Private Tales One of a Kind

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer

Sylvian

Snow White
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It hurts, the she-elf sucked in a sharp breath. Her lungs burned and she gasped for air, still flinging herself through the midnight sky to the best of her ability. Behind her, Sylvian could hear the sound of yet another arrow soaring through the air, but she managed to dodge that one.

Hunters.

Mortal ones, the worst kind. Humans, an orc and their hounds had somehow tracked down the winged elf and assaulted her during her travels through one the continent and although Sylvian had survived and fought her way out of the dangerous situation, the Avariel had been injured and wooden arrows now pierced her white wings. With blood dripping down from her wounds, it was only a matter of time until she fell and they would find her.

Alas, the female elf wasn’t one to surrender, not to fate nor anyone else, and when Sylvian spotted a small lake in the distance, she gathered what was left of her strength and ascended higher. The lake was large, without a doubt deep and peacefully undisturbed at this ungodly hour. Her plan wasn’t as much of a plan as it was a last resort, but she needed to rest – and bring as much distance as possible between herself and those brutes.

The Avariel landed somewhere in the middle of the lake, far away from the shore, where she froze the water and created a small island for her to rest on. There, Sylvian fell to her knees and buckled over, pressing her hands against her abdomen while the adrenaline rush faded and the pain in her back grew more and more intense. Pearls of sweat dripped down her temples and with a grim expression, the pale woman lifted her head and glared into the distance.

Her white dress was stained with both dirt and blood and Sylvian’s silver hair had become a frizzled mess that fell far below her waist.

"I refuse to die here," she told herself, quietly repeating those words like a mantra.

"I refuse to die here."

--

OOC: Fynaurie come save me!
 
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Fynaurie

Sky Dragoon
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"Stupid fucking training nonsense..." Fynaurie swore under her breath. She kicked some roots out of the way and strode out of the treeline towards the clearing around the lake.

Fynaurie was in a bad mood. A particularly bad mood. She had only ascended to the ranks of the Sky Dragoons a few months ago and it was already turning out to be far less glamorous than she imagined. In her naive view, the hard work and training would have stopped when she left the training barracks. She wore the colours of the Dragoons, protected the bounds of their lands.

She hadn't expected to be sent on survival training.

She rode a great eagle into battle. Vaxor could do serious damage to even a dragon. Yet now she had to pretend he had been wounded in battle and make her way home on foot. Fynaurie had never realised how much her feet could hurt from all this walking. The world was a peaceful place from the air. Down here it was noisy. Especially at night.

On the first night she had sat by the fire, gripping her aether-glaive so tightly she was certain her hands wouldn't relax again. Three days in and she was now exceptionally grumpy, rather than frightened by every little noise.

Fynaurie unhitched her waterskin and walked slowly towards the water. The dangers of monsters beneath the surface of the water had been one of their lectures on the subject.

Used to spotting objects in the far distance, she saw the woman dressed in white. She looked to be lying on top of a little island. Fynaurie assumed this was one of those boats she had heard of.

"Oi!" she cried out in the human tongue, "You got a boat?"

It would involve much less walking to cross the middle of the lake instead of walking around, she had decided.
 

Sylvian

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Bundles of loose, white strands of hair cascaded down the length of Sylvian’s back; singular strings clung to the Avariel’s pale skin, dipped in sweat and slowly turning into ice at the tips. Her wingspan was massive, much larger than the average elf of her kind and once Sylvian caught her breath, she lifted up her upper body and took a look around the lake, frozen only where her reddened knees touched the water beneath them.

You are just being dramatic, she reminded herself and sighed wearily. Agonized by the arrows piercing her flesh, the she-elf was left with no choice but to pluck them out, one by one. But just as Sylvian reached for the first one, a light voice called out to her, causing the woman to halt all movements.

Instead, the Avariel’s sapphire eyes now darted towards the other side of the lake and when she spotted another pale-faced figure, she almost uttered a sigh of relief. Pointy ears, she thought and nearly smiled. The elf – Sylvian’s vision was clear enough for her to see that the stranger was both female and of elven kind – spoke the human tongue, but it wasn’t the language, but the words she said with it that caused her to lose hope quickly.

