Decathect x Urux

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Ginnade Albrun of Blackstag

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Weight:
158 lbs

Clothing/Armor:

• Bracer on her left arm, engraved with stag antlers.

• Hooded wool cloak lined with wolf fur for cold hunts.

• Primary: Long yew bow, 74 inches, named Nithral.

• Secondary: Dual skinning knives.

• Pouches with dried meat, waxed thread, and flint.

• Small bone-carved whistles for signaling.

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  ⊥

  RESOLUTE, SARDONIC, PERCEPTIVE, DISCIPLINED

  Strengths:

• Superior tracking in mixed terrains.
• Deadly accuracy with a bow at extreme range.
• Vast understanding of animal behavior and seasonal migrations.

  Weaknesses:

• Overly frank, poor at courtly manners.
• Often mistrusts compassion.
• Stumbles with diplomacy when insulted.

Allies:

• Sir Dalen Routh, the King’s Huntsman and mentor figure.
• Galahad, her hunting horse and closest companion.

Name: Faelin Kelly

Age: 28

Gender: Male

Species: Werewolf

Personality:

Faelin's past isn't of much interest, however it did sculpt the man he is today. He knew his parents well, but they belonged to a different group to his current pack. As Faelin grew older and began to mature, he began to see the darker components of his group's tangled relationships, between themselves and outsiders. It took years for him to finally decide that he was leaving, a decision that his parents did not take kindly to. Spouting the usual, we raised you, we dedicated ourselves to you, and so on. Yet, when he tried to explain his reasoning, he could not get a word in edge wise. He gave up on maintaining their relationship rather quicker and set out on his own.

When he left his parents, he was 17. For years he lived as a loner, it was preferable to his previous life. It was when he freshly turned 24 that he was discovered by his current pack. They were anxious towards each other initially, but eventually he was accepted into the fold.

From then on, he has kept himself busy as a standard pack member. Contributing to his pack by venturing on long patrols and hunting trips to supply his family with the information and food that they need. Thankful that his found family accept him in his natural state.

That was until they were ambushed, the dead of night as hunters raided their home, sending the members of the pack scattering across the land. Faelin found a few of them. A piece of their arm under a root, their leg by the stream. His friend's bodies were scattered across their old territory, ripped apart by the hoards of hunting hounds.

Faelin did not leave, he refused. He remains on their old territory, now alone, haunting the once happy grounds.

He had found those hunters. Now their bones littered the forest they had raided, laying alongside his fallen family.

In general, Faelin is a quiet individual, soft spoken and careful about his choice of words. Unwilling to harm others feelings if he does not intend to do so. He enjoys quiet and peaceful settings, hence he adores his long patrols and hunting trips. Especially if he is out alone, it is a simple pleasure that he holds very close to his heart.

Appearance:

Faelin's appearance is in stark contrast to his name, standing at 6'6" he is extremely lean. Accompanying the the height are sets of long limbs that end with large palmed hands and proportionate feet. His skin is a softened beige with cool undertones, enhanced by the perpetual eye bags that darken his face no matter how much sleep he manages to get.

His facial features are severe and angular, with a sharp jaw bone to top it off. Due to his lack of muscule mass, the sharper points of the bones beneath his skin appear more dramatic. Faelin's eyes are deep set that appear to always be narrowed, either from tiredness or skepticism. The colour of his irses are a muted steel blue, deepening in colour towards the outer ring.

Faelin's hair was blessed to be a deep cinnamon brown, gently curled. It is cut to where a few ribbons of curls hang down beside his temples and cheeks. It's overall length sits at approximately just below his jaw line.

His body composition is still athletic, but his stretched height means that his muscles appear more scrawny as they're pulled taut over the planes of his body. There are little prominent markins on his body, relative to others, but he does possess a large tattoo and a singular unfading scar.

Faelin's tattoo takes up the majority of his back, starting at the back of his neck and ending at his tail bone. It is black work, depicting the bones that lie beneath his skin. Except, the inked bones are sharper with protrusions from some areas of the bones. With stark shading and texture running along each bone, it is a very unrealistic depiction of the natural bones. It is rarely seen as Faelin does not pride himself on stomping around shirtless. The only hint towards his tattoos existence is the spinal bones that peek out from his clothing along the back of his neck before they dwindle to a sharp point that rises up into his hairline.

Faelin's scar is less impressive, an ~2 inch slice across the slender bones on the top of his right hand. It had originally cut down to bone and tendons. Certainly not acquired through something he would boast about. He was preparing meat that was brought back to the pack and he was distracted by a particularly interesting looking bird that landed in front of him and he sliced through his own hand that was holding the meat in place. Some members still prod jokes about it, even though it happened 3 years ago.

Wolf Appearance:

True to his human form, Faelin is a lanky wolf. His legs are very long and built for agility rather than overwhelming strength. His entire body is streamlined with shorter, thick fur to help keep out the elements. Faelin's head is sharp and narrowed, good for nosing around in smaller spaces or weaving his way through tight terrain. His hears are held high on his head, perhaps the smallest bit longer than a standard wolf. He stands at ~64 inches at the shoulder.

