Chapter 4

Safe Harbour

Hochfels was a quaint little town of fishers and traders, with a decent port and cobbled streets. It was smaller than Sturmhöhe, and definitely less prosperous. Still, the townsfolk were stout people in a slowly growing community, being at the edge of the Empire and at the same time a conveniently placed port.

Quite frankly, Yalene wondered why the townsfolk were so poor when their main income and asset – fish – was plentiful, even now that the sea was littered with floating ice sheets. All in all, she liked it here, although she could have done without the pungent smell of fish gone bad. There was one particular fisher who regularly shouted at his colleagues offering constructive criticism towards the freshness of his wares, and as a result of explosive tempers, regular fish-fights ensued. It was wise to keep away from this part of the market.

As for the plan she and her compatriots had made, it went as well as one would have hoped. After a heartfelt farewell with the Shallyan Reijnders household, Florian Schröder had escorted her to this town, only to go straight to the next temple of Morr to ask for the local priests for help. He had been gone since this morning now with a small contingent of Morrians to tend to the dead of Sturmhöhe. He would be back in a few days, or so he had assured her, to accompany her to their destination: Altdorf. Until then, she was on her own and strongly advised to keep her identity and the change thereof secret. Yalene had to admit to herself that she hadn't seen this young man before, but Verena bless her priest for being this calm and level-headed. This young man had been challenged with a bizarre situation and had managed it in a beautifully sensible fashion that showed wisdom far beyond his years.

She was currently wearing an ill-fitting mourning dress that hung on her frame like a bag, only to stretch tightly across the chest. Her black veil served her adequately in hiding her features well enough; it was sometimes hard to make out other peoples features or details, but that was the price of not being recognised. In return, her own face was obscured; one could identify her as a woman, could see the pale skin and black hair, that she was young and maybe that her features were fine, but little else. As far as she knew, the people around her took her for a Reikland visitor in mourning anyway, and as it was their nature, the Nordlanders, lazy mouths as they infamously were, took it as a cue to talk to her even less than usual.

Therefore, her veil had created a private little world for her, which was strangely comforting. Her presence was acknowledged, but she was barely talked to. In the world of Man, she was a spectator now, and nobody could see what she had become.

Originally, she had just meant to sit by the town's water fountain right in front of the town hall to catch up on her reading, and since was not willing to leave her most treasured possession, her father's grimoire, in an inn, so she slung the bag with it over her shoulder and then went to get some fresh air and intellectual nourishment. It was clearly the smartest course of action to take all three scrolls she had brought and make her decision when she was at the fountain, with people surrounding her. Or perhaps she would not read at all and just try to make sense of the last few days. It had been only this morning that Florian Schröder had left her to her devices with the promise to return within seven days' time. That was plenty of time to muse about the events of the last few days, about all those people they had lost, the appearance of Dark Elves and their ritual, and her own 'demise', if it could be called such. Currently, she still tried to fathom the cause of these strange occurrences, but she could only conclude that with her fumbling attempts in magic, she had successfully released the Witch Hunter from this spell he had been under, and that he had killed the sorceress in the best - or worst - moment in regards to the ritual. After all, death of the magic-user tended to cut any ritual short. A common side effect, she determined, was the release of magical energies so strong that they had crushed the life out of everybody in the vicinity. Why she was spared and in the wrong body … well, that could only be attributed to an accident. Perhaps some remnant of the purpose of the ritual corresponded to that, which would explain much, since she had been the last victim to be sacrificed.

What a morbid thought.

After she had found herself in a quiet, undisturbed room in an inn after Florian had left, she had cried for hours, mostly mourning for Leevke. Unlike her, the priestess had been bold, brave and defiant to the end. Yalene had always admired that bravery and no-nonsense attitude about her and also had to reluctantly admit to herself that she herself was evidently spun of a different silk – a less heroic and more tearful and melancholic silk, one might add. She had spent that particular afternoon drowning in her own grief and loss. In hindsight, this was a little odd. She had always been proud of her own composure, and never cried that much or that hard, no matter the pain she was feeling. This time, however, it felt like an invisible, continuously bleeding wound, leaving her with lingering and frightfully intense pain. Even now, as she was walking the street, she could still feel a needle of pain in her heart, even if she didn't think about the events of the last days at all.