“Out of all the people the gods could have sent to my aid, they sent me an idiot.” The Avariel muttered quietly under her breath and shook her head in disappointment. Then, she placed a hand forward and created a small bridge of ice that would allow Fynaurie to cross the distance between them if she so wished.

Sylvian’s usually relaxed features showed anything but that – the beautiful elf had sunken eyes, her hair was disheveled and her gown torn. The blue tint on her lips and lack of colour in her cheeks showed signs of illness, but the white maiden was all but defeated. “Please,” she called out across the lake. “I’m injured and I need help. But don’t come here if you have any ill intend, because I no longer have any patience left in me.”

And she would happily drown her in cold blood, if that’s what she had to do in order to survive.
 

Fynaurie

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Fynaurie dropped her weight, spear snapping up in a flash as the ice seamed to shoot towards her. She stayed quite still, knuckles white as she held firm for a few more seconds.

She stood tall, stepping to the water's edge to poke the ice with her toe. It seemed quite solid. It must have taken a lot of magic to freeze so much so quickly.

Ahead of her was not a human on a boat. It was an elf, another one of the avariel. As she started to step out onto the slippery bridge, the crimson stains on crisp clean white became clear.

"You're hurt," he said in elven, accelerating towards the woman. "Shit. Hold this."

Fynaurie wasted no time on introductions. She leaned her spear towards the avariel and dropped to a knee beside her.

"How far away are the ones who did this?" she asked sharply. Removing arrows from wings was tricky, time consuming business. She had never done it practically, it was in their training but there hadn't been a battle between her kind and a force with archers for centuries.
 
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Sylvian

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“Oh,” she gasped quietly and lifted her head, sapphire eyes gazing up at the approaching figure. The elven woman was petite by the standards of Sylvian’s people, but bore otherwise similar features the wounded Avariel found solace in. The colour of Fynaurie’s hair was reminiscent of her own, but her eyes were more unique than that. Quite beautiful, Sylvian had to admit.

The winged elf gave a soft nod when Fynaurie pointed out her poor state of health and although the situation was still dire, Sylvian became more relaxed by the minute. “You are a sight for sore eyes,” the woman spoke quietly and curiously inspected the person standing in front of her. She was little, and quite bold, not wasting much time on needless formalities. In that moment, Sylvian was appreciative of her quick-minded behavior, although she did want to know whom she was entrusting herself to.

The answer to that question came almost immediately, just a moment later.

Sylvian took the spear without question. It felt heavy in her hands, but this was without a doubt due to her exhaustion. Contrary to her delicate looks, Sylvian was quite the sturdy one. “I suppose I’m running on a hundred years of luck tonight,” she said with a grim voice. Her lips had thinned into a line and the Avariel tightly held on to the aether-glaive. Her kind barely had any allies and for her to run into one tonight was more than just a lucky coincidence.

The gods haven’t forsaken me yet. She thought with a smile.

“On the other side of the lake, further down into the woods.” Sylvian closed her eyes, not daring to turn around and look. “Hunters followed me from one of the human towns into the forest and–,” she paused, lowered her head and shook it gently.

“I’m afraid I will have to keep running.” With great distance between them, as well as the large lake, there was a good chance for the two elves to throw Sylvian's pursuers off, but they would have to hurry.
 

Fynaurie

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"Yeah, well, don't count your fucking luck just yet. Only one of me," Fynaurie replied.

She desperately wanted her position amongst the dragoons and chafed under her leadership. Suddenly, someone was dependent upon her and she felt a cold wave of fright rise right up her spine. She had to admit that she might not be as ready for responsibility as she thought she was.

"Hadn't realised humans were so close," she bemoaned. In a way she was glad not to have blundered into their hunting dogs.

None of her pin feathers had been struck by arrows. If they had pierced one of those then - assuming her biology wasn't so different from a bird - then she might have bled out already.

"Most of these aren't lodged in anything. Gonna pull the fletchings off and then pull them all the way through your wings. It's still gonna hurt."
 
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Sylvian

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“My, aren’t you a feisty one.” The avariel leaned backwards as bubbling laughter erupted from her throat. It was high-pitched and oddly soft-sounding, even for a female. “You will do just fine, I’m sure of it.” For an injured, bleeding victim Sylvian was strangely upbeat and supportive of the little elf. She had only known her for a moment, but seemed that Fynaurie was in equal need of some encouragement.

