Years passed, but nothing was ever still. Changes, constant changes. A little girl wasn't meant to learn to fight like this; that's what they'll say if they catch her. They'll shake their heads as they read her folders and realize that she was damned the moment her father made his first friend in Varrock. They'll bemoan the fact that her potential was wasted and they'll drop her in the reject bin with the rest of the dead children that were defective.

No, that wasn't Delarn's story. She grew stronger on the Zamorakian wine—as a manner of speaking—and became faster and cleverer. She wielded swords as her knitting needles, sewing a reputation for being unpredictable and violent. This was a façade, it had to be, but that didn't change things. She knew how to care for herself, and she knew how to fight, and she knew how to convince people otherwise when she didn't.

Solene admired her back, her grace, as she darted and danced through the castle of Varrock, lighting fires wherever they would catch to send a message of fear to those who would see them from the streets below. She wasn't about doing real harm, but she relished that those down below catching sight would be filled with dread at what might be happening. She laughed mirthfully as she imagined the flustered officials trying to explain away the danger, trying to reason with people beyond reason. She imagined the grief they would feel when those in the streets began to riot and tear into each other when the term "Zamorakians" eventually reached the lips of one of the people in the crowd. They would look at each other with such distrust. Which were sheep in wolf's clothing? She wore her identity on her sleeve. She wasn't a liar, she was an instigator.

Solene tried to touch her back. He never realized how beautiful she was when she was causing havoc. She specialized in burnings and fires. It was said amongst the other Zamorakians that she had a heart of ice, needed the fire to pretend she still felt heat herself. A reptile, a devil, unresponsive. The heart can become quite cold when all you've known is winter. She repeated it over and over as she overheard the others whispering, "She's such a b—

Beautiful! Solene thought as he watched her dodge and twist around the blade of an angry guard—her blood was red after all!—Zamorakian red that made him giddy until he realized he ought to be helping her. He moved forward to do just that, but he was a bit late as a shield smashed hard against her, sending her reeling back toward the edge of the wall.

It was hard to remember she wasn't alone. She was never alone; she was surrounded by people, but she'd be damned if she ever once felt like she was in anyone's company. It was a heavy thing to carry with her.

She shifted quickly, and it stopped him in his tracks. He had never seen this before, and it left his mouth wide open even as she used this technique of hers to regain balance and bite the exposed throat between chest plate and helm, this opponent similarly shocked, too shocked to respond. It didn't matter so much to her that his blood was as red as hers, or as red as Solene's. Nothing mattered to that cloud of fur that was as red as any blood that may splatter it, may blend with it becoming companionable finally. The rush of battle was her friend, receding any loneliness in one mass of primal destruction that made her heart beat faster than anything else could.

She was moving even before the dead man's corpse hit the stone. She moved too quickly to know that Solene was watching her. She recalled at a later point, when all of the sect knew about this, how some of them would think it was a great prank to accidentally shoot her and explain that they didn't know it was her. Of course it was her. Of course she kept tabs. Chaos had a habit of returning chaos. They wished they were never born after she recovered from the times when she had to be stuck in bed, healing from careless hits, left with heavy thoughts that wouldn't leave her about how much they found her as nothing more than a toy, a pet, a nothing.

Solene wanted to hold her down, wanted her to be his alone, and wanted all that chaotic energy for himself. He was fifteen, and she was thirteen, but that was good enough for him. She was the rarest, sharpest sword and no one else could wield her like he would.

He would hold her in his arms sometimes. He knew what kind of girl she was. She said she didn't need anyone, but she was secretly painfully lonely and desperate for any form of love. He liked that the most. He was the only one that could squelch that loneliness. He never touched her inappropriately when she was in his arms. Trust took patience to gain, to hone, and she was harder than most to gain the trust of.

King Roald spoke with her once, but he didn't sound like the king her father had been. He sounded foolish and inept. She swore she would make everything about his rule hell. She wouldn't do that to a leader she cared to have. There were no kings, only selfish men with gold on their heads. In return, he wanted her dead. She had to be killed for her impunity, and she had to agree, but she didn't intend to die.

Solene couldn't help but watch her as she bathed in the river a year later. Her blood was as red as ever as it floated down the stream. She considered as a wolf she was supposed to know all about the nature of the body, but she didn't even know what it meant to be a woman, let alone a wolf that knew those things. Her father didn't really give her all that much information on either. Solene looked rather proud as he approached her, his friend hiding nearby to watch. The same one as when they first met, or rather when she was first taken in? Lately, there were few faces she bothered to remember.

Her eyes widened upon seeing him, and he could imagine he could see the wolf inside those yellow eyes, wanting to get away. As it was, she was like a wolf frozen by the sight of encroaching fire, staring at him with dread as he swaggered closer, mouth quirked. She didn't move at first when he wrapped his arms around her, but this time it didn't feel like a comfort as his hands slid over bare skin.

"I know you're a wolf. I saw it for myself. I won't tell anyone—that is if you don't. You're smarter than you look, aren't you?"

His blood was red. It was vibrantly red as it mixed with her own blood in the stream. He swore he wouldn't tell anyone. He was right, but someone else would. She didn't know that the secret was already out. He wouldn't bother doing something already done. His corpse would wash up rather smoothly on the shore of Edgeville. Those people always appreciated a good, mysterious corpse.

There was something she had learned with great certainty as she grew older. A disarming smile could get a person the world. The smile she would give to a boy that just witnessed his friend being killed in a single heartbeat before he suffered the same fate, the smirk she would give to those Zamorakians that would press her for the secrets of immortality she didn't have, the amused glint she would have for a guard that insists that her death would take her to a dark, empty place. She couldn't let it get under her skin. She had to keep out the outer appearance no matter what she did.

Decari in the present would awake with tears in her eyes, but if anyone asked her what was wrong, she would smile at them and answer, "Nothing at all."