Her perception of the world around her had shifted also, even without the veil covering her face. When she had made her way through the woods, she had already noticed how sharp her senses seemed to be all of a sudden, to the point where it was almost overwhelming. The same could be said about the stench of rotten fish when she had smelled it upon her arrival. It had taken all of her willpower not to turn her horse around at that point, or jump off it and throw up, which would have been supremely embarrassing. She could also feel the fabric on her skin keenly; she wouldn't have thought of the dress she was currently wearing as rough, but the elven body was apparently not satisfied with this. It didn't chafe, per se, but she did feel the weight and fabric on her skin more keenly. In a private moment of washing, she had even tentatively started to touch herself in the nether regions, the pleasant sensations flooding her body had been too overwhelming to continue. When she had done so before, in her human body, she had either felt very little or even nothing. Sometimes, pleasuring herself had helped her to go to sleep, but the sensation had always been more like the delightful buzz when slightly inebriated by two glasses of wine, not an intense release, but rather a steady building of pleasure that had left her more slumberous. At the end of a day, the rush of a good story, a particularly tasty piece of cake or a fast ride on a horse had given her more joy and had proven to be much more tempting to her.

These new feelings were quite vexing, if she was completely honest. She had even caught herself eyeing the physique of the local blacksmith, who, true to his profession, was remarkably well-muscled. In other times, she would have appreciated the 'empirical evidence of a set beauty standard', and enjoyed the aesthetics of a well-shaped human body without putting any value to it. It was just like looking at art – if it was pleasing to the eye, it was all well, but it meant nothing if there was no substance to it. The sheer thought that she might become more shallow was frightening. She didn't want to judge people on their attractiveness. People were born pretty or plain without any effort of their own; in addition, beauty was such a fickle and fleeting thing. The mind and spirit were things that endured, and that really mattered. She had understood that a long time ago. Her body ought to understand this as well.

But she never arrived at the fountain. Instead, it was a spectacle at the harbour that drew her attention and that made her veer from her path. It was already dusk, with the lampers going to work to light the streetlamps, and people were going home to their families, to dinner and to rest from the hardships of their day. But this was also the time for some fine traditions, like the one Yalene witnessed when she joined the knot of people cheering a young man who was enthusiastically sprinkling himself with seawater, dancing in circles and loudly proclaiming his eternal devotion to his woman and their upcoming marriage. This was the local ritual to torture a bachelor shortly before their wedding day, with the bride-to-be absent. It was a fun tradition, and the poor lad had to dance and sprinkle himself with seawater until a maiden kissed him free. Usually, this was done by a child or young teen, but any unmarried woman was eligible.

Smiling, Yalene joined the clapping and cheering, and from the look of it, the crowd as well as the bachelor were having a wonderful time. She even recognized a priest of Sigmar in the crowd whom she happened to know, a man with a square jaw and yellow robes over his armour. Unlike the more traditional Sigmar branches, he hadn't shaved his head, instead wearing his golden mane in numerous thin braids and had done the same with his long beard. This broad-shouldered man, aside from the tattoo on his face and all the markings that identified him as a priest of a notoriously strict and unforgiving order, was none other than Leenert Holthusen, the local wandering priest of Sigmar infamous for his laid-back attitude and his penchant for having slept on just about any couch or guest-bed in the area. Years ago, he had even once enjoyed Yalene's hospitality and had proven himself to be a humble guest, although he had snored so loudly, the tremors that infernal sound had sent through her house must have caused the dry paint to trickle from the walls.
Currently, he was thoroughly enjoying himself, pint in one hand, laughing and chatting like everybody else. In fact, Yalene found herself standing beside that priest, feeling strangely comfortable in his presence.

"The poor sod has been at it for an hour.", he told her as an aside before he turned away.