Besides, she could not allow the fear to creep up on her. Today was a close call – the closest she’s ever had.

Sylvian wiggled her wings and grimaced at the piercing pain she felt in her limbs. “No good,” she shook her head and sighed dramatically. “We have to hurry, they have a bloodhound.” If it weren’t for the damned pooch, Sylvian wouldn’t have been half as worried as she was now, but knowing that the four-legged bastard could track her down miles away was plenty of reason for concern.

“Do it now if you must, but don’t enjoy yourself too much.” The woman’s lips thinned into a line. “Perhaps I’ll be able to put them back once the arrows are out.” She clenched her fists and readied herself for the pain. At the same time, Sylvian eyed the stranger from the side, wondering just what kind of character she had run into.

Doubting that Fynaurie had much experience in saving angels in need, she could only assume that the little one was the hands-on type – and Sylvian liked that in a person.
 
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Fynaurie

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"And you're a happy one for someone full of arrows," Fynaurie replied. She shook her head and smiled briefly.

The next moment she yanked an arrow all the way through her wing. The fletchings tugged at her feathers, but it was better than going the other way and slicing through them.

"What's a bloodhound?" she asked earnestly as she worked the next arrow free. Fynaurie tossed it into the water.

The woman in distress was another elf with pale skin and silver hair, but the similarities didn't extend that much further. Her hair was longer than Fynaurie's, her face a little more perfect. Even wounded she didn't look quite as dishevelled as Fynaurie did. The Eagle rider's leathers were mud-stained and she didn't smell that fresh after just a few days of looking after herself in the wilds.

"One more," said Fynaurie. The last arrow was tossed end over end into the water.
 
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Sylvian

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“I like to think of myself as an optimist,” the winged elf responded; the voice of the avariel continued its naturally smooth and crystal clear tone. The corners of her lips curled upwards and what could have been a hint of a smile was immediately yanked off her face along with the first arrow Fynaurie pulled out.

Sylvian did not scream, but her face faltered and her hands dug themselves deeply into the ice sheet they were both sitting on, causing it to crack in a few spots. The female sucked in a sharp breath and, with a quick motion of her head, whisked a loose strand of white hair out of her face.

“This is perfectly bearable,” she reminded herself. “I knew this was going to happen sooner or later.” Repeating those words a few more times, almost like a mantra, while Fynaurie continued the unavoidable, the rest of the ice sheet was left intact. A singular pearl of sweat rolled down her blush-kissed cheeks and Sylvian noted with a triumphant look on her not-at-all-defeated face that she had survived.

“Many thanks, helpful stranger.” With a bit of a struggle, Sylvian rose to full height and folded her wings in. “If I could I would invite you in for a relaxing weekend at Thyasari and dinner at my parents' house, but we aren’t exactly on speaking terms.” She gave a pressed smile and started moving towards the shore, still holding on to the aether-glaive Fynaurie had given her.

“A bloodhound is an animal that can track scents, blood especially I think, across miles. I’m sure that little mutt knows exactly where we are," she paused and side-eyed the other elf, "since you're not exactly hard to miss either. So there is no time to waste.”

To say that Sylvian was determined to get out of this situation was clearly an understatement.
 
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Fynaurie

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She gave a snort at the joke about dinner, but was not so amused about the comment on being hard to miss.

"Wot?" asked Fynaurie rather bluntly. The winged elf had a strange way with words. Fynaurie, by contrast, did not. There was nothing strange about a battering ram that did its duty with absolutely no deviation from its path. So too, did Fynaurie speak without any meandering from her meaning.

That did not mean her was quiet. To the chagrin of her superior officers whatever floated through Fynaurie's head was immediately vocalised.

She took a step back, taking her spear back. Instead of running she looked down at her apparel. The leathers might have been muted and quite filthy, but she still wore some of the crimson livery of the Dragoons. Her silvery hair was not going to vanish in the deep greens of foliage.

The cry of a hound cut through the crisp air.

"Well this was a fucking* survival course," she muttered.

"Do we lose it or do we fight?"


