Her first memories are of grass.
The fresh, green scent, the tickling of its tips on her skin, the whisper as the blades brush gently against one another. There is something pure, something real in this simple form of life. The grass has no problems, feels no pain. It lives, it grows, it dies, free from all stresses and responsibilities that characterize a life bound to civilization. That are unavoidable in a life such as hers.
In this particular memory, there are tears. They run silently down her face. She can see them just slightly in the edges of her eyes, glinting in the soft light of dusk. Her sobs have long since died out, trailing into small whimpers, and then, eventually, into silence. The anger that she felt so fiercely has dissipated, replaced by a slight twinge of sadness in her heart. But that, too, has dulled somewhat.
The feel of the earth beneath her comforts her, warmly inviting her to sink further into its wide embrace. She closes her eyes and clenches her small hands around fistfuls of grass. If only she could stay this way forever, lie in the clutches of the earth, and never have to go back. But she knows that that can never be. Sighing deeply, she pulls herself to her feet and turns back towards her home village.
* * *
Often, when she was young, Laiya would run away from West Harbor, disappearing into the heart of the Mere. She would seek reprieve from the harsh words and malicious laughter of the other children, trying to escape from the stinging comments that would sink so easily into her skin. Being the foster daughter of the only elf in an otherwise human village, she was already an obvious target for the ridicule of her peers. But there was something else about her, perhaps the way she avoided the eyes of others, or how she was always slipping off into the forest, that really alienated her from the rest. Most of the children simply avoided her the way she avoided them. But there were a few who somehow always felt the need to make her life miserable: namely, the Mossfelds. There were only two people that she considered her friends: Amie Fern and Bevil Starling.
Amie and herself had been close as long as she could remember. Both of them had lost their parents in the battle fought at West Harbor so long ago. And both tended to avoid the company of the other children in the village. But where Laiya had always been a loner, and kept away from the others, Amie's liking for solitude hadn't really blossomed until her body had. She was by far the prettiest girl in the village, and around the year she turned thirteen, she began to attract the attention of the boys. She never seemed interested in them, though, and so she started to drift apart from the rest of the children. It was during this time that she grew to be good friends with both Laiya and Bevil.
Bevil's friendship was very different from Amie's. He, like Laiya, was a misfit without choosing to be a misfit, the way Amie had. He was shy and introverted. The Mossfelds called him 'queer' and played pranks on him, teasing him even more than they ever teased Laiya. She had never understood the problem that those boys had with her and Bevil. Their attitudes towards Amie, perhaps, she could make sense of: Tarmas' apprentice had turned down their affections, choosing instead to spend her time with a couple of misfits. Wyl Mossfeld, in particular, had shown a romantic interest in Amie, and it made sense to Laiya that Amie's constant rejections would make him feel hurt and jealous. But Bevil and herself had brought no quarrel to the Mossfelds; it was almost as if their reluctance to mingle with their peers somehow angered the boys. This was something that she had never been able to wrap her mind around.
* * *
Those jerks.
Of course it has happened before – it has happened many times before. Each time she tells herself she is being stupid, that their words mean nothing, that she can't let them bother her. She is better than that. But by the Gods, their insults still hurt. Each time she resolves that this is the last she will let them get to her, that she will never again shed tears because of their actions or words. They aren't worth it, that she is sure of.
She leans back into the bark of the tree and wipes angry tears from her eyes. Her rust-red hair is tangled, filled with sticks and dirt and hastily pulled behind her ears to get it out of her face. There are rips and tears in her clothing, recently formed scrapes and bruises on her skin. She has traveled hastily through the forest, not bothering to avoid the branches and brambles that always catch at her clothing and skin. Daeghun is used to her coming back in such states. He always presents an air of indifference, chiding her for ruining yet another set of clothing. If she looks closely, though, she can sometimes catch a hint of worry in his eyes. She knows he is concerned, even if he does not show it. His worry is not for the state of her clothing, or even for the scrapes and scratches on her skin. She knows that what worries him are the harsh words that lead her to run off in the first place.
The other adults in the village disapprove of most of Daeghun's parenting philosophies. None of them would ever even consider letting a seven-year-old girl wander into the forest alone. And her foster father had let her do just that at an even earlier age than she is now. But somehow Daeghun understands that the forest is the only place where she can truly find solace. He has taught her well in the art of traveling through the woodlands, of finding her way around and, if necessary, how to live off the land. She knows what plants are edible, and which make the best medicines. She knows how to hunt and trap, though she has never been able to bring herself to prey on the animals of the forest. They are a little too much like family to her. She had caught on quickly to the tricks of living and functioning in the wilderness, and Daeghun has never worried for her safety in the forests of the Mere.
