"What's it like?" asked the freckled boy. "Being dead, I mean."
A blunt question, but I didn't take it to heart. Probably because I didn't have one.
"Don't know," I said uneasily. "Numb…? Cold?"
"Really?"
Even that answer felt shaky. But what else could I say? A half hour of confusion was all I had to reference, and before that, nothing. Well, that, and what I could see.
Curiosity urged me to glance under my gloves. Again, I studied what remained of my hands. No skin. No nails. No flesh.
Just like the rest of me.
We hiked alongside a sunlit creek, and within the reflection slouched a stark-white skeleton, notable only because I walked instead of gathering dust. What did stand out about me, however, were the traveler's robes I had no memory of, mantled by an equally dark cloak with a spacious hood. Those and my "eyes": sparks of dim purple that stowed away in the hollows of my skull.
With them I took in the enchanting forest, dotted with cinnamon trees crowned in orange leaves. Blown loose by the breeze, these leaves swayed softly around us. More reflections than ours' lied in the waters: rainbow-scaled fish, crimson turtles, and a two-headed frog staring fiendishly at a swarm of buzzing flies.
This place is so vibrant, so… alive. Then there's me. The hideous monster at the center of it all. The polar opposite.
"Sir? Are you okay?" the boy swept my thoughts aside.
"Y-yeah," I absent-mindedly swatted a leaf off my shoulder. "Just trying to come to terms with… everything. Couldn't even wake up with memories of who I am - or was, I guess. Abyss, I can barely keep my thoughts straight."
I almost crashed into the kid after his sudden stop. He turned, and for the first time since he found me wandering the woods in a stupor, I looked him in the eyes. Though "kid" wasn't entirely accurate. Sure, boyish freckles dotted his round features like constellations on a beige sky, but I barely stood over him, and his wiry muscle had my bare bones beat.
His rustic bow, orange tunic, and brown trousers camouflaged perfectly in the autumn forest. The hunter's expression - a mix of fear and pity - wasn't half as subtle.
"…Sir," he tensed, peering hesitantly at my skinless face, "I'm sorry. I reckon it must be awful, being so… different. B-but maybe we can fix you! Let's keep on. Sienna Village is a stone's throw away by now."
No reply came to mind. The first thing I imagined someone would do when confronted with a walking corpse is run away, scream at the top of their lungs, or ensure the death actually stuck this time. Not that.
An awkward pause followed, after which the teenager turned back the way we headed. He feared me - that much was obvious.
Yet he's still here beside me? Still willing to help me?
Confusion, horror, anxiety, and a million other emotions plagued me then.
But I found room for one more.
"Say," I caught up to his side, "what's your name, anyway?"
"Oliver. What's yours'? Do you at least remember that?"
"I wish. That's no less a mystery than everything else. Lucky me, huh?" I tried to disperse the tense air.
"As all get-out," he smiled - after catching on to my meaning.
"So… when you said 'we can fix you', who else were you talking about?"
"Grandpa. I told you about him, remember?"
I rubbed at the back of my hood. "Oh, uh, definitely!" I lied. "But they say summing up your plan makes it twice as likely to work."
He scratched at his cheek. "That does make sense… Well, all I said was that it would be best if we visit my village. Grandpa's at home and I know he can help you. He's super wise. Well, when he feels like it."
"H-hold on, you want me to walk into a village?" I stopped and motioned to my face. "Like this? I'll be lucky if they don't faint at the sight of me. Or form a mob and grind me into bonemeal."
Oliver shook his head. "No, no, they're good folk, really! If we explain your… situation, they'll understand."
Honestly, I wanted to believe him. But self-preservation, oddly enough, didn't fade after death. My mind sought alternatives. A few came to me, but all were variations of "pick a direction and pray the next person you meet is just as kind and twice as helpful". The Abyss was lower than those odds. And in the end, a wise man's help did sound tempting.
Around us, the trees thinned. Presumably we neared this village. Since I was desperate - extremely desperate - I conceded. "Fine. But I gotta ask two things of you."
"What are they, sir?"
"First… actually, Oliver, there's no need to call me sir. Too formal. Besides, I could've been your age when I… died."
"Then what should I call you?"