* Elves of course, have a far greater vocabulary and more colourful range when it comes to curses (particularly Fynaurie) Approximated to closest human word for text. In this case the four syllable word in question relates to women who are known to prefer to have intercourse in the excrement of common pigeons.
 
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Sylvian

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A gurgle of laughter erupted from Sylvian’s throat and the elf shook her pretty head in utter disbelief at the situation she found herself in. To be saved by a stinky, foul-mouthed heathen wasn’t how she’d imagined her evening would go, but the brave-hearted girl only uttered a sigh and carefully stretched her wings. Sylvian applied a little of her healing magic onto herself, only to stop the bleeding, then sucked in a deep breath.

When Fynaurie took her weapon back, Sylvian rolled her shoulders and slowly rose to full height. Her back was aching and her feathers felt heavy. The little one was going on about something that seemed unrelated to their plight and the Avariel dismissed whatever thoughts on her rambling crossed her mind by taking a step forward and towards the river’s edge.

It was quiet for a moment before the howl of a bloodhound forced Sylvian to revert her gaze to what lay behind them, waiting to cross the river. Fynaurie’s question came at the right moment and the taller female uttered a weary sigh, as if she’d been asked to perform a chore.

“We fight and if we win I’ll teach you how to take a proper bath.” Business before pleasure.

As her wounds slowly healed, the elf’s blue eyes fell on her companion. She was shorter than her, with a grim and feisty expression. Her looks were rough, but if she knew anything about how to wield that spear, they’d most likely be triumphant. Sylvian Sinderion was a powerful sorceress and magnificent swordswoman after all.

It occurred to her then that they hadn’t had the time to introduce themselves yet.

“I’m Sylvian,” she said. “Who do I have the pleasure of fighting alongside today?”
 
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Fynaurie

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"Well, if you're gonna make such promises..."

Fynaurie arched silver eyebrows and turned her gaze towards the sound of the hound. She tried in vain to be surreptitious about sniffing herself. A few days and nights of wilderness training might have left her in need of a god scrub.

She was simply a little oblivious to it. Getting a good scrub from someone else was well worth fighting for, but Fynaurie pushed that little surge of excitement deep down as she steeled herself for a fight.

"My name is Fynaurie, Third Dragoon. We should get to those rocks!" she said, pointing with her glaive.

"They've got bows and can just pick us off from further up in the trees if we don't have cover."
 
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Sylvian

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“A Dragoon.” Sylvian repeated, blue eyes following the direction in which Fynaurie pointed her glaive. “I thought as much,” the female spoke and gave a nod towards the sky elf. She was right about the rocks and although Sylvian planned on entering melee combat as soon as the opportunity arose, bringing safe distance between them and their enemy was a good decision.

The first few steps still felt heavy, but Sylvian had healed enough of the damage to her own limbs to recover; the initial shock she had experienced from being attacked so suddenly–and entirely unprovoked–had passed as well and although she, generally speaking, hated violence, the Avariel felt a sudden surge of anger rushing through her veins at the mere thought of what had been done to her.

As they headed towards the rocks, Sylvian ripped off the torn ends of her gown and discharged them to the side. She wasn’t dressed for combat, but that's besides the point – Sylvian never was.

“So, uhm..” It appeared there was time for small talk in between all of this after all and the chatty Avariel happily took on the opportunity. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you missing a particularly..vital part to your..,” she paused and gestured around aimlessly. “..Dragoon-ness?” She asked carefully. The warriors of their kind, of any kind really, were prideful, but Sylvian had a hunch that Fynaurie was still young. And maybe inexperienced.

“Did you by any chance..fall off?”
 
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Fynaurie

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Fynaurie gave Sylvian a glare that could have melted the ice she had been lying on.

"I do not fall off," she replied testily.

She did, in fact, fall off. Mostly when they had both been much younger. She had broken seven different bones. The average life expectancy of an Eagle rider was much less than other elves because of the way they lived. More recently she had become caught up in a skystream and they had tumbled out of the sky together.

"This is survival training to make sure we can survive on the ground."

In case they fell or were grounded.

"How many are we expecting?" asked Fynaurie, turning her ire towards the treeline where the danger would soon come from. She took a few steps away from Sylvian and made sure her knife was loose in its sheath. She needed a little room to fight with her glaive.
 