She wipes her nose on her sleeve, trying to shut out the very recent memory of the Mossfelds' mocking comments. They have teased her so often, it really shouldn't bother her anymore. But they have had practice, they know now how to get to her, what comments are really able to get under her skin.
"Stupid tree-girl," they called her. "You always run away. You can't run away from life. Fine, go cry in the forest. Waah-waah!" Wyl Mossfeld brought his fists to his eyes and rubbed them mockingly. He called after her as she fled their taunts. "Nobody wants you here anyways! You don't even help anyone, you just run away. You'll never be a great fighter, like me and my brothers. We're going to be the best ever! But you'll always be a nobody." Another tear slides down her cheek as she remembers those words. Why they hurt her so much, she doesn't know. It's not like they haven't said those same things to her before. It's not like their words actually mean anything.
"You'll always be a nobody."
She stomps her bare heel insolently into the dirt. I'm not a nobody!
But then, who am I?
She takes a deep gulp of forest air, trying to get a handle on her emotions. She isn't going to let herself be this upset because of a handful of stupid morons like the Mossfelds. She closes her eyes and concentrates on breathing in the clean air, letting the smell of the forest overwhelm her. Leaves, dirt, grass, bark, the fur and feathers of the forest's animal life. She loves all of these scents. The chirps and calls, the whistles and yelps of the animals make her feel at peace, at home with the world around her. The whisper of wind in the trees draws her in as she feels a gentle breeze play across her face. And she looses herself.
When she opens her eyes, the light that filters down through the canopy above her is dimming. A little voice in her head tells her that she should start heading home. She has been in the forest at night before, but she knows that if she stays away for too long, her friends will start to worry. She looks around at her surroundings, watching the golden sunlight dance on the ground, catching the grass and fallen leaves in a playful embrace. In the trees around her, she sees movement; a bird hops from one branch to another, a lizard scuttles through the brush, some larger animal passes farther away, its eyes glinting as it glances at her briefly, and continues on its way. A squirrel scurries around at her feet, looking for food among the leaves, preparing for the coming winter. She remembers when she first started wandering into the forest, how the creatures had avoided her at all costs, and how, over the years, they seemed to acclimate to her presence, daring to come closer and closer to her, until finally, it seemed as though they paid her no mind at all. They are at peace with her, and she with them.
As her gaze drifts around her surroundings, it dawns on her that this is not a part of the forest she knows. In her anger at the Mossfelds, she had run for much longer than usual, and she is now deeper in the Mere than she has ever been before. This does not worry her overly much, as she feels perfectly at ease with any and all parts of the forest. What she does realize is that it will probably take her longer to find her way back home. Reluctantly, she rises to her feet.
She wanders through the forest for a bit, trying to find landmarks that will take her back to West Harbor, but she is not able to find any such hints. She was so blinded by tears and emotion on her way here that she failed to take note of anything that might help her find her way back. The layout of this part of the forest is strikingly unfamiliar to her, and she realizes with a slight tinge of worry that she is deeper in the forest than she had thought. She knows how to survive in the wilderness, this is true, but she feels a growing tension as she continues to try, and fail, to find her way back home. Don't panic, she tells herself firmly, you'll figure it out.
But what if I never find my way back?
She stops what she is doing and stands still. By now the sun has almost set, and the forest is bathed in shadow. She closes her eyes and inhales deeply, trying to calm her mind. It is then that she feels a slight twinge at the edge of her consciousness. Her eyes open. Only a few yards in front of her, its deep brown eyes latched on her, is a black wolf. She blinks once, twice. She is used to being close to the animals, even the bigger ones such as wolves and panthers, but never has an animal looked at her quite like that. Never has a creature of the forest held her gaze so steadily. And all at once, she feels a pang of fear. So far, she seems to have had a truce with the animals: she doesn't bother them, and they don't bother her. Even the bigger ones have left her alone. But she knows that wolves are predators. And though she is tall for her age, she is still only seven, and therefore, small. The perfect prey. A part of her mind tells her to run, but fortunately she has the presence of mind to silence it. She knows that running will only encourage a chase. And so she stares silently at the wolf, knowing that she should not look so steadily into its eyes, and yet unable to tear herself away.