"Er… We'll figure that out later. More importantly, I'll first need to cover my body. Fully." I lowered my hood. "I'd rather he get the explanation before he gets me. Second: crowds can be… unpredictable. It'd be best if you bring pops out here, away from the rest of your village."
Not to mention that - if things go south - I'd rather run from one frail old man than a whole mob.
Oliver considered my words. While he'd been surprisingly trustful, I couldn't put it past him to suspect I was luring them to a quiet part of the woods for more than a friendly meet-and-greet. I couldn't blame him.
Seconds passed. When he finally opened his mouth, a deep, breezy voice emerged from beyond the trees.
"Oliver! Oliver!" Each syllable coasted closer and closer.
I fumbled for my hood and threw its depths over my eyes, wearing the darkness as a mask. The voice arrived just seconds after. "Oliver, I've incredible news!" the man caught his breath, "Amara's letter finally arrived!"
My teeth wouldn't quit chattering. Some cloth was all that kept my identity hidden. Though somehow, the cloaked figure wasn't the most pressing matter.
"It did!?" Oliver's silhouette jumped at the other side of the paper-thin fabric. "What did she write?"
"You think I'd read it without you perched over my shoulder?" the man laughed merrily. "I had to come hunt the hunter!"
As they spoke, I composed myself enough to examine the man. While details were lost to the darkness, I did notice hair like wild weeds. He leaned a fair deal shorter and broader than Oliver, and his voice was coated in the dust of decades - assuming my lack of ears hadn't made me deaf along with ugly.
"…Wait a minute," Oliver crossed his arms. "Gosh, grandpa, you thought Amara's letter would distract me? You should've stayed home. Ain't no excuse for you being out and about."
The man chuckled. "Caught red-handed. Sorry Ollie, but I can't be like that old codger Alfred, snoozing on his porch sun up till sundown. Nature's allure won't simply take a raincheck."
"I reckon nature'll dig you an early grave," scolded Oliver, "if you don't take things one step at a time! And I told you I don't like 'Ollie'. If the village hears you they'll call me that too."
Ouch. If I didn't know any better, I'd think Oliver was the parent. Poor sap.
"Well… it's just that," the man's voice trembled, "with Amara gone, all I've got is you and the great outdoors. An' with you both always outside my window, your lonely ol' grandpa can hardly take it. Now you mean to say you're too old to be my little Ollie too?"
"G-Grandpa…" Oliver's shoulders drooped. "If you have to call me that, can you say it when no one's listeni-"
"Oh Ollie, you're such a kindly boy!" The man perked up with questionable speed, scooping Oliver into a hug. "Our bond - unbreakable once again!"
"Aren't you… being… dramatic?" Oliver chirped through strained breaths.
As for his pops, the man's attention finally shifted to me.
On paper, this situation was perfect. Oliver's pops was here, far from any villagers. All I had to do was breach the subject. But I realized something. Saying, "hey, I'm a living corpse with no memories, any advice?" would be the worst possible approach. Not that anything better came to mind. At least in the time I had to brainstorm.
"Ah, sorry Oliver," the old man let him go, then faced me. "Seems I've already gone and let it slip. And to a new friend of yours, by the make of it. Rarely do we get visitors in this neck of the woods. Folks call me Ansel."
Ansel extended a hand. "Well, don't be shy. What do they call you, brother? Or is it sister?"
Shade.
Before sharing my identity, he needed to find me trustworthy - to know my personality and appearance weren't one and the same. But I had a moment to answer before my pause became suspicious, and hiding my entire body did a good enough job of that already.
Think! Names usually fit their owners, right? What fits me?
"Oh, my name?" I nervously shook his hand, "It's, er… Skell."
Assuming I had the same "brain" - for lack of a better word - as when I lived, I must've been a real moron. Oliver buried his face in his hands behind Ansel.
"And yeah," I continued. "I'm a, uh, brother." At least, I felt like one. And sounded like one. My trousers were too empty to point one way or the other.
"Skell, you say? That's a unique one. You're a traveler, I take it?
"Yup, that's right."
"Where from, if you don't mind my asking?"
Er…
"Grandpa?" Oliver chimed in, "you might be bothering him with so many questions."