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Sylvian

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“I suppose we cannot hope for another pair of wings then,” the elf concluded with a sigh. “I am growing weary of all these conflicts,” she continued on, albeit quietly and pulled a strand of her long, white hair back. Sylvian noted the bite in Fynaurie’s voice, but paid it no heed. The situation could not have been any more unfortunate, but it was all that they had to work with. Her gaze narrowed on the treeline and the corners of her lips pulled upwards.

A pale hand stretched forward and Sylvian extended her arm slowly towards the approaching enemy. “Three,” she said quietly. “There were three of them – two human hunters and an orc. And two hounds.” The Avariel inhaled a deep breath and between her fingers, accompanied by the crinkling, sizzling sounds of her magic, a bow and an arrow were crafted from ice.

“The dogs should be the least of our concern, but they have become our biggest nuisance.” Sylvian said and oddly enough, it almost sounded like she had prepared an excuse for the inevitable demise of those creatures. The Avariel steadied her grip, took aim and as soon as the first beast emerged from the shadows of the woodlands, she let go of her arrow and watched with not even a hint of satisfaction as it pierced and then shattered within the hound’s torso.

“The orc, I believe, is their strongest member.” Without hesitation, Sylvian had fired a second arrow at the other animal and when the enemy squad expressed their anger over the loss of their companions, her grim expression brightened just a tad bit.
 

Fynaurie

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"Wouldn't be worried about a few hunters if Vaxor was here," Fynaurie muttered. The great Eagle could lift a cow from the ground. She'd seen him let loose on a pack of orcs who had tried to catch him with a net once. It had not been a pretty sight.

"You can't make a bow out of ice, that's stupid," she murmured incredulously. However, she made a small noise of irritation when it worked perfectly well.

Touching the smooth metal of her glaive, she felt the sublte warmth of its magic. She laid it by her feet, the tip resting on the rock she used for cover. It had charge, but she didn't want to waste it if that could be helped.

When she saw the hunters she decided it probably wouldn't be necessary. They looked a mangy group. Fynaurie reflected she probably looked much the same after her days of roughing it in the woods.

She ducked as an arrow was loosed in her direction. It hissed overhead and the next one struck the rocks. She heard the orc come loping down the slope.

He jumped up onto the rock she was hiding behind. With a deft flick of her foot she lifted the aether glaive to her hands and thrust it upwards. She missed, catching the orc's cheek and driving him off the rock.

Up close she could see various trappers tools hanging from his pelts. Little cleaned out skulls hanging from his belt.

Fynaurie leapt up onto the rock, twirling the glaive around herself.

"My rock!" she declared. Everything always had to be a game.
 
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Sylvian

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“I’m a sculptress,” she said dryly. “I can make anything from ice.” A hint of smugness snuck upon her lips, but Sylvian’s focus on the enemy never wavered. It’s true, the Avariel was a sculptress, an artist in her own right. Her figurines and creations were quite popular among wealthy humans, especially during winter solstice.

But Fynaurie wasn’t wrong; there were more effective weapons she could make and if Sylvian wanted to, but she didn’t. Instead, the she-elf took off the sapphire ring she was wearing on her left middle finger and popped it into action with a gush of magic. The piece of jewelry, enchanted no doubt, changed into a gallant and sharp looking rapier.

Sylvian snatched her weapon of choice and, without hesitation, dashed forward. Meanwhile Fynaurie had gone straight for the orc and claimed the large boulder she’d been hiding behind as her own. A strange thing to do mid battle, Sylvian thought, but she found her youthful energy endearing.

The Avariel had been caught off guard earlier, and with her wings wounded she thought herself better off fleeing the scene rather than causing one. That was a while ago and Sylvian had changed her mind since then. The female stepped forward and towards the first human hunter. With Fynaurie keeping the Orc busy, he was no longer so full of himself and pulled out a short sword to duel the approaching woman.

At a closer look, he seemed almost meager. Slender and not particularly tall, Sylvian took notice of his shaggy brown hair, his dry skin and the pale blue eyes. His sudden attack on her had spooked her earlier, but right now there was nothing about him that she feared. Sylvian tightened her grip on Dandelion and when he aimed for her with his blade, the elf moved her free hand and covered it in a thin layer of ice to deflect his blow before the tip of her rapier pierced the man’s throat in an unspectacular fashion.