Obviously, her services as a maiden had just been requested. At least, she thought she looked young enough now to be one. Did it count? It should count. Hence it counted.

She almost felt a bit giddy at the sheer thought of it, but it seemed more than anything like she belonged to these people, humans, despite her private little world that the veil created. Boldly, she stepped forward, gave a nod to tradition and to the friend of the groom-to-be – the one that had to constantly supply buckets of seawater - that she wanted to free the poor lad, and received a friendly, encouraging nod in return. There, permission was granted, and so she strode towards, smiling so broadly that it was visibly even under the veil. For Westerners, a woman in mourning kissing a groom-to-be free would have been a scandal; thank Sigmar for Northerners and their laid-back attitudes.

The young man stopped in his incessant sprinkling and shouting as she came closer. He looked really young, not even twenty, and probably had to get the permission of his parents to marry his girl. His light brown hair had been tied back in a ponytail – good boy – and only the tiniest hint of beard was blossoming on his face. His face was bland, but his smile was kind and lit up his whole face and eyes. Winking before he carefully lifted up her veil to her nose and no further, he allowed her to give him an innocent peck on the lips, barely enough to touch skin, not long enough to feel the warmth of his skin, and so innocuous that she had to remind herself that she was duty-bound to blush. Alas, she was unable to do it, but the warmth in her chest, the joy she took out of it was due to having partaken in this ritual, in this moment of time when people around her had simply been carefree, cheerful and hopeful.

It was all over in a heartbeat, when the warning bells were rung.

There were so many reasons why those bells would be rung in the harbour, the most dangerous and common one being fire, or fire on one of the ships lying at anchor. It could also mean that an attack was imminent, but by whom? No matter what happened, it meant that the Watchmen and any stationed soldiers and militia were now scrambling to get into their armour and to their posts. Since the Watch also did double duty as supplemental firefighters, and spirited ones at that, there were suddenly so many people scurrying around that it was impossible to see the organized patterns without knowing them.

They needn't have bothered, because the cause of the bells being rung emerged behind the cliffs, as if they had just been waiting for dusk for their surprise attack. The sight of black sails made Yalene's heart sink. Everybody knew the stories, but rarely did she think that they were true. Black sails were used by Dark Elf pirates.

Again, it was Dark Elves. This had to be connected with the incident near Sturmhöhe. Where they searching for their sorceress? But why here? And why wasn't there a warning by the light vessels and scouts nearby?

She watched as the ships sailed closer, far too close for her taste. She only noticed the chaos of panicked townsfolk fleeing to safety when she felt an armoured hand on her shoulder, and looked at the familiar, tattooed face of the Sigmarite filled with concern. "Miss, you should hide. Quickly now." He gave her a gentle push into the direction away from the port, away from the Dark Elves that were about to descend. It was good that Leenart had done so, that he had bothered to take the time to talk to her, a stranger to his eyes. She hadn't noticed how much she was shaken and that she had been standing unmoving, just watching the incoming threat come closer and closer. The words of the priest made her shake off her fear-induced paralysis, but she was still trembling as she nodded towards him, turned around and briskly walked away.

Soldiers and local militiamen were hurrying past her, and she could see the pure terror, even despair on their faces. They thought that they were outmatched, and if that was so, Yalene couldn't tell. But the terror of the reputation of Dark Elf corsairs was enough to strike fear into their hearts, no matter how the reality might look like. But she could hear in the background how the Sigmarite tried to rally them. "Take heart! Trust in Sigmar, trust in yourself! The realm of Man will never yield to barbaric pirates!", he bellowed, and even Yalene, as she walked away, had to admit that the steely determination and passion in his words had touched her.