"Ah, mayhaps you're right," Ansel swatted a hand.
Silently I thanked him for the rescue. Even so, we couldn't keep beating around the bush.
He continued. "You know how I am. Never know what might happen 'round these par-" he doubled over suddenly, groaning in pain.
"What the- what's happening?" I stiffened.
Oliver dropped to a knee, rushing to support Ansel. "It's his injuries! He was - is hurt, real bad. Could… could you help us? I need to get him back to the village, but…"
He glanced toward the trees, faltering under Ansel's weight while the man choked, as if invisible hands tightened around his throat.
"I…" Danger flashed in my mind. If I was uncovered inside Sienna Village, everything could end. Then and there.
But again, whoever I used to be, whoever handed me down that foggy, confused mind…
They couldn't help but refuse common sense.
"…All right," I crouched, throwing the man's arm over my shoulder. "Let's get him home."
—————————————————————————————————
Distant shadows entered my view. With each step the shapes sharpened under the shrouded sunlight: children playing tag, adults tilling the land, old people rocking atop porches. Everyone was at peace.
Except us.
"T-this way, Skell!" motioned Oliver, voice dripping with worry.
Ansel's condition worsened, groaning and convulsing and groaning again. We hurried our pace.
Shadowy heads turned as we crossed Sienna's perimeter. Waves and far-off greetings came first. Then they actually saw us. Grave gasps and concerned whispers swept throughout the village like a sickness. Ansel's state - slung over our shoulders - couldn't have been pretty.
"Grandpa's fine, folks," Oliver assured, "stressed his wound is all! We'll fix him up right-quick!" His scratchy voice came out unsure of itself. But if others came to help, next would come questions about me. More complications we didn't need.
The villagers didn't move. "Sun above, Ansel, are you all right!?" an older-sounding woman ran at the mouth. "And who's the strange fella?"
Speak, or stay quiet? I couldn't decide which would be worse. With Oliver's words proving unconvincing, I knew something had to be done. But what?
"Hana, you ol' worrywart," Ansel poked affectionately, lifting his head and surprising more than just the villagers, "This here's a friend. An' my boy's right; I'll be fit as a fiddle soon. Just need some quality shut-eye."
Silhouettes turned to others in response. Silent looks and nods held us up, but the people made an eventual, reluctant return to their activities.
With suspicions somewhat cleared, Oliver pointed me to the modest house ahead. A cramped doorway called to us, and after squeezing through, I figured relief would follow. I mean, Ansel was clearly better. Shutting the door behind us, though, also shut out the "relief". Right as it closed, the old man's facade vanished, and he returned to gasps even more jagged than before.
Although inside the living room, our transport didn't end. Oliver directed us to a side room. Against the wall rested a large bed. Soon as we lowered him onto the sheets, Oliver bolted to another room, returning quickly with two dark, rounded orbs in his careful fingers.
"Berries?" I figured. "How's that gonna help?"
"Not any berries. Stalberries." Oliver brushed past me to reach Ansel. The hunter leaned bedside, placing the berries in his pops' mouth. Though drained, the man still retained enough strength to eat what was offered.
"Thank you… kindly, Oliver," grunted Ansel. "Of all my grandsons… I most favor you."
Oliver's face flattened. "…I'm your only grandson."
Ansel laughed through the pain. "Ah… keen observation…"
"These berries," I said, "I'm guessing they're some kinda medicine. They're definitely fast-acting; he's already loopy."
Oliver shook his head. "Stalberries don't touch your head. In exchange for easing pain, they only put you to sleep. No, he just picks the worst time to make jokes." He pouted. "The absolute worst."
He might've claimed that, but his relaxing shoulders said otherwise. Ansel definitely noticed, winding down with light chuckles.
I probably would've found it amusing. If it wasn't for Ansel's slow recline into his pillow. He'd be asleep soon.
And I still hadn't told him I was dead.
"You… wound me, Oliver. Although I shan't forget your help," Ansel's head drifted to me. "Many thanks… Skell. Though you're… awfully bony, I daresay. You should… stay for dinner? Naturally I'll be counting sheep. But Oliver knows my recipe for some mean rabbit stew!"