His fur is a diluted version of his human hair, a very fair cinnamon cream-brown. With ticking of a slightly darker shade across his whole body. There is saddle of lavender grey that covers the back of his neck and up to his ears where the tips fade darker. The only other darker grey portion on his body is a small U shape that hooks around either side of his spine above his shoulders. Paler, almost white fur holds a tuft on his chest, under his eyes, front toes and tail tip. For the majority of his body, Faelin is a very solid colour, only the smallest of mottling variation in the cinnamon lays across his entire body. Probably the most striking part of his wolf form are is blue eyes that glow out from his pale fur.

Relationship status: None / Open
Sexuality: Mostly unexplored, had little desire to venture in that area.

The nightfall had not yet settled into its deepest black, yet the woodland already bore the weight of it. Shadows clung to every bough, stitched between the thick boles of the pines like a burial shroud. The crescent moon, pale and half-starved, hung above as though reluctant to light the way. The hunting flock moved with caution, the faint leather creak of saddles and the hush of boots in loam betraying their presence. Ginnade rode at the forefront, her hood drawn low, the plume of Galahad’s warm breath curling in the chill. Behind her, five others pursued --- three bowmen, a trapper, and the king’s steward sent to oversee the quarry’s removal. They murmured among themselves about the "rabid bear" that had mauled a shepherd two nights prior and vanished into these timbers. But Ginnade knew the talk was thin cover for fear.

The last hunting flock had not returned whole.

"Keep your bows drawn," she muttered over her shoulder, voice low and rasped from years in the nippy air. "If it is what they claim, it will not bluff. Bears rarely do."

One of the younger bowmen, Harven, swallowed audibly. "They said it tore straight through ashwood shields. Claws as long as---"

"Quiet." Her tone cut him off like a knife’s edge.

Galahad’s lobes flicked forward, then pinned back. The big black warhorse slowed without her pulling the reins. Ginnade felt the change in his stride --- less a walk, more a measured test of the earth beneath. His nostrils flared once, twice. She leaned forward slightly, murmuring, "What is it, boy?" The equine's only answer was a deep, almost aggravated huff.

The moonlight wavered through the canopy, catching on something pale ahead. Ginnade narrowed her eyes. It wasn’t a trick of light. She tugged Galahad to a halt, lifting her palm for the others to stop.

"What’s wrong?" asked the trapper.

She swung down from the saddle, boots sinking into the damp loam. Her bow was already in hand, arrow nocked --- not from panic, but instinct. "Scratches," she said, stepping forward until she reached the trunk of a towering pine. The bark bore long, ragged furrows, the wood beneath stripped bare in five parallel swipes. They were shoulder-height to her, which meant a bear… or something that stood taller than one. She traced a gloved finger along the grooves, noting the depth.

"That’s no blunt claw," she murmured. "Clean entry. The pressure snapped wood fibers… not crushed them."

One of the older hunters approached, peering closely. "Deep. And… too far apart for a normal bear’s paw."

Harven shifted nervously. "Then what made it?"

Ginnade didn’t answer. Instead, she crouched low, scanning the ground. The moon was bright enough to catch faint impressions in the soil --- a set of tracks in the narrow layer of pine needles. The front impressions were wide, the tips elongated. But the hind prints…

"Odd," she said under her breath. "Front pads heavier than the rears… as though it reared upright."

"That’s… not a bear," Harven said, voice cracking slightly.

"Not one I’ve hunted," Ginnade replied.

A low wind slithered through the branches, bringing with it a scent --- faint, metallic. Blood, though not fresh. She rose slowly, her gaze sliding deeper into the groves where the shadows seemed to pool unnaturally thick.

"Bows up," she ordered. "And keep your ears open. If it comes at us, you’ll hear it before you see it."

One of the men muttered a prayer.

Galahad stamped once behind her, a heavy thud on the earth. His muscles were taut, his dark eyes fixed toward the unseen. Ginnade laid a hand briefly on his neck, feeling the ripple of tension under the hide. “Steady, boy." She moved further down the path, the others reluctantly trailing after. Now and then, she would stop --- examining splintered branches, a scattering of disturbed needles, the occasional droplet dark against the soil. The trail wasn’t fresh enough to suggest the beast was directly ahead… but it was fresher than she liked.

Harven broke the silence again. "What could kill a dozen men and not leave so much as a corpse to bury?"

The trapper answered for her, voice grim. "Something that eats more than flesh."

Ginnade didn’t turn to look at him. She only said, "The woods remember everything that bleeds here. Keep your mind on your aim."

The path dipped, leading into a narrow cavity where the moonlight barely reached. The timbers grew so close here that the air itself seemed compressed. And there --- just to the left of the track --- was another tree, its trunk gashed not once, but in a frantic spiral, claw marks winding upward as though something had climbed with furious swiftness.

She approached it, one hand resting lightly on her bowstring. "See here," she called softly, motioning the others forward. "It’s fast. Faster than we’ve accounted for. A bear climbs, yes --- but not like this."

