A wood pigeon cooed gently in the trees overhead, settling over her nest and protecting her eggs. Somewhere, not too far away, her mate answered. Below, the orange light of the afternoon slowly slipped across the forest floor, casting uncertain shadows here, there and everywhere.
Ylia moved cautiously but swiftly through the peaceful forest, so silent that even the pigeon was unaware of her passage. Her boots left barely a print in the soil as she passed, lithe limbs and swift muscles powering her forward more subtly than any natural predator. She vaulted over the rotting remains of a fallen elm, launching far into the air, catching herself on a branch and swinging forward, imparting an additional burst to her already impressive turn of speed.
She'd always thrilled at moments such as this, racing through the woodlands like a nature spirit, unseen and unheard. The Masters of Kaer Marter had always complemented her on her speed and co-ordination, a useful trait in their Cat-style training, the infamous 'whistling blade' sword techniques that made these Witchers so infamous. But, instead of using her speed for lethal combat, she valued it for times such as these, the wind whipping through her hair as she ran, truly free and alive.
As she ran, the Witcheress' senses stretched out around her. Sharpened hearing listened for every errant rustle, every creaking branch, every squeaking rodent hiding within the bole of a tree. Her sense of smell, so acute, could pick out every bloom around her, the musk of every animal that had passed this way in days, and even the sweet aroma of Cortinarius mushrooms growing inside the rotten hollow trunk of a yew tree some months dead thanks to an unfortunate lightning strike.
In just a few minutes, the Witcheress had reached a wide roadway carved through the forest, a more travelled highway than the trails she normally used. A wide break in the forest cut a straight line from north to south. On the far side, the trees resumed almost immediately, although the forest rapidly grew more and more dense. After a certain distant point, the trees, the undergrowth, even the air itself seemed to take on a more intense emerald hue. Moss crept across exposed bark and stone, while vines drooped down from low branches. It was almost like a wall of foliage designed to bar any passage.
Ylia had only ever seen the borders of the Brokilon once before, while also travelling this same road. There were many tales of the strange woodland, of how its Dryad denizens guarded it jealously, allowing none other than the Elves to cross into their territory. The common folk would say that the trees themselves followed the Dryads' commands, their tangled roots and grasping branches clawing and ripping at intruders, dragging them down into the loam to be suffocated and become food for the trees to grow ever older, taller and stronger. Ylia had heard all these tales, and more, and could only wonder at the flickering longing that burned deep in her chest. How she would love to walk beneath those trees, to see if the stories were really true! To even meet one of the mysterious and- so Ylia had been told- supernaturally beautiful Dryads, was an experience that the Witcheress would have given her all to have.
The Witcheress paused, regarding the looming forest with wide, curious eyes. She could even see the peaks of some distant mountains, rising far above the forest canopy. What must the view have been like, from up there? Temptation pulled at her strongly. All it would take was a short walk, a little time. A few days, at most. Or maybe more, if she really wanted to explore the region, learn its every secret...
No. She had a job to do. A hunt to complete. She reluctantly turned away, instead turning her gaze to the roadway. It didn't take her long to find the most recent set of tracks, two sets of hooves and four wide, wooden wheels. Careful not to step in the ruts in the road, Ylia followed the tracks until a slight dip in the road revealed a scene of carnage.
The wagon was there, upturned, its contents spilled out across the road. Barrels had shattered, spilling dried fish, salt and grain everywhere. Bolts of cloth had unfurled, rolling off the side of the road into the brush. One of the wheels had been torn loose, laying about five metres away from the wagon. Carefully, Ylia stepped around this, following her nose to the front of the wagon, where the metallic tang on the air was especially strong.
As much as her profession had exposed her to sights such as this, Ylia still had to take a moment to step back. The merchant hadn't been lying about the horses. Where the animals would normally have been hitched to the wagon, the leather tack ended in blood-stained stumps. Blood had spilled out onto the dirt of the road, still sticky and warm. Pools of the scarlet fluid formed around small patches of skin and tufts of hair, but no actual body parts remained. Whatever had attacked the wagon had either been voracious enough to devour two full-grown horses whole, then and there, or had been big enough to carry one or both of the animals away to its lair. Ylia couldn't say which was the worse prospect.