I glanced aside. "I don't have much of an appetite."
Enough stalling. I just gotta jump right into it! "So, uh, I meant to ask-"
"Well, we shouldn't keep you up, grandpa," Oliver spun to the door. "Come on Skell. I'll show you around the house."
Seriously? I was this close to telling him, I thought. More than thought, that's exactly what I whispered after we shut the door.
"I know, I know, but he needs rest," the hunter led me back to the living room. "His injury is bad enough, and at his age, you can't take chances. We'll have to tell him you're a skeleton later."
"But he…" I swallowed a bitter sigh.. "Urgh, you're right. Speaking of injuries, what happened to the guy?"
Pain panged in his eyes. "…One of our people hurt him. Velora," he named with a strained voice.
"Another villager did it? Really? Everyone outside was worried sick about Ansel."
"Yeah. Only Velora sees him different. Folks say she was born for trouble like a hyena's born for eatin', stealing this or breaking that. But they always looked the other way. Grandpa didn't."
I paced around the room, touring the shadows of various furniture. "Sounds like a match made in the Abyss."
"Totally. All these years, she's gotten worse and worse. Until Amara left to become a Templar."
A Templar? I almost asked what that was. But Oliver spoke like he was immersed in the past. I wouldn't yank him out with unrelated questions.
"Velora took it hard. Last year, she just… vanished. Empty bed and all. It wasn't even a week ago when she finally came back. We found out she tried to be a Templar too. You know, follow Amara. But she wasn't chosen like Amara was. Grandpa welcomed her back though. And do you know how she repaid him? By getting caught in the middle of the night, right about where you're standing. Stealing from us."
"She came back just to rob you guys?" I asked.
"So she could run away for good," corrected Oliver. "She told us herself."
A noise caught my attention: snoring like that of a drunken bear. Ansel was asleep. The front door was locked. Sensing a rare moment of safety, I lifted my hood.
Warmth pulled my gaze first: the hearth's flickering fire. Hanging aside the soothing flame was an array of time-worn pelts. Not one was an animal's. Instead hung the strange and the ugly and the once-dangerous. Monsters. They'd have probably been pretty terrifying… if they weren't strung-up like laundry.
Around that was the sort of rustic home you'd expect amid a forest. A product of wood and daub and more wood, down to the long tables, cabinets of herbs and berries, and sturdy chairs - one of which Oliver seated himself with a tired sigh.
He wasn't quite as serene as the scene around him, jumping slightly at my skeletal face before settling back into his chair. The reaction hurt. But I wouldn't linger on it. "You have a nice home, Oliver. But I wouldn't call this place a thief's paradise."
"Well… grandpa has lots of rounds. Everyone knows that."
Ansel's well off? Living in this secluded forest? Where would he even get rounds from, here?
"But like I was saying," continued the hunter, "we caught Velora on her way out, with grandpa's belongings… and his old hand-axes. Grandpa tried to convince her to drop our things, but she only told us to step aside, that nothing would stop her from leaving with what she had. Nobody moved… so Velora swung at grandpa."
"Did he have a weapon? Anything to defend himself?" Pointless questions, really. I knew what state Ansel was in. Clearly he didn't put up enough of a fight to avoid being mutilated by the axe… as much as I hated picturing the bloody scene.
"No…" his gaze dropped, "I was so worried…"
"I'm sorry, Oliver. It must've been hard to wa-"
"-for Velora."
My pacing stopped. "What?"
"I know," he shrugged softly. "She stole from us. But I don't like seeing folks get hurt. Not even her."
"No, no, that's not what confuses me. Tell me, Ansel's how old?"
He put a finger to his chin, inspecting the ceiling. "Um… seventy-two. I think."
"And he was unarmed?"
Oliver nodded.
"And you were worried about Velora getting hurt?"
The hunter looked at me like I was brainless, which… was fair, I guess. After another moment, his eyes widened in realization. "S-sorry! It's hard to remember that some people don't know grandpa. He's really tough. Like… walnut tough!"
That doesn't do much for my confidence, Oliver.
Oliver's expression took on a sudden air of pride. "Brigands, wolves, tree imps, giants, grandpa's protected the village from them all for years! Besides Amara, I've never known anyone who could even make him sweat! Velora's a great swordswoman and all, but no weapon can make up their difference!"