“In hindsight, I don’t even know why I ran from you.”
 
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Fynaurie

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Fymaurie laughed as the orc brought his axe up and down. She had always been taught the dangers of the world. In their lofty tower, her people remained isolated from the world. Having spent most of her three decades of life training for battle she had been surprised how crudely most men and orcs wielded their swords. Like children with sticks.

"Try again!" She called out in her sing-song voice as chips of stone went flying. The orc lifted his axe and she stepped forwards to kick him in the center of his forehead.

A light gust of wind helped propel her back to the summit of the rock. She was no aeromancer, but most of her people had a little control over the winds. At the very least a sense of how they moved. Some said it was why the rohk had joined their people in the first place.

The enraged orc came at her, swinging wildly.

"Fuck," hissed Fynaurie, having failed to appreciate how quickly the angry orc would move. She abandoned her high ground, and darted away so the 4lorc had to follow.

She turned abruptly. Thrusting the spear right through the orc's gut. The beast roared and grabbed the haft of her weapon with a bloodied hand. Fynaurie swore again and released the weapon before she could be thrown as the orc ripped it free.

"Fucking die already!" She protested, but the orc didn't care for her suggestions.
 
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Sylvian

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Fynaurie appeared to be a seasoned fighter, but that was to be expected from her kind. The Avariel did not have many allies, none in fact other than the sky elves whose abilities and combat heavy training was a valuable and needed asset to their society.

Sylvian was nothing like that, but being over a hundred years old meant that she had been forced into situations of struggle at some point and those moments had given her enough edge to fight back.

From the corner of her eye, Sylvian watched with mild amusement as Fynaurie hopped around the boulder, poked her glaive at the Orc and eventually gutted him – all while screaming all sorts of profanities and overall being the complete opposite of what Sylvian: ladylike.

“You are damn loud,” she muttered under her breath and pointed her rapier at the third and last of the men. He’d lost all of his confidence at this point and with his hounds and comrades gone, the mortal was left with nothing but certain death awaiting him. Sylvian approached the hunter step by step and he mimicked her movements, falling back everytime she attempted to close the distance.

They continued their little dance until he stood on top of the large ice shard she’d created earlier on the lake and without saying much at all, the Avariel uttered a sigh and dissolved the spell. The layer between the human’s feet and the water disappeared and reappeared shortly after he’d fallen into the lake. Sylvian kneeled down and placed her hand on top of his now frozen prison and watched silently as the pitiful creature drowned.

She usually wasn’t this cruel, but even the prettiest of facades could crack sometimes.

Behind her, little Fynaurie was still fiddling around with the Orc.
 
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Fynaurie

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The orc tore the aether-glaive free. Rather than use it himself, he tossed it over his shoulder. It put the rock and the orc between her and her weapon. Blood poured from the orc's gut, but his pain was hidden behind a mask of rage.

Fynaurie backed off, keeping her balance. Her hands were held out to her sides, readying herself for action.

The orc jumped down, another predictable swing of its heavy axe. Fynaurie darted back to avoid the strike. Changing direction quickly, she summoned just a little magic. Enough that a gust of wind made her light on her feet as she stepped onto the haft of the axe and then the orc's arm.

Fynaurie leapt upwards, drawing a dagger and driving it into his skull from under his jaw.

"Die, damn it."

The orc grabbed her by the neck with a bloodied hand. For a moment Fynaurie thought he was going to survive even this and slowly choke the life out of her.

The orc's eyes rolled back and he slowly toppled back to the rock. The stubborn beast finally gave in and died.
 
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Sylvian

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Of course Sylvian could have chosen to assist Fynaurie in her battle against the Orc, but she recalled the sky dragoon saying something about this being a survival course and so she left her be. Their struggle reached its peak when the green beast disarmed the silver haired fury, but Sylvian continued to watch with a strange sense of calm and excitement as the little elf skillfully evaded her enemy’s hits and drove her dagger through his skull.