Steeling herself, the Witcheress moved closer to the gory scene, kneeling next to the blood to search for clues. She sniffed the air, trying to get past the odour of dead horse, looking for something, anything else that could give her an insight on her quarry. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, scanning every facet of the scene her nose described to her, delving deep...
There. Her eyes snapped open, darting around until she found the source of the subtle, acrid scent. A small pool of clear liquid, spilled on the dirt next to the blood. A long trough had been traced in the dirt, stroking its way across the surface of a shallow puddle of rapidly drying blood. The mark of a large tongue, lapping at the scarlet fluid. Next to it, droplets of the clear liquid had spattered in the dirt. Ylia removed her glove, reaching out to touch the liquid, testing the feel of it between her bare fingertips. Saliva, dropped from a large, drooling maw.
She carefully sniffed the spittle. Not caustic, or venomous. She tested a little on the tip of her tongue, spitting afterwards. No incendiary agents, either. So not a Dragon, for sure, not without the ability to spit fire. And with no acidic phlegm, or poisonous bite, that narrowed down her possibilities considerably. Options ran through her mind, but none she could pick with certainty. She needed more information.
A flicker of light caught her eye, something poking out from under the wagon. It was small, no larger than a gold Oren. Ylia shuffled over to it, picking it out of the dirt carefully. A scale, emerald green with a black sheen to it. As she turned it, the sun caught the edge, casting a rainbow of light where it scattered the sun's rays. So a Higher Draconid, for sure, with magic in its blood. She tested the scale, squeezing it between her fingers. It flexed considerably. Probably from a knuckle, or some other joint. She paused for a moment, marvelling at the beauty of the scale. she could only imagine at what the whole beast must look like, in its full splendour. Carefully, she slipped the scale into a pocket. Then, with a dainty grunt, she stood, glancing around.
It was not difficult to spot the beast's trail. Large footprints left deep impressions in the soil at the side of the road, where the Draconid had broken open several large crates. Ylia moved closer, smelling inside to confirm her thoughts. Venison, dried and cured. Beyond the shattered crates, more footprints, heavy, deep. At first, Ylia wondered why the winged beast did not simply take flight, but with a belly full of meat, and possibly two dead horses in its claws, it likely would have been unable to take to the air. that brought her a measure of confidence. It could only be so large, then. A full Dragon, or even a Dracolizard Matriarch, would have had no issue carrying away a whole team of horses, even less so with only two.
The Witcheress followed the wide, three-toed footprints, through the treeline and into the woods. Blood spatters here and there also aided her in following the trail, although the path of crushed foliage and snapped branches would have been easy for even an untrained farmhand to follow. Mentally, she calculated the beast's stride, looked overhead to see how high up the damage to the trees went.
The footprints paused at the base of a massive, thick tree, one that Ylia knew to be a Shaerrawedd Tree, a name given to it by the Elves. Long, deep scratches ran up its length, oozing sweet sap. Ylia reached out to catch some on her fingertips, tasting it and smiling. She recalled one of the cooks at Kaer Marter sometimes giving her and her friend, Rodrick, sticky yeast cakes made using this exact same sap, a treat normally forbidden to the adepts by the stern Grandmaster Treysse. The fond memories of her training, her home, and her dearest friend flooded back, filling her belly with a warm glow as she chanced another taste of the sap.
She looked up at the scratches again, observing how deep they went. Probably from a set of monstrous horns, rather than any claws. A territorial display? Or perhaps a way of maintaining the point of its horns. There were beasts she knew of that indulged in both forms of behaviour.