Even as she tried to look for a spot to hide without barging into any house or enter a building that was already barricaded, she saw how the few wooden defence towers were manned by wide-eyed men and women with fear in their eyes and unsteadiness in their hands. Yalene decided to hide behind a merchant stall, where she could still see the harbour, and where the armed men and women tried to form lines of defences. But it all went down so fast, it made her head spin. She had learned that ship combat was a slow business, where one had to act with caution and thoughtfulness. But this was different. Before anybody could know it, before the lines were properly formed, before people could even think, the Dark Elves clad in their green cloaks and black leathers descended upon them like a wave, shot them down with their repeater crossbows before shields could be raised. She heard how commands were shouted, but the lines broke down quickly as people were killed like flies. Those who had the rotten sense of standing in the general vicinity and hadn't left the harbour were either simply knocked out or caught with nets. How demeaning was it to catch a person with a thing meant for animals?

The fighting would draw closer, that much she knew, and in her fear she did what seemed to be the best idea: Keep moving, away from the harbour, towards the city gates. She should have done so immediately and taken refuge in the forest, and perhaps it was not too late. Around her, the townspeople were running, either carrying water since the Dark Elves had quickly started to set several buildings and fishing boats aflame, or to get themselves to safety, wherever that might be. Since the fires were now burning, there was no building that was safe. Unlike most of the townspeople, while still panicked, Yalene moved carefully and more slowly. It took some time navigating the narrow streets of Hochfels until she could see the city gates. She didn't stop in her sprinting, hoping that the few militiamen left would just let her pass at the open gate. She also saw how the Watchmen closest to the gates seemed to shout to hurry to her and other townsfolk who tried to run, just like her. his gaze was transfixed at the fleeing people, shouting something unintelligible. Suddenly, that Watchman was cut down by a heretofore unseen attacker suddenly emerging from the shadows.

The militia had never had the opportunity to close these gates, as another wave of dark-clad Dark Elves was making the most silent charge that one could ever imagine, consisting of flashing blades gleaming in the sun, the only sounds being steel meeting flesh and the dying gasps of utterly surprised men. What followed thereafter was a charge towards everybody in the vicinity, the people being trapped in this town just as they were in the harbour. It was such a brutal display, just like at the harbour, that Yalene fled to the next side street and cowered behind a crate, shaking like a leaf and praying that they wouldn't find her.

Brave woman of the Empire, she.

Who could have known that these bastards would use such a thing as military strategy to attack such a small, unimportant town as Hochfels? The fighting was now everywhere, and it was only a matter of time until she was discovered or chased out of her hiding spot through fire and smoke. But what to do? She pulled her shoulder bag with her scrolls closer, as if they would offer some protection. Dark Elves were pillaging this town, and she looked like one of them. Perhaps, if she could just walk by with enough confidence, she could pass those Druchii towards freedom. Since there were currently none of her fellow humans in sight, this was a plan that might work, and since she wasn't responsible for anybody but herself, she decided that this was her chance. Precisely speaking, this was her only chance, if she wanted to survive and avoid a fate worse than death.

Her hands were still shaking when she pulled the veil from her face that had served as an effective protection, and tucked it away safely. She also took the time to rearrange her hair so that her pointed ears were now clearly visible. Then she started striding, slowly, unflinchingly and deliberately through all that carnage, the screaming townspeople and their attackers. It felt like she was sleepwalking, taking steps with the security of a person who was not thoroughly aware of their surroundings. In fact, in that state, the sounds of battle and death around her seemed to recede, like they were only reaching her through a thick fog. She brushed past some women who didn't pay her much thought, as did a Dark Elf swinging blood-coated mace.

To avoid her fellow humans, she had to take the way through the side streets, and indeed, the second Dark Elf warrior she passed even saluted her, then left her to her own devices while looking for new prey. But a few moments later, she still ended up cornered unexpectedly. She didn't know how, since everything she had attempted to do was to avoid exactly this kind of situation. It seemed like she awoke out of some form of daydream, and felt just as dizzy as she was cornered by three desperate-looking, dishevelled men, simple labourers who had taken up tools, a hammer, a club, anything to fight for their dear lives against the Dark Elves. Now they had found one, unarmed, but that didn't mean anything for people who were so afraid that they could barely think, who were acting on blind rage. Yalene tried to back off, take a few steps back and raise her empty hands, but it was in vain.

