The following day was a somber one. Hunters and scouts fanned out, scanning the area through nightfall. Tamlen was returned home to the camp, unsurprisingly to an angry Marethari and a tearful Ashalle. The Keeper of the clan forbade him from leaving the encampment, leaving him with nothing to do but sit by the fire and wait. She had considered giving him a tongue lashing that he would never forget, but in the end felt there was little point. She could tell from his puffy eyes and trembling lips that he had already suffered enough.
By morning, the Sabrae Clan was at a loss. Their search had come up empty and the hunters had found no leads. After nearly seventeen hours with nothing to show, it was becoming increasingly clear that Mahariel wasn't going to be found. The clan's best trackers had been following throughout the night, but her captors were clever. Any evidence of their whereabouts had been well covered, leaving almost nothing behind. Wherever the men had gone was a mystery to them and by now, it was likely they had moved on. There was no guarantee at this point that Firana was even alive, as Tamlen hadn't the slightest clue what their intentions had been. A heavy cloud hung over the campsite as Marethari made the call. With hostile humans in the area, their time in the forest was limited. They would continue searching for the next week, until the day they were forced to move on.
Ashalle was a wreck, sobbing openly before the open flame as Paivel did his best to console her. When she wasn't crying, she was pacing anxiously back and forth. Her feet tapped impatiently whenever a warrior returned to bring them some news. Every time, the result was the same. They had found nothing. By the time night began to fall, the older woman was utterly distraught. Wandering near the edges of the encampment, the tears returned.
Shiahari had entrusted her with her only daughter. She had trusted her to carry on their memory and raise her into the fine young elven woman she was meant to be. She had walked into the forest at the end of her life, believing that she would keep her safe… and she had failed her. She was probably turning in her grave, her soul cursing Ashalle from the Beyond. Shiahari, one of the fiercest hunters their clan had ever seen. Bearing the mark of Ghilan'nain on her forehead, she had wished for nothing more than her child to carry on.
"…Hmm?" Her sobs quieted into sniffles as a flash of white drew her attention. Standing near the forest's edge, with magnificent horns curling to the skies was a halla, watching her with large beady eyes. It was alone, and strangely, making no motion to move. It simply stood there, observing her with careful intention. Ashalle dried her tears, offering a gentle smile. "Oh poor dear… are you lost?"
The halla didn't respond. Its large white lids slowly blinked at her, body rigid as stone. The elven woman blinked as well, watching the creature with unsettled confusion. Halla were intelligent creatures, and the elves had lived alongside of them since the days or Arlathan. Even so, it was unusual for them to wander so close to an active campsite, let alone a solitary one. And the fact that it was alone was strange enough on its own. Slowly, Ashalle turned her head in the direction of the fence line, eyeing their domestic halla grazing in the pen. Her eyes slowly drifted to the gateway, where a large statue stood proudly at the entrance. The statue of Ghilan'nain…
Ashalle's mouth fell open with a gasp. Ghilan'nain, the mother of halla. The creature of navigation, who would always guide their people home. Quickly, her attention turned back to the halla. It was still standing there, watching her every movement. With her full attention once more, it finally responded, turning its head towards the forest. It was a sign. It had to be. Perhaps Shiahari was still with them after all. Turning, Ashalle ran back to the camp as quickly as her legs would carry her, calling for the hunters.
. . .
Fire crackled in the center of the camp. A group of soldiers sat around the hearth, laughing obnoxiously at their warrior's tale. One of the men made a crude gesture, resulting in another wave of guffaws. "I can't believe you got bested by a knife-earned pipsqueak!" One of the men exclaimed, to another round of cackles. The burly man in question glared at him, clearly not sharing in his amusement.
"I got her, didn't I?"
"Yeah, but at what cost? That's gonna scar, you know."
"With his ugly mug, it'll probably help!" Another soldier cut in. The group howled with amusement once more, their laughter echoing into the night.
"You won't be running your mouth when my bonus comes in. Dalish children go for a fortune. I'll be able to get all the drink and whores sovereigns can buy. And you louts ain't getting none of it!" The burly man complained.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever, you say. Ey, ain't it time to feed that shrimp?" A soldier joined them from the ale barrel, joining in on their conversation.
"Not like she's gonna eat it. Little punk hasn't taken a bite since she got here. Just keeps muttering gibberish."
"It's elvish, you twit."
"Just go feed her before the boss gets back. I don't want another lashing."
"Maybe you need it, after last month." The burly man snapped. The men roared at his retort, returning to their merry banter as he gathered a bread roll from the pile.
A short distance from the bonfire, Firana lay shivering in her wooden cage. It had been at least a day since they captured her, taunting her, and tossing things at her as though she were a sideshow attraction. Her attempts at escape had been futile, resulting in punishment from the bandit group. She wasn't entirely certain how to pick a lock, and an attempt to squeeze through the bars had earned her a harsh scolding and nearly a broken arm. Now, she sat there, muttering the words to herself, over and over like a mantra.
"We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore," she repeated, staring blankly at the ground. "Walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the Elvhenan, and never again shall we submit."
"Oy, brat. Soup's on." The door lock rattled through the cage as the burly man opened up her confines. He was unsurprised to find a tossed uneaten apple, and overturned bowl of gruel, and an empty waterskin lying scattered through the cage. She was a stubborn one, he had to admit. Whatever poor sod ended up buying her was going to be in for a nasty surprise.
Mahariel ignored him, repeating the words once more. "We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore. Walkers of the lonely path."
"You still going on with that nonsense?" The burly man shook his head, tossing the bread roll on the floor. It rolled across the ground, resting by her feet. Her eyes followed it as it moved, watching with an intense gaze. The soldier smiled a wide toothy grin full of yellow teeth. It looked like even difficult brats like her could be broken, given enough time.
"We are the last of the Elvhenan," she muttered, slowly reaching out towards the hunk of bread. It was hard and stale, clearly leftovers from what the others had chosen not to eat. They were feeding her scraps, like an animal. Like a lesser. Anger boiled in the pit of her stomach as she picked up the crusty loaf. "and never again shall we submit." Firana lifted her arm and chucked the bread at him, scowling as it bounced off of his forehead.
The burly man glared daggers at her, his patience at its end. Lunging forward, he gripped her arm, pulling her forward. "You need to learn some manners," he hissed. Then, he shoved her backward, slamming her against the wooden bars on the opposite side. Firana slumped to the ground, her limbs trembling with strain.
"We… are the Dalish…"
"Brat, I swear to the Maker if you don't shut the hell up, I'm gonna —"
"Hey!" A loud voice, sharp as tempered steel cut through the clearing, halting the burly man in his tracks. Storming across the campsite with her eyes trained on him was an elf. She was geared in well-forged armor, with a sword resting at her hip. The man swallowed, a loud, audible gulp as he backed away from the cage.
At the sound of a new voice, Mahariel looked up. The elven woman stopped a few feet away from the man, a look of irritation on her delicate features. For the briefest moment, she felt a sliver of hope arise at the sight of a fellow elf. Of kin. But those hopes were shattered the moment she opened her mouth.
"What did I tell you about damaging the merchandise?"
"Right… sorry, boss."
"Dalish elves are worth a fortune, children especially. Do not cut into our profits." The woman turned, taking a quick look over Firana, eyeing her. She was a small thing, prepubescent with chocolate skin and dark midnight hair. Her grey-blue eyes were like storm clouds, carrying with them the rage of a hurricane. There was fire in those eyes. She would be worth her weight indeed. "I'm going on ahead to Denerim to prepare the next shipment. I expect her in better condition when she arrives."