Ylia continued like this, following the beast at its pace, stopping wherever the footprints milled about for any time, analysing its behaviour through the clues left behind. At one point, she came across a pile of horse bones, regurgitated, the flesh stripped from them. She regarded the forlorn skull of one of the dead animals, a swell of sorrow in her breast. While she knew that such things were the way of the wild, a sad truth of nature, she still felt a twinge of regret upon seeing any kind and gentle creature meet such an end. The fear, the pain, the panic that must have swept through it before it met its fate. With a sad sigh, she moved on.
In just two short hours, the Witcheress found herself deep in the forest, the light of day slowly turning to orange dusk. Shadows were growing long, and many creatures were already settling down for the approaching night. Ylia reckoned she had about an hour or so of good daylight left. Still she pressed on. If she couldn't find the beast before dark, it wouldn't be the first time she'd hunted at night, and certainly not the first time she slept wild, curled up in the embrace of a large tree.
Just as the rising moon first peeked through the thickening leaves overhead, Ylia suddenly found herself confronted with something she had been both hoping for and fearing, at the same time. The border where Human lands gave way to the Brokilon. The beast's trail, previously merely stalking along the borderline, now turned sharply, heading deep into the Dryad lands. The Witcheress regarded the deeper forest carefully, noting the thick foliage, the ancient, gnarled trees, the moss that coated everything. For a second, she imagined herself standing before a gigantic portal into an entirely different world, one completely consumed by green.
Ylia hesitated here, momentarily and uncharacteristically unsure of herself. All the stories that had been told to her as a child, of little girls being snatched away by the Dryads and transformed into one of them, of the countless that had died after merely setting one foot inside their territory, all these tales and more assaulted her mind, warning her to be cautious. Once she stepped over the border, there would be no turning back. And yet... and yet, something deep inside of her wanted this. An adventure unlike any other. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her booted foot, and walked into Brokilon.
~o~0~o~
The air inside the deeper forest was heavy, muting all sound. Not a single bird, insect or small creature could be heard. It was almost as if a thick layer of wool coated everything. Even Ylia's footsteps made no sound, the thick moss that covered the forest floor absorbing every impact, no matter how careless she allowed her tread to be. Regardless, the Witcheress still moved with care, unsure whether any eyes watched her even now. It felt as though the entire forest was paying attention to her, the one element for leagues around that did not belong. The hairs on the back of her neck shivered at the thought.
The beast's trail was still obvious, much broken vegetation behind it, the occasional droplets of bloody spittle spattered across a fern here and there. Ylia knew she had to be close to wherever the creature's lair was. Surely it would not range so far for a single meal.
She paused at the edge of a clearing, glancing about cautiously. The seemingly empty forest was beginning to worry her. Surely by now she should have come across some sign of life, be it a Dryad, some wildlife, a monster, anything. The sunlight was all but gone now, the moonlight barely penetrating the thick canopy overhead. She'd need to rely on her other senses, or take a Cat potion, an elixir she despised, to continue the hunt. Her ears twitched in the gloom as her nostrils flared. Almost total silence greeted her. Almost.
At first, she thought she imagined it. The groan of straining wood. The rustle of leaves being moved aside. Ylia's eyes darted about, looking for the source of the noise. She dropped into a low crouch. Something was coming close. With a practised motion, she unclipped the crossbow from her belt, loading a bolt without even looking down. She pulled back the string, readying to fire at whatever it was that was coming after her. She listened, cautiously. Was that a growl she could hear? For just a second, she imagined a flash of bright eyes, somewhere in the dark.
She barely caught the movement at the edge of her vision. She spun, raising the crossbow even as she moved. Two bright, glowing eyes shone out from a bush on the far side of the clearing. On an instinct, Ylia fired, pulling the trigger of her weapon.
The Witcheress' heart pumped as she loosed the bolt, certain of her aim. The string went taught, beginning to launch the projectile as that single moment crystallised around the huntress. Her eyes watched the bolt leap from its cradle, beginning its journey to strike precisely between those luminous eyes that, just a moment too late, Ylia was horrified to realise belonged to none other than her friend and fellow Witcher, Rodrick.