Before they could charge her, one of them was violently stopped when a heavy tug went through his body, only to reveal a bolt in his chest. His fellow labourer met the same fate of death by crossbow bolt, although he found his in his neck, gurgling as he collapsed on the ground. The last one of the men tried to shout something as his fellow labourers fell, but before he could do so, he was disposed brutally and bloody through a long dagger slicing through the chin directly into his head. The Druchii who had killed him had still no trouble pulling his blade out of the man's skull, watching at the twitching corpse with cold satisfaction. Before Yalene knew it, two Dark Elves with crossbows stepped out of the shadows, looking towards the one with the blade. They all wore black leather underneath a green cloak fashioned from some sort of lizard skin, their skin ghastly pale, wearing perfectly reasonable helmets. The third one however carried himself with an air of authority and command that struck Yalene as the most troublesome of the trio. His armour and clothing seemed slightly more elaborate and to contain more purple hues, while he also appeared to be tall and imposing. For a lithe and lean elf, he also seemed to possess a wiry strength, while his pale face was tattooed with little runes on his cheekbones. Perhaps he was muscular, perhaps he was ugly, perhaps he was handsome. Yalene couldn't tell, all those elves looked the same to her. But she could tell him apart from his appearance, his tattoos and his demeanour exuding the confidence of a man gleefully victorious. It was also him who addressed her first in a firm, commanding tone.

"You there. What are you doing among humans?"

The absolute last thing she wanted was to interact with any Druchii, thank you ever so much, especially since they were in the middle of pillaging and burning this quaint town. This counted double for this bastard there who seemed to enjoy the arterial spray that had coated his cloak. For the moment, these battle-drunk butchers at least didn't seem to see her as either victim or threat. She wanted to keep it that way, and keep them away from her. What to do? From the perspective of this man who obviously held some authority, the question was a legitimate one, and it seemed best not to let him know how afraid she was or how much she felt herself trembling with fear. Furthermore, even if she answered this man, her accent would inevitably give her away. Her Druhir was untested, by no means could she ever pose as a native speaker. 'Think fast, Yalene.', she thought, mustering all her strength and confidence to project the illusion that she was being a stoic, untouchable ice queen. If somebody would have a funny accent in Reikspiel, she would simply think them to be from a faraway province. Perhaps it was the same with Druhir, and she didn't see how she could get out of this without trying. Something told her that this man was not accepting pantomime as a valid means of communication.

In the moments she had needed to get her bearings, the Dark Elf whom she assumed was some sort of officer or leader had taken off his helmet and was about to approach her, when the few organized men of the local militia left alive made a valiant attempt of attack on this particular three elves, who were forced to defend themselves. In all this chaos and carnage, Yalene was able to react, eschewing the pesky first moment of shock to quickly and quietly slip away into the next side street. When she turned to check if she was in any way pursued. She was not, but as she looked over her shoulder, she saw the leader of that little group of Dark Elves and their eyes met.
She could see his features clearly, as well as the curious look on his face as he held her gaze for a long, meaningful moment before he had to parry an attack from one of her countrymen again with all the grace and brutality so typical for his kind.

As for Yalene, she followed her instinct and ran, faster than she thought she could. Only when she could hide herself behind a burning building, feeling the heat of the flames, she was able to stop and clear her thoughts to finally think. She had to escape, and provided she could avoid humans or their attention in this burning village full of people in panic and beset by blood-thirsty elves, there was a possibility.

Taking deep breaths to calm herself, she took to her former strategy, walking through the battlefield as if she belonged there, as if she was barely touched by it. This time, however, she returned to the harbour. It was counter-intuitive, but to try her earlier strategy again and trying to escape through the gate seemed to be her only chance to slip out. It would be crawling with Dark Elves and she had to dodge that elven commander, and as a human, there would be no chance at all to escape. As a Dark Elf, however, she just might be able to.

