Chapter 2: I Wanna See the Dirt Under Your Skin

The soft swish of fabrics brought all attention to the newcomer, Fen'harel. Falon'din smiled warmly as he let some space to guide the Dread Wolf into their conversation. Andruil raised a haughty brow at the arrival of the Wolf, he was not one to mingle with his kin on these kinds of celebrations.

"A delight to have you here, Fen'harel." Andruil mocked, her tone acrid but still cordial. If Falon'din or Dirthamen noticed, they paid it no heed. This was a common within the pantheon. The fabled wolf smirked at her ire but focused his attention to the elfling.

She was more pleasing up close, he told himself. Her short hair was indeed unruly but despite that her features were effeminate. "I'm surprised you've taken a female huntress. Tell me Andruil, are you planning to bed her as well?" His wolfish grin was plastered victoriously on his face.

His blue eyes could not miss how her cheeks flushed pink. Ah, so the rumors were true. Fen'harel shifted his gaze to the goddess, his eyes dancing with amusement. Oh how would the huntress weave herself out this time?

"I'm apalled you actually heed some useless gossip, Fen'harel. I did not expect a god as yourself to feast upon such lies." She hissed, offended of the accusation or at the truth that had been circulating for some time. Dirthamen was silent but his eyes darted between the two elves, secrets hidden beneath his pursed lips. He knew secrets but he kept them well.

Falon'din eyed the tension between them but coughed behind his fist, "Andruil, I would be delighted to learn more of your new aid." He didn't call her a hunter, in his eyes females should not be drenched in gore or in battle. Andruil was an exception. Elgar'nan had tried to quash the wildness of her spirit but he never won.

"No need to be too touchy, Andruil." Fen'harel's tone was mischevious as he sized himself up, "A playful jab is my intent. Ir abelas, for any insult you might have received." This was a mockery but Andruil didn't take on the bait. She new how to play The Game after all.

Lavellan's silvery eyes shift from the gods, she did not like being the center of attention. Of the twenty summers she had grown, she was never apt in dealing with the tirade of the elven pantheon. True, her favored goddess had always kept her close and guided her in the manner of the hunt, but never was she blessed in dealing with the court. How could she? She was born a slave with the quiver of arrows as salvation to the grim fate.

She shifted her feet, a display of anxiety that Andruil has countlessly failed to remove from her. She shifted her gaze towards her fellow hunters, they had indulged themselves on the meat and wine for the celebration. Jealousy prickled on her skin as she wish nothing more than to excuse herself from their presence.

A dainty hand perched itself upon her shoulder and the gods shifted their attention to the individual behind her. Lavellan's own curious eyes peeked behind, awed at the brilliant beauty of the All-Mother, Mythal.

She had never seen the mother goddess but words could not hold the beauty of this goddess. She held a warm smile, lighting up her soft features in a light you wanted to bathe in. Her golden hair framed her face while loving azure eyes appraised the young elven.

The unwanted attention was beyond Lavellan could deal with and Mythal must have known. "My, quite a curious troupe we have here." Her tone was light, and she steered the young hunter away from the gazes of the pantheon. "Go feast, da'san. You have earned your keep." He slid his hands off the huntress and flashed a smile to everyone in the small gathering.

Lavellan raised her eyes to her goddess, ever faithful to the hunt. Andruil held no power over Mythal and with a pointed gaze, she dismissed the young elven. The young huntress bowed to them before making haste to the platters of food laid for the night.

She did not know how vital she was in The Game.

She picked up a grape from her platter and bit on the exquisite fruit. It was a luxury to have these meals.

Lavellan had never considered her status as Andruil's devout hunter to partake in the festivities best suited for the gods or higher echelons of their society. This odd game that populated everyone's lips was strung high in the air.

She pushed the remainder of the fruit, relishing on the sharp tang on her tongue. Her clean hands was a sight she often see. Despite being able to cleanse herself each day, the blood would taint her skin so deep. Sometimes she felt it mocked her, this life, this status. Sometimes the animals she slaughtered would creep in her dreams, taunting her, drenching her in her own blood.

But Andruil would whisper them away, sometimes the darkness creeped up on her. Sometimes, she felt it grip her, strong and choking. At certain times she would walk up, hands bloody from the scratches on her arms or gripping her hunting knife so they tell her she was special, such is a lie spun by those in awe of her status.

Her eyes darted back to the elven pantheon gathered before her. Their beauty was ethereal. Mythal was a mother as the tales spun of her. She was warm like the sun that rouses Lavellan each morning.

Falon'din's pale pallor did speak of his tidings with the dead. His ebony black hair cascaded in a stream down upon his back. His eyes were a hollow gray, as if the color of the spirits he ferried into their end. He was tall with soft features much like Mythal. He swathed himself in dark colors with a dash of light green, as if the colors of the Beyond adorning him in its glory.

Dirthamen was of equal pallor, pale and swath in dark fabrics. His eyes were a deep black, endless of the secrets they hold. He covered himself with much fabric that it was hard to determine his physique. From the stray locks of hair, his tresses were just as black as his twin.

Fen'harel. Lavellan could not help but let a rare smirk paint her features. He held an air of arrogance as if he was entitled to the pleasures for his godhood. He was tall, much taller than Andruil but not of Falon'din. His skin was sun-kissed and a small skull adorned his forehead. His hair was a rich black and tumbled at a side in waves, so unruly like his nature. The wolf.

In truth, Lavellan was enamored of him, this Dread Wolf. He was a lone man, one who did not hold his share of followers or colored priests. Odd, how one as linked to the wild as he was, did not crave for followers. A wolf needs a pack, does it not? It perturbed her and piqued her curiosity greatly. A god who squandered so much time in dallying with strangers, feasting on the festivals and causing mayhem in Arlathan.

That was his story.

It was confusing. She never understood the spark of curiosity he ignited within her.

End notes:

Slaves never had rights to names but are provided with their parent's names once the predecessors pass away. For a time, children are considered by the colors of their hairs or their eyes. Only when their parents are dead are they branded into slavery or under the devotion of their chosen god or goddess.

Author's Notes: Hope you like the new update! Please do leave me reviews about the latest chapters, your thoughts and words are always welcome.