The Avariel walked over, picked up the aether-glaive and handed it back to Fynaurie. “I suppose this is as good as any other weapon in your hands,” she somewhat complimented the girl’s skill with the dagger. She was quick-witted and quite agile, attributes that turned her into a formidable opponent – a fact that wasn’t so obvious by her appearance alone. Fynaurie’s bold vocabulary, her fresh-facedness and meek appearance took away from her apparent prowess, but that might as well be because she was young.

She certainly seemed to be. “You have my gratitude,” Sylvian said with a smile. “And I’m in your debt. A life for a life.” Tens, maybe hundreds of years might pass before Sylvian would find a chance to repay the cost of her life to the sky elf, but a chance would come eventually and this promise would last a lifetime.

“In the meantime, do you want to go and look for your bird?”
 
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Fynaurie

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"Eh," went Fynaurie, "They might not have bothered swimming out to get you."

She knew they would have gone to some lengths to retrieve Sylvian. One thing they taught them over and over was that humans were prolific hunters. They didn't just chase food, they would kill and display rare finds. If they'd tried to shoot Sylvian out of the air...

Fynaurie shook her head, trying to shake off the mental image of the winged elf being presented as a trophy.

The aether-glaive had some magic to it. Perhaps more than a little. However, it hadn't seemed worth using against those hunters. It was powerful, but once used up it took a long time to recharge.

"Got to finish this pissing course haven't I? Before I see Vaxor again, I mean. Training us for if he get thrown in battle and have to make it back on the ground."

Her expression made it clear that she wasn't enjoying it at all so far.
 
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Sylvian

Snow White
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Sylvian snorted at Fynaurie’s apparent optimism.

The wings of the Avariel were worth a fortune to any collector and their rarity made them all the more desirable. Sylvian didn’t know how many of the mortal races remembered the winged elves; her people had gone into hiding a long time ago, hoping to erase the memory of their existence from their minds, but with a bunch of them out and about, a few still remembered.

“I suppose,” she answered and thought about the situation.

Sylvian wasn’t going to return to the town she’d just fled from. If anything, it was probably for the best if she left it behind entirely and traveled somewhere else, hoping that the news hadn’t spread. She looked Fynaurie up and down and released a weary sigh.

“I guess it couldn’t hurt to participate,” the elf remarked dryly and gave her injured wings a weak wiggle. She wouldn’t be flying for a while, so she might as well familiarize herself with whatever survival techniques this course had to offer.

Pulling up the strings of her loose dress, Sylvian ran a hand through her long hair and gave Fynaurie a doubtful look. “So, uh, which way is it?”
 
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Fynaurie

Sky Dragoon
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This was a point where she was probably supposed to clearly indicate a direction. Instead Fynaurie sheepishly drew out a roll of parchment. She muttered something about how easy it was to tell direction from the air.

She traced a finger across the crude icons. She sighed as she realised that she was not where she thought she had been.

"Human towns, means its this lake..."

And not the lake she had thought.

"...so that way," she said, pointing with her spear. "I guess no coming good on that promise of a bath without stopping at a town that won't try and murder you?" she laughed, trying to hide how uncertain she felt about the challenge ahead.
 
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Sylvian

Snow White
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When Fynaurie drew out a roll of parchment, a map no doubt, Sylvian started groaning. It’s true that flying was a much easier way of travel, especially if you were as accustomed to it as them, but the Avariel assumed that knowing how to read a map while on ground was basic knowledge in all cultures.

Clearly not.

“Give this to me,” she said and ripped the map from Fynaurie's hands. Sylvian didn’t spend her time flying around aimlessly, and for good reason, which is why she was perfectly capable of reading a map and telling her now useless companion where they were – or so she thought. A frown crossed her pretty face when the winged elf noticed that none of this appeared to make any sense.

Her gaze followed where Fynaurie’s glaive was pointed at and she gave a silent nod.

“Let's just agree that this town,” she arched her chin towards the place she’d come from – the place where the hunters had found her – and ushered the sky dragoon into the opposite direction, “...is bad news.”

And with that being said, Sylvian’s wings disappeared under a cloaking spell and the female moved forward. “I don’t think they had a chance to tell anyone about me, nor do I think they would have. People like them don’t like sharing.” She was lucky in that regard.

“Where is it you’re supposed to go anyways?”
 
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