She had no idea how she managed it, her heart racing in her chest, but outwardly exuding the same, stoic façade that had helped her so many times in her life. Again, she managed to dim her perception and shut out the terrible bloodshed that happened all around her. When she arrived at one of the main streets leading to the gate, still in this dreamlike state that protected her senses, she saw with a knot in her stomach that she had been right, unfortunately.

One of Yalene's younger brothers, Hendrik, happened to be an officer in the Imperial Navy. He had once told her that even on sea, there was one principle of war that applied: people didn't need to fear the defenders, the desperate men and women fighting for their lives or for their freedom. The army or crew to be feared was the one who was clearly winning. He had told her that the victors in the late stages of a battle, when the tide had clearly turned, became nothing more than brutal animals, butchering, torturing and raping everything in their wake. Hendrik had described it as some sort of 'boiling blood madness', when the carnage around the person consumed them thoroughly, leaving only a hungry animal thoroughly consumed by rage, blood, conquest and lust. The whole world turned into a crimson spectre, the concepts of right and wrong, of morals, of ethics, of personal integrity all washed away.

Yalene had always thought that this explanation had been a cheap excuse for atrocities committed needlessly after battle, but now she saw this 'blood madness' first-hand, with Dark Elf corsairs as the victors, with those elves looking more like avatars of pain and death, more like creatures than civilized people. She had to keep her eyes cast down while she desperately tried not to see what was transpiring, while she was led through the streets to the harbour, through ash and smoke. A few buildings were already burning, ostensibly to smoke any survivors out, while Yalene tried not to look, but unfortunately, the sounds spoke for themselves. As she walked through the harbour, she could clearly listen to the sounds of every atrocity that one being can do to another done, until her heavy heart, her dread and her disgust made her feel numb. She passed bodies, far too many to stop and identify them, although it made her wonder what had happened to the friendly Sigmarite. But one, one body that she had to pass stood out to her – it was the lifeless, blood-stained body of a young man, scarcely any beard on his face and eyes closed. The sight of the groom-to-be from earlier, whom she had kissed not an hour ago felt like a knife in the heart at first and left a strange emptiness behind. She had no time to mourn the poor boy, as she had to press on.

Fortune smiled upon her. The Dark Elves, as she had hoped, paid her no mind aside from the odd curious glance. Too consumed were they with 'securing the plunder', the captured people being dragged onto the ships towards a fate possibly worse than death. If one was focused on prey, why would one take notice of an idle 'ally', like her? A few even stepped aside to allow her to pass; apparently, her countenance was convincing enough. When she finally reached the gate, the area around was littered with bodies, but otherwise largely abandoned. It was surprisingly easy to just pass through, the few Dark Elves around ignoring her or barely taking notice. When she walked into the forest, she just ran, ran as fast as she could and didn't look back.

The snowy forest was serene, most certainly too quiet even given the cold season. She was exhausted after having run for so long and then pressing on and on for fear of pursuers. When looking back, she was single-mindedly focused on her escape and the delivery of her spirit walnut into safety, for some reason that she would never understand. It didn't occur to her to circle back to Sturmhöhe, which would have been logical. Instead, she could only think of the one mission she had been attempting, the one mission that had caused all of her troubles, the one and only thing that was left for her to do. Besides, she feared that Dark Elves might have followed her and picked her hometown for their next target.

The first hours - Yalene didn't know how much time passed - she was just obsessed with that thought of fulfilling her mission. But as she noticed how she calmed down, rational thought returned to her, and she noticed that she had just been so focused on getting away from the grisly scene that she hadn't noticed how far away she had gotten. In the darkness, the twigs of the trees seemed to lengthen, sometimes reaching out for her like long, spidery fingers. The snow slowed her steps even more, much to her chagrin. Would she even be able to circle back to Sturmhöhe if she wanted to?

Quite frankly, she was lost.

Yalene was shivering, pulling her cloak closer around her frame. They had pressed forward in a brutal pace in order to get away from Dark Elves, into the forest that she was certain was the Laurelorn Forest. They hadn't seen a soul, were both hungry and dead tired. She had heard the sounds of a small stream not frozen for a few minutes now; it should be close so they could finally take a break.