Someone of Ansel's years being so strong was difficult to believe, but I doubted Oliver was mistaken. His pops didn't seem like the type to place himself on a pedestal of lies, either.
Though if he's as tough as Oliver says… "How'd he end up with that injury, then? You make it sound like Velora couldn't even scrape him."
Oliver's pride and body deflated in tandem. "W-well… after he knocked the axe from her hands and swept her legs, grandpa… he didn't follow up."
His breathing quickened; he fought to blink back tears. "Grandpa gave Velora his hand. He forgave her. Like always. Except Velora, she hid a knife in her boot. She reached for his hand, pulled him in, and… and…"
"Oliver," I held out a gloved hand. "You don't have to finish. "
Strained time came and went as he muffled the memories. Eventually he nodded. "At least… Velora got away safe, and empty-handed. And… grandpa's recovering."
Silence came after, weighing down the room. Oliver stared at the wall with empty eyes, clearly somewhere else.
I'm an idiot. Why'd I even ask him about this? I should've known it'd hurt him…
Ignoring the urge to kick myself, I found my attention hovering towards the one thing our conversation distracted me from: my thoughts.
With things calmed down, a tornado of questions swirled around my mind, the most immediate of them I craved answers for - or at least, sympathetic ears to hear them: What did Oliver think Ansel could do to help me? Why would anyone drag me back from the dead? And why was my mind relatively intact, but not my memories?
All these questions… I realized. They're only about me.
The desire to voice my worries, discuss my concerns, it was burning. More a need than a want. But I took one look at Oliver and saw sadness and exhaustion and confusion. I could relate.
Oliver's hanging shoulders weren't in any state to carry more weight. Not so soon after his grandfather straddled the line between life and, and…
I shook my skull. My issues, I could barely grasp them - let alone solve them. I had nothing. Knew nothing. Oliver, though? He still had the lips to form a smile.
"Looks like we'll be here awhile," I found a nearby chair and crossed my bony legs. "I can't exactly leave, looking this handsome, and Ansel might be out 'til morning. In the meantime, how about you fill me in on this little village? Some of your hunts, maybe? Don't say that bow isn't just for show."
"Y-you want to hear about Sienna Village…?" his head raised. Just a bit.
"Sure. I can't see it, so hearing about it'd be the next best thi-"
"Oh, I don't even know where to start!" Oliver's face lit up. "It's been forever since I spoke to someone from outside our village - there's so much to tell! You might reckon nothing happens here, but I swear, you ain't gonna believe the stories. Especially with Ines - she's always in the middle of someone else's business. Ooh, that reminds me of the time when…" he went on and on.
And on.
You'd think him a skeleton too with how he never stopped for a breath. I won't pretend that every tale he spun was fascination incarnate, but seeing his gap-toothed smile and exaggerated motions as he weaved his favorite memories by the fire was… nice.
More than nice, actually. In hindsight, those fleeting hours turned out to be a favorite memory of mine, too.
My very first.
—————————————————————————————————
Golden rays slipped through the window's wooden shutters. Our conversation veered toward the aimless and light-hearted, and I was this close to a moment of true peace. Where troubles were forgotten and all that remained was laughter and the feeling of normal, everyday conversation. The kind shared between people.
Oliver's yawn came first. Time snuck up on us to fade midday's yellow into dusk's pale, pensive orange. Nightfall approached.
The hunter stretched, and left for his room. After carrying his grandfather halfway across Sienna, the break was deserved. I leaned back in my chair. I thought I could use the same.
Paired with my realization was the thud of my fist on the chair's arm. My eternal slumber had came and went. Rest - for what I'd become - was just a memory. One I couldn't even recall.Meaning I was alone. Staring at a dying flame as dark thoughts consumed me.
I can't sleep. I can't eat. And every second's so cold.
I clenched my glove, flinching at the dull pain of bone digging into bone. Why am I this… lifeless monster? Is it because of some strange magic? And when Ansel wakes, can he even help? Can anyone? What would help even mean anyway - coming back to life? Is that even possible?