The man said nothing, watching as the woman stalked away. Mahariel catalogued her, taking in every detail from her fair skin to her dark hair in flowing waves, cut off at the shoulder. She was one that Firana would remember. Should she ever see her again…
"You heard her, kid. You don't eat something; I'm shoving it down your stubborn throat. I don't need the boss on my ass any more than she already is." The child said nothing. Instead, she glared daggers at him. The burly man took a deep breath to try and resist the urge to throttle her. "Listen here, brat. If you don't —"
The sound of a whizzing arrow cut through the air like a knife, followed by the sound of a wet thump. Mahariel and her captor jumped at the sudden noise, whipping their heads around. Collapsing into a lifeless heap on the ground was one of the bandits, a pool of crimson blood seeping from his neck. All was still for a few moments, while the surrounding soldiers processed what had just happened.
Then, there was chaos.
From the shadows of the forest, unseen assailants rained hell upon the unsuspecting thugs. Arrows flew from the trees, forcing her captors on the defensive. Voices rose in a chorus of panicked shouts, bodies scrambling for their weapons and falling to the ground. The burly man cursed under his breath. Slamming the cage door shut, he turned and bolted for his sword resting near the fire. Mahariel watched him go, eyes drifting between himself and the cage door. The lopsided cage lock immediately drew her attention. It wasn't secured.
Rushing forward, she jumped, swatting at the cage with the tips of her fingers. Her lips pulled into a deep frown as the door remained unaffected. She couldn't reach. She paused for a moment and pondered, quickly flitting between the door and the lock. Then, she ran forward. Leaping, she grabbed onto the checkered bars, quickly climbing her way to the top like a makeshift ladder. The lock fell open with a click and the door swung open, driven forward by her weight. She didn't bother looking to examine her saviors. Instead, she bolted for safety, rushing into the trees.
Firana ran until the sounds of battle faded into muffled noise, her legs collapsing out from underneath her. Landing on her hands and knees, she gasped. The painful stab of a stitch jabbed through her side. Her exhaustion had finally caught with her. Not surprising after going for nearly twenty-four hours without sustenance. Now, she was alone once more in the darkness, trying to figure out her next course of action. She hadn't a clue who had attacked her capturers and she wouldn't complain. She was grateful for their assistance, unintentional or otherwise. The only thing that mattered now was finding her way home.
With a tired sigh, the child slowly forced herself to stand. The cries of conflict were beginning to quiet, leaving her in total silence. Only the ruffling of leaves in the summer breeze reached her ears now. Until the quiet thumps of footsteps caught her attention. Mahariel startled, stumbling forward to flee… but she couldn't. She was too weak. Tripping back to the ground, the young elf turned and crawled backward, facing her attacker with a defiant glare. Thankfully, by some miracle, her pursuer was not a shemlen bandit or even a round-ear.
A snow-white hoof pawed at the ground, a halla watching her through the trees.
"Halla…?" Firana mumbled. As a Dalish elf, she was no stranger to the mystical creatures. However, she had primarily seen them inside of their secured pen or traveling alongside the encampment. On the rare occasion she found them in the wild, they traveled in herds. Yet strangely, this one traveled alone and approached her, bearing no fear or concern. Stranger still, Firana herself felt oddly calm given her current situation. As though somehow, everything would be alright.
Slowly, Mahariel rose unsteadily to her feet and walked forward. One foot in front of the other she approached the halla, her gaze locked with its large dark eyes. She reached the center of the dark clearing before it finally turned, trotting off into the forest trees. She opened her mouth to call after it, but no sound came out. She was frozen, standing alone in the darkness. Until…
"Firana!"
The sound of Fenarel's familiar voice called out to her, followed by the sound of crunching leaves. Bursting into the open clearing was the most beautiful sight she had seen in days: the Dalish hunters. Her mouth opened, but yet again, no sound came out. Perhaps she was too overjoyed for words. Or perhaps she had simply reached her limit. Firana took a single step towards them and collapsed to the forest floor, the last of her energy spent. She could hear the sound of rushing feet running to her side as the world slowly faded in darkness.