It was difficult to even contemplate the sheer insanity of the last days, especially considering that only now, her awareness of time had returned. Why the local elves hadn't attacked her just yet, she didn't know, as she had lost her veil during her escape and didn't have any other way to obscure her features or even race.

But there were things she had to do before she could move forward to the next human village, although her situation was undoubtedly dire. She had left most of her supplies in Hochfels, her only possessions being money, the spirit walnut safely tucked away, a few scrolls and her father's heavy, heavy grimoire in addition to the clothes on her back. She also noticed only now how hungry she was, but could do nothing but pluck a few Silian-berries from the snow-covered trees. Those berries did nothing to alleviate hunger, did nothing to nourish the body whatsoever and were likely to cause a stomach-ache when eaten, but they did keep the teeth clean and healthy and were growing all year. However, munching on something, anything, still invoked the illusion of something to eat, which helped. Hunger hurt and was constantly on her mind, clouding her thoughts.

Yalene felt the spirit walnut in her pocket. This journey had started with a lost spirit trying to find its way home, and she had stupidly given a promise, one she still intended to keep. With night closing, it was hard for her to navigate the dark, and she was not only weak, starving and exhausted, she just couldn't do a step more without rest. That was dangerous, though – in that kind of cold, she could certainly freeze if she didn't produce some source of heat. While weighing her options, she also determined that she would leave the spirit here in hopes that this was the right place and call it a promise kept.

Carefully lowering the spirit seed to the ground, she watched it sink into the snow, a somewhat anticlimactic end to a long and perilous journey. Afterwards, for the first time since she inhabited this body, she drew the strands of magic in her hand in the hopes of weaving a glowing light of magic with a few whispered words and practised gestures. To her surprise, the strands of magic were almost eager to heed her call, forming a soft, glowing ball of light hovering slightly over her head, so that she could at least illuminate her immediate surroundings.

She had always wondered if the ability to see and draw on magic was a talent of the soul or the blood. Before her change, she had always been leaning toward both to be true, but now … now she wasn't so certain. There was so much about this world that she did not understand and would never understand if she didn't gather a bit of firewood. The elves of this forest hadn't shown themselves until now, and if they found her now because of a little light, it would be a clear case of unavoidable destiny. If faced with the choice between being shot to death by elves or freezing to death, she had to admit that she wasn't overly picky.

She was now searching around, gathering a few frost-crusted branches with little hope that those would burn at all. It was then when she felt a warm breeze which warmed her up immediately although she had been chilled to the bone. When she turned around, she witnessed the most singular occurrence. There was an oak tree rapidly growing out of the snow, melting anything around it instantly. It was like a breath of life chasing winter away, warm, kind and a little wild. Grass, bushes and flowers started blooming in a heartbeat, while Yalene backed off, eyes transfixed on this strange transformation that the spirit walnut that she had dropped there was making.

After a few minutes, the little clearing had turned itself into a small island of vigorous spring in the midst of the silence of winter, the leaves of the now mighty oak tree rustling. To Yalene's witchsight, the clearing was bursting with life, the green wind blowing strong. For all the blood, death and misery she had experienced in the last days, she was now witnessing a miracle of this world, staring at the tree in wonder.

So that was what the spirit at the graveyard had been? She didn't think that it was a dryad, but she had had the distinct suspicion that this spirit seed had housed the soul of an elf. Could it be that this was true? If so, then a soul was life itself. Or perhaps it was just this particular soul?

Whatever it was, it meant her no harm, while its presence had possibly guaranteed her survival in this dangerous forest. Yalene also determined that she was way too tired to give it any further thought or take one more step. The tree glowed with warmth and life like hearthfire, something that was meant to ease a weary mind and a worn body; it made her believe with all fibre of her being that she was safe at this place, that she was granted a rare moment of reprieve. So she laid herself down propped against the oak; it was as warm as a human body, and thus feeling protected against the cold, she allowed herself to slip into a restful slumber.