Suddenly she feels a panic, a worry...it is hers, but it is not. Almost as if her own fear were being reflected back at her. It seeps in through the edges of her consciousness, originating not from herself, but somewhere else. And then, accompanying this reflected fear, there is another presence flowing into her, reassuring, calm, comforting. Suddenly, she is no longer afraid. The wolf takes a few cautious steps towards her, and she feels something else coming to her – concern, worry, images of a girl leaving a small village, stumbling blindly through the forest, tears streaming down her cheeks. Images of her.
Realization hits her like a silent spell. The images she sees in her head are coming from the wolf, the comforting presence is his, and the concern and worry are for her, the little girl he saw running from her home. The fear is her own, a fear that the wolf can sense, that he has sent back at her, trying to calm it. The wolf is somehow sending her his thoughts, his feelings, and images from his mind, his very presence mingling slightly with hers.
And she knows that the wolf can lead her back home.
* * *
As unjustified as their hatred for Amie, Bevil and Laiya seemed to be, the Mossfelds had always been cruel to the three of them. They would comment on the girls' dead parents and make fun of Bevil's aversion to spending time with the other boys in the village, labeling him as a faggot, as being gay. She hadn't known the meaning of the terms at first, until one time, during their preteen years, the Mossfelds had confronted the three of them and began teasing Bevil. She had watched in confusion as Ward and Webb Mossfeld had grabbed each other and pretended to kiss, had crudely thrust themselves at one another, laughing wickedly. For the first time, she began to understand what it was they were calling him. It was an odd thought to her, that a man could be attracted to another man. It was something she had not seen nor, until then, heard of, and she wondered briefly if it was something that actually happened, or if the Mossfelds had simply thought it up to embarrass Bevil. But then again, she had heard of much stranger things happening in the world. Maybe that was why Bevil felt so out of place among the other boys, why he chose to spend his time with her and Amie instead. In truth, she had never seen him openly express attraction to a girl; but then again, he had not done so to any of the boys either. She never asked him about it, because it was obviously a topic that made him uncomfortable. She knew the Mossfelds were cruel, and the things they said were more often false than not, but she couldn't help wondering whether there was a reason they called Bevil gay. Perhaps he was.
In the beginning, the Mossfelds' attacks had been solely verbal, but as the years passed by, they became rougher. They began to pick on the three misfits in a much more violent way. They would corner one of the three of them and close in. They would hit and kick, snarl and spit, seeming to draw some sort of twisted joy from beating another child into the ground. Luckily for her, Laiya never seemed to come away from these fights with any serious injuries, the minor cuts and bruises she obtained usually vanished within a few days, as did most other injuries she managed to procure. In fact, Laiya seemed to heal more quickly than anyone else in the village. She didn't know why, but she was grateful.
The Mossfeld beatings were some of Laiya's first encounters with hand-to-hand combat. From them she had learned to dodge and duck, to block their fists and redirect their attacks. And she had learned how to fight back. She never won against the Mossfelds – they only attacked when they could outnumber her, three to one, and they had had much more training in fighting than she. Their style was crude and brutal, perhaps, but they certainly had practice. As she became more adept at facing them, however, she began to be able to distract them long enough to get away, to slip away from them as they closed in on her. She also learned to move quietly, silently, even, when she was around them, to listen for their raucous voices and heavy footsteps. She became an expert at avoiding them. She also learned to stay close to her two friends, as the Mossfelds never attacked when the three of them were together, preferring to ambush them when they were alone. Their little pack of misfits grew much closer because of this. Laiya also ended up disappearing into the Mere more often, sometimes for days on end, and during this time she grew even closer to the land.
* * *
For once, she was not in the forest because of the Mossfelds. She had not come here crying, nor to avoid one of their irritating prowls as they searched the village for her or one of her friends. She is here simply to relax, to breathe in the forest air and admire the beauty of the trees. She has been wandering into the forest much more often recently, enjoying the freedom of wandering the woods. She relishes the earthy scent of the forest and the sounds of life amongst the trees. At fourteen, the villagers no longer complain quite as audibly about her excursions into the forest, and so she feels no reason to stick around the village when she could instead be wandering the woods.
She has become a sort of strange forest animal, different in appearance and behavior than the rest that reside here, but still part of their community. She has her own place in the web of life, taking the role of helping hand, protecting the creatures from the hunters that sometimes wander into the forest. She helps the animals find food and shelter when they need it, she patches up their wounds with herbs from the forest when they are injured. She enjoys living this way, being a protector of nature. It feels right, somehow.
She often envies the animals and their many different traits. She loves the way the great cats move through the forest, swift and silent. She wishes often that she could experience the exhilarating sensation of flight, could soar over the forest like the great eagles and hawks. She stands now, leaning against an old tree, watching a badger snuffle through the dirt. She admires the creature's handsome black and white complexion, the long snout, the intelligent eyes, the powerful claws and teeth. She closes her eyes and imagines what it would be like to be a badger. In her mind's eye, she waddles through the trees, sniffing along the ground, searching for insects that she can munch on. She tilts her head to look down and admires her long, black claws. She flexes her paw and watches the sharp points of those claws pierce the dirt. On a sudden impulse, she begins to claw at the ground beneath her, digging into the earth. She feels the dirt being pulled up by her powerful paws, enjoying the sensation. When she has dug a small hole, she stops and admires her rather pointless handiwork. She then closes her dark badger eyes and lets her consciousness return to her human form.
When she opens her eyes, the first thing she notices is that she is no longer leaning against a tree. The second is a small hole in the ground before her, fresh dirt piled around it and the unmistakable markings of powerful claws having dug into that very spot.
I must be dreaming.
She isn't dreaming, someone conveys to her. She looks up to see a squirrel in the tree above her, looking down at her curiously. From the squirrel, Laiya learns that she has been blessed with magic from the greater god of nature, Silvanus.
Laiya expresses her surprise at this, having been told throughout her life that the gods only grant magic to their followers.
A confusion flows into her, coming from the squirrel. The red-haired girl is a follower of nature, this the squirrel knows.
A follower of nature, perhaps, she thinks, but I do not follow a god.
Of course the squirrel does not understand the words themselves, but she easily senses the meaning behind them. Looking down from her perch, she chatters chidingly at the slim girl beneath her. Silvanus is the god of nature. The girl follows nature. Therefore, the girl follows Silvanus. This is the squirrel's logic, this is what all animals of the forest know to be true.
The girl ponders this for a moment, then directs a questioning thought at the squirrel. Does this mean she can take on the form of animals? In response, she is met by the image of a badger, digging a hole in the ground. Suddenly, the badger stops, closes its eyes, and slowly but smoothly transforms into a red-haired human girl.
I'll take that as a yes.
* * *
For a very long time, Laiya kept her ability a secret, even from those closest to her. Though she knew it was unlikely her friends would have any negative feelings towards it, there was a small part of her that was afraid that her strange new powers would end up alienating her even more from the rest of the villagers. And if the Mossfelds found out...she could only imagine the new, biting insults they would throw at her. Badger-girl...monster...she's not even human! So for years, she kept her powers to herself.
It was around this time in her life that Bevil convinced her to join the West Harbor Militia. She had never been one for wielding big, heavy weapons, and much preferred to fight with her fists, or, even better, to not fight at all. But Bevil insisted that it would be a good experience for her, and that it would be a fun way for them to spend time together. She often wondered if he really just wanted her there so he wouldn't feel so out of place. The Mossfelds were in the militia, which couldn't have made things easy for him. Though Laiya never really got the hand of using heavy swords and the like, she did find one kind of weapon that worked for her. Small and light, she could easily hold a pair of twin daggers without being slowed. She liked the way she could make these weapons fly around so quickly and effortlessly, and how she could hide them almost anywhere on her person. The militia taught her how to use the daggers well, and she soon became very proficient.
Her shapeshifting, too, improved during this time. When she wasn't training with the militia, almost all of her time was spent in the forest, practicing her shapeshifting in secret and enjoying the exhilarating experience of taking on the form of another creature. She learned how to fly, how to climb, how to dig and swim using the shapes that were most adept at the activity. She thoroughly enjoyed this practice, and soon her shifts became faster and smoother, until it was almost second nature for her to change from one form to the next. Her progress in shapeshifting and in fighting, however, were not the only changes going on during this time in her life.
Laiya had never been as pretty as Amie, and throughout the earlier years of her life, she had been seen as a somewhat boyish figure. She was always covered in dirt, with sticks and leaves tangled in her hair, and various cuts and scrapes littered across her skin. Her face was not round, nor feminine, characterized instead by hard lines and a stubbornly set jaw. She had a small mouth, deep-set eyes, and an unremarkable nose. Her features were not sharp, but neither were they soft, instead falling somewhere in between. Her eyebrows would often pull together, her brow tying itself in knots, her blue-black eyes lost deep in thought. She had always been rather slim, probably the product of spending all her time running through the forest. It wasn't until her sixteenth year that she really started to show signs of being female. It was an odd time for her, as she was not used to having male eyes on her, especially when those eyes were not focused on her face. She must not have been drop-dead gorgeous, however, for it wasn't until almost a year later that any of the boys actually approached her.
* * *
It is the night after the High Harvest Fair, and all the teenagers of the village are gathered in the Winslows' home. It is a big event in this small village. There is talking and laughing, dancing and music. There is also alcohol aplenty, as the villagers of West Harbor are not very specific when it comes to the drinking age. She had not wanted to go, but for some reason Amie had shown an interest, and managed to talk her and Bevil into coming along as well. It isn't until later that night, when she sees Amie getting rather cozy with Ron Winslow, that she understands why her friend had been so eager to go. Apparently, the young wizard has finally returned a boy's affections.
For most of the night, she has been standing at the edge of the room watching the rest of the West Harbor teenagers dance, Bevil at her side and feeling just as awkward as herself. It is probably a little before midnight when Bevil finally leaves, telling her that his mother will want him back. She seriously considers leaving as well, tempted by the idea of a warm bed and cup of tea, but reluctantly stays. The party is still going strong, and Amie has already had a few drinks. She feels a responsibility to look after her friend.
"Finally. I thought he'd never leave." A young man slightly older than herself, probably eighteen or nineteen, has taken Bevil's place by her side, one shoulder leaning casually against the wall. His hair hangs in his face with a sort of untidy nonchalance, its golden color reminding her of fresh straw on a sunny day. His face is handsome, lit by a beautiful smile, which reveals pretty white teeth. There is a mischievous twinkle in his brown eyes, looking down at her from over six feet of height. She recognizes him as Seth Johnson, the farmer's son.
Her heart gives an unfamiliar little flip.
"So," he begins, "that was the Starling kid, right?" His smile is making her slightly dizzy. "He your boyfriend or something?"
"I – what?" She asks, taking a moment to process the question. "Oh, uh, no. He's just a friend."
"Perfect," he responds, his smile growing wider. "In that case, would you like to dance?"
She blinks, opening her mouth, but her voice dies in her throat. She nods silently, wide-eyed. He chuckles slightly, grabs her hand, and sweeps her off her feet.
The next morning she is no longer a virgin.
* * *
Laiya and Seth barely even spoke together again after that night. Somehow, they both understood that what happened had been a passing fancy, that neither really knew the other in any sense other than the physical. So they kept apart. Laiya was rather disappointed at having lost her virginity to someone with whom she shared almost nothing, but she could not deny that she had enjoyed herself that night. She soon stopped letting it bother her.
It was only a few weeks later that she finally revealed her shapeshifting abilities to her fellow Harbormen.
* * *
She can hear them coming long before, and silently curses herself for convincing Bevil that she does not need help fetching wood for Daeghun. It is winter, and the snow lies heavily over West Harbor. Unfortunately, this snow makes it near impossible for her to mask her footsteps, and she is sure that they can hear her crunching footsteps as well as she can hear theirs. And she knows that they will come. She thinks that perhaps she can get away quickly, before they catch up to her, and so she slides through a gap in the houses, stepping lightly across the white ground, listening in irritation to the loud crunching of snow beneath her feet. She makes a mental note to practice moving quietly through the snow. Suddenly she finds herself standing still, her passage blocked by a large wagon, property of the traveling merchant Galen. There are houses on either side, and she can hear the Mossfelds' footsteps, just about to round the corner.
Gods damn it, she thinks to herself.
"What have we here?" drawls Wyl Mossfeld, his footsteps falling harshly on the snow. "A pretty little forest-girl, caught out in the cold. What a pitiful sight." The Mossfeld boys close in on her. She is trapped.
"Careful, Mossfeld," she shoots angrily, "if you work too hard at making words come out of your mouth, you may lose your balance and fall in the snow. And we wouldn't want that, now would we?"
"Shut up," he spits at her. "Silly forest-girl, you think you're so special with your fancy words and your creepy animal friends. You're nothing more than a common slut."
She blinks, taken aback. "What did you just call me?" There is anger in her voice, and her eyes look more black than blue.
Wyl Mossfeld grins wickedly, sensing a sore spot. "Don't think we haven't heard what you did to poor Johnson the night of the fair. I'm sure the whole town knows by now."
She snarls, the inhuman sound ripping viciously from her throat.
"Oh, I'm so scared. Growl all you want, you'll still just be a pathetic little forest slut, nothing more. You were never going to amount to anything, anyway."
She can't help herself. She lunges at them, fists drawn back, and makes to hit Wyl Mossfeld in the face. She has broadcast her attack quite openly, however, and he manages to get out of the way. His brothers close in on her and make to grab her arms with their burly hands. She twists lithely out of their grip and ducks under the punch that Wyl has just thrown at her. As she comes back up, her fist follows, aimed for his chin, but she is stopped as someone violently grabs her hair from behind and hurls her backwards.
She hits the merchant's cart with enough force to make her yelp, but keeps her wits together and rolls out of the way of Ward's kick, aimed for her head. She jerks herself up to a standing position, but still hurting from her fall, she takes a moment to steady herself. In that moment, Webb and Ward lunge for her arms once again, and this time, they are able to latch on. The push her back against the side of a house – she is not sure whose house it is, perhaps Old Jim's? – and Wyl throws a solid punch straight to her face.
She hisses as the blow connects, she hears a snap and thinks her nose might have broken. She struggles in vain against the Mossfeld brothers' hold, and can only watch as Wyl draws back his fist once again...and stops, his jaw dropping open. The other brothers follow his gaze, and latch their eyes on her face, both wearing identical expressions of horror. What, she thinks, you can't handle seeing the damage you inflict? Taking advantage of their shock, she rips herself from the Mossfelds' grasp, and ducks under Wyl's raised arm, elbowing him neatly in the back as she goes. He whips around in anger at the strike, and she makes to duck under his arm again, but she is too late. His forearm lashes into her with an angry force, and she is flung across the small distance and into the wall of the neighboring house.
She hears a loud crack as her hand slams into the wall, followed almost immediately by an intense pain that shoots up her right arm. Her hand is burning with a painful fire, and she knows that her knuckles are broken. The Mossfelds seem to have been shocked into inaction by whatever it was they saw on her face. Even Wyl, after knocking her into the wall, is standing stock-still, staring at her dumbly. She pulls her hand, broken and bloody, into her chest, cradling it, and then blinks in surprise as her knuckles seem to shift of their own accord. She watches in stunned silence as her fingers move slightly in their sockets, rearranging themselves. After a few seconds, the movement stops. She carefully clenches and unclenches her hand. There is no pain. She hastily wipes her hands on her pants, and then brings her fingers up to feel her nose.
She is pleased to find that it is in perfect condition.
The Mossfelds' stupor finally seems to be wearing off. They are advancing on her once again, shaking their heads as if waking from a strange dream. She knows that she cannot beat them in combat while she is outnumbered like this. But she has another idea. She stays where she is as the Mossfelds come closer, until the boys launch themselves at her with a strange sort of fury. She hesitates for a moment, waiting until they are mere inches from hitting her. And then she disappears.
She scuttles forward, her tiny claws digging into the snow, her long rat's whiskers guiding her along the ground. Her large ears pick up a crashing sound, and she knows that the Mossfelds have pummeled into one another, and into the wall against which she was standing only moments ago. She hears cursing, the sound of hands pushing against limbs, the brothers trying to disentangle themselves from one another. Figuring that she has put just enough distance between her and the boys, she turns and slides smoothly from one shape to the next. In her new form, she utters a low, rumbling growl, the fur on the back of her neck bristling threateningly. She watches as the Mossfelds, still entangled with one another and mostly facing the wall, freeze at the sound. She can smell their shock, their fear, as they stare at the wall in front of them and listen to the rumbling behind. She watches with amusement as they slowly turn their heads toward the sound.
And lay eyes on a massive grizzly bear, fangs bared and hackles raised, growling angrily at them.
She toys with the idea of beating them around a bit in her grizzly form. They could certainly use a little roughing up. She quickly decides against it, however, reasoning that her sudden transformation into an eight-foot-tall bear will give them enough to think about as it is.
They stand there, frozen with shock, and watch in amazement as the bear melts easily into the form of a red-haired girl. She gives them one last, measuring look, then turns and walks away, the snow crunching softly beneath her feet.
For the first time in her life, she has won.
* * *
Perhaps it was the rather shocking fashion in which she revealed her shapeshifting abilities, or perhaps she had simply misjudged the Mossfelds' reaction, but they never teased her about her powers. In fact, they never bothered her again after that day. Word of her powers spread quickly through West Harbor. At first the villagers were taken aback: shapeshifting, though not unheard of, had certainly never had a presence in West Harbor before. Over time, however, they became more comfortable with the notion, and Laiya's strange abilities became just another part of normal harbor life. A life that, for Laiya, seemed as happy as it could get.
It wasn't until six years later that she realized just what it was she had been missing.