These thoughts continued long after the hearth's embers took their final gasp. Was it mercy, then, when a scream jolted me back to reality?
I leapt from my chair. Hiding behind the shutters, I peeked through the window behind me.
Nature and civilization joined hands on the other side. For every humble home was several slender trees, carrying Sienna's signature orange leaves. Respect for the land was clear; no blade of grass was cut unless necessary - even when shrubs blocked windows and trees skirted houses. Cleaving the village in half was a cyan river, wide enough that kids made a game of leaping across.
Those four, though? They headed straight for the bridge.
Trampling carelessly over flowers and spitting into passing bushes, two men and two women walked with dark smiles and ominous purpose.
Standing over the others was the stockiest, an axe and shield in each hand.
Beside him was a shorter woman, her ponytail as long as her loaded crossbow.
Lurking behind the rest was a lanky man, whose scarf wrapped around his shoulders and twin daggers glinted under his sleeves.
And the last… was different.
Leading the group, this woman eyed her twilit surroundings with equal parts bitterness and familiarity. Above blue eyes rippled a red headscarf that covered her hair, and below, a scar. Looking at the unnatural wound triggered chills: it was like a blade-sharp finger tore her from ear to lip. Beneath that were a pair of brawny arms - carrying an equally menacing pair of longswords, and baggy plainclothes. Unlike the others, she didn't care to wear armor.
She grimaced as a woman - the source of the earlier scream - hurried her child into a house to the right of Ansel's. The scarfed one laughed as their group crossed the bridge, before the woman with the bandana demanded he focus on the objective: the big house ahead, near the edge of the village.
"You call that a big house?" Scarf responded, amused. "Velora, Velora; 'small town girl' doesn't even begin to describe you."
Velora!? My bones turned icy. She's here? And with a pack of thugs? More questions followed, but the most important took precedence: Wh-what should I do?
The question hung as dots connected. Ansel's money, I figured, brought them there. But with their equipment and numbers, would they stop at that?
Then a grim realization dawned on me. Nobody can stop them. Ansel can't, not in his state. The villagers won't either; Oliver's stories didn't paint them as warriors - far from it. And Oliver himself…
I shook my head. And for some reason, glanced at the door.
Skell, think! This isn't like helping Ansel. That group will slaughter you if you get in their way, and that's without knowing what you are. Run now and they won't even know you were here!
Opposite the door lied another window. I bolted to it and thrust it open. Peaceful woods waited on the other side. Chirping birds and swaying leaves. The perfect escape…
So go! Quit standing around - this has nothing to do with you!
My glove froze on the window sill. They'll just… rob Ansel. Possibly everyone… And, if Oliver gets in their way… Or any of the villagers…
I couldn't help but look back. No. No! Are you insane!? You've never been in a fight, and you're just someone's skeleton - barely able to support an old man. You can't make a difference! You just… can't. But even so…
Tallied up and laid out, the smart choice was obvious. I flipped my hood. Made my decision.
Then, my exit.
—————————————————————————————————
The door slammed shut: the mark of my first step outside. "That's as far as you go!" I deepened my voice, low enough that fear couldn't reach it.
Across the grass and past several trees loomed four twilit silhouettes. At my appearance, they stopped. But not out of compliance.
"Velora, who's this?" Ponytail asked, concerned. "You said no one but farm folk live here. Not men in bizarre black cloaks."
"The way she's starin'," Scarf chuckled, "I'm thinkin' she knows him pretty well."
Velora dug a sword in the dirt, ending the interrogation. "Never met this man in my life. Voice ain't familiar, and no one in Sienna wears rags like that." She stood tall. "Look, stranger, we've business here. I don't care who ye are or why yer here, but stand in our way and things'll get ugly faster than you can blink."
S-stay calm, stay calm…
"Ansel expected your return, Velora," I spoke behind a veil of lies and false confidence. "I'd say his many rounds were well spent. Defending a village from small-time thugs while he recovers? For a mage with of experience, I couldn't think of an easier job."
Even as a silhouette, I noticed a hint of physical hesitation from her.
"So," I finished. "I'd suggest you turn tail."
Stocky spoke up. "Er, Velora, if he's really a powerful mage, maybe we should listen. This haul isn't worth dealing with thunderbolts, or groundquakes, or-"
"Pipe down! This could be any lummox in a cloak!" She retrieved her grounded blade to point it at me. "If yer really some master mage, cast something!"
Cast an art…?
Considering my missing memories, I was lucky to be able to string along a sentence. Common knowledge, it seemed, I had in spades - including magic. But I merely understood it. I didn't know - meaning I couldn't cast - a single art. Not even the basic ones children play with.
Proving a skill I didn't have would be impossible. I pivoted, turning my voice cold. "You really wanna test me? After I cast my arts you'll be nothing but limbs in the grass. I won't say it again: turn back!"
For a hurried plan crafted in the time it takes to cross a living room, the bluff worked unexpectedly well. Their body language shifted; they were decidedly unsettled.
Choose my next words carefully, and I might have them running for the hill- oh, oh no…
"Skell, I'm here!" Oliver came to a stop at my side.
"Oliver?" asked Velora.
The hunter stabbed a finger in her direction. "Skell… that's her! Velora! You need to run. She and those thugs can't be up to any good."
"A-and why should I run?" I struggled to regain my foothold. "With my magic these four are all bad jokes.."
"But you don't have any… you know," he clearly alluded to my memories. "That means you wouldn't know no arts, right? And why're you talking like that?"
I whispered through gritted teeth. "Oliver, not now!"
Scarf snickered like the dry crackling of firewood. "Looks like the kid just ratted you out! You almost got us good, I'll give you that. But without magic, you're nothin' but a waste of time." He scraped his daggers together, releasing an unpleasant sound. "Time's up, both of you. Move or bleed."
"Ye agreed not to target anyone but the old man," Velora hissed.
"None of you are hurting anyone!" Oliver shouted, putting everyone on the backfoot. "This time I won't just stand aside and let you hurt people. Especially grandpa!"
"Oliver, what are you saying?" I dropped the facade. "These guys aren't small game - they'll kill you!"
"I can't let what happened to grandpa happen again. Even if I'm hurt instead." Oliver was probably just as scared, but he swapped fear for his bow. "I may not be as tough as grandpa or Amara," he nocked an arrow, "but they taught me how to fell more than just deer!"
Velora stepped back. "Find cover, now! Kid's more than he looks."
"Relax." Scarf tossed up a careless hand. "It's just some boy. Doubt he can shoot further than his foot with that twig."
I wasn't much more confident. But what I saw next put us both in our place.
Oliver's arrow began to glow - faintly at first - then into a green so verdant it was visible though my hood. My clothes fluttered slightly, same with nearby grass, as if air was being pulled in his direction. Then he casted.
"Windseeker!" incanted Oliver, firing the wind-shrouded arrow directly at Velora. The shot ripped through the air before anyone could react and seconds before it tore into her chest, turned and arced behind a nearby house.
"Wh-what manner of art is this!? Scarf demanded. His entire group spun around hastily, struggling to keep eyes on the arrow that defied all logic. For short moments, one would find it mid-flight before it disappeared behind another house or canopy. A clear sighting came soon enough.
From Scarf came a loud plunk, enhanced by the sound of an incoming gale. He stiffened, then folded face-first into the grass. In the middle of his back sprouted the arrow, its green winds petering out at the same time as his consciousness.
"S-sun above!?" Stocky jerked back.
Ponytail - though just as shocked - was quicker on the uptake. Her crossbow raised to aim in our direction.
"You're shooting him?" Velora interrogated while shaking off her own alarm. "He's just a kid!"
She aligned her eye with the weapon's bolt. "It's him or me!"
Oliver froze, just like me. If he fired a normal arrow, Stocky would block it with his bulky shield. His Windseeker art could work, but it seemed to take time to prepare - time we didn't have. And with no cover to hide behind, he was a sitting duck.
Unless, I became his cover.
Planting my feet in the ground before Oliver, Ponytail loosed her bolt. There wasn't time for regret.
No. Regret came after, when I looked down to the small tear in the heart of my cloak, flapping closed in the breeze. And heard unsteady footsteps behind me.
A sputter of shadowed blood met me as I turned, gushing from the only person I could call a friend.