The steward frowned. "If not a bear, then what?"

Ginnade’s eyes lingered on the scar at the top, where the claws had sunk so deep they’d splintered the heartwood. Her voice came quieter than before, almost to herself.

"That… is the question that’ll get us killed if we answer it too late."

Somewhere far ahead, something cracked --- a branch under great weight. Every head turned toward the sound. The hunters drew back their bowstrings with soft creaks. Galahad snorted sharply, his breath misting white in the cold air.

Ginnade’s eyes narrowed into the darkness. "Whatever it may be, ’tis not a bear."

The wind whistled as Faelin bolted through the forest, refusing to sacrifice any time to risk a glance over his shoulder. The leg hanging awkwardly in his jaws, the meat bleeding bloods of red into the light fur around his lips.

There was no screaming, no banging of hooves against the ground. They were not after him. It did not stop the pounding in his chest, nor the frantic way he rocketed through the woods. Smacking the leg on rogue roots, listening to the splinter of wood that met the force of his stride. This was a total mess, he should have checked to see if it was safe to remove the meat but hunger had blinded his common sense.

He veered suddenly to the side, leaving gashes in the dirt where he skidded through the muck. He could see the ledge, the rocky outcrop within the suffocating tightness of tree trunks. So close to safety, Faelin held little restraint in the way he flung himself at the nearest tree to scramble his way into the canopy. Prepared to send himself careening onto the higher ground, that was when he heard the beat of hooves.

He froze, positioned in the tree with one forelimb extended. Whilst his body did not move, his eyes flickered downwards to survey the scene below him. People, not the ordinary kind. Not the village hunters he had just stolen from. These held their heads too high, their hair too clean and their armour too polished. Towards the back, a man bore the regalia of the nearest kingship. The one who had sent the last hunting party that had torn through his family.

Flashes of their death cries, the way their blood had seeped into the earth and stained it black. Their hides strung up to dry by those men, the skins of his family being treated like a common deer pelt. Their blood still dripping from the skins and pooling beneath them, the hearty cheers of the men when they saw him. The one who got away, the last one they needed to kill before returning home.

The realisation made him break free from his shock, slamming his hind legs down into the wood before leaping onto the higher group above the outcrop. The jump made the wood groan, the people stopped their chatter for a moment. But he was gone, striking across the meadow above like a rabbit fleeing a fox, he whipped around boulders to make it back to the village.

Faelin lived on the outskirts, where the noise of the small village was barely heard and the dirt-flattened paths slowly faded back into nature. A tiny two room cottage with a rotting thatch roof and broken window panes. It was abandoned, having found it this way shortly after the massacre. It had been his home for the last few months, no one in the village had complained about his arrival. Who would want the building that was threatening to cave in at any moment?

Nearby the cobbled fence line that separated the forest from the village, Faelin let his bones crack agonisingly back into place. The harsh sound echoing out across the misty air, but he produced little noise at the pain. He had grown accustomed to it, but even now he barely felt it thanks to the adrenaline pulsing through his veins. Bolstering his way through the door, he rushed to hide away the stolen meal.

The meat had been tough, barely any fat to lend any moisture to the muscle. Food was food and Faelin was not one to complain. Though, after the chaotic run away from the scene, it did little to sate the hunger in his stomach. When morning came, he took up his usual routine, determined to not let the appearance of this hunting party to disturb his normality.

The houses were modest, made from mud, thatch and stone, just large enough to house a family. The shops held canopies outside their stores were wooden crates held their wares, haphazardly written prices on the outside of them, an eagle-eyed attended watching for any would-be thieves. Children made their reluctant way towards the small chapel at the centre of the courtyard that served as a school for the meager number of children in the village.

The village was composed of mostly normal people, heading out to sell their goods. Bread, meat, finery. It was all on offer. What Faelin sought was the small inn that served as a pub, open all hours of the day. It wouldn’t be hard to swipe a meal.

At the bar sat a throng of men, making small talk about that evening’s planned entertainment for the inn. The barmaid was just in the process of setting down bowls of rather ugly looking gruel. That didn’t phase Faelin as he siddled up to the bar and took up a position beside the men, waiting for whatever scraps they were going to leave behind. Pressing his elbows onto the bar in silence, as he always moved quietly despite the size of his body. Something that sometimes served him well, but lately had yielded nothing but an empty stomach.

He didn’t stand out amongst the general population, dressed in a similarly dirty white lace up shirt and brown slacks. What made him just a tad conspicuous was tall stature by comparison, not that he was freakishly elongated, just more than average.

Faelin tightened the small black scarf around his neck, hiding his face up to the tip of nose, tugging the fur lined coat closer around his torso in an attempt to keep his core warm. His eyes danced across the dust ridden glassware, finding something to stare at whilst he waited patiently.

He had not scanned the building when he had entered, he never had needed to do so before, so this morning was no different. Besides, with the concoction of scents that melted together in the heart of the city, Faelin was as blind as any human. The ale, fireplace, dog-scent, hay, humans, it was all too confusing to make sