breath broke with a gasp, gravity immediately claiming victory as he collapsed to his knees. The assailant’s grip withdrew in that moment, its head cocking aside as it simply watched him, no doubt satisfied with the outcome. Gharen wavered upon the bridge for what felt like an eternity as his lifeblood spilled upon the bridge. He looked up past the mass of shadows into the evening sky, trying to utter final words, as if the wind might carry his apology to her, but no words came forth. Instead, he slumped to the side, and gravity completed what it had started, carrying him hastily, headfirst into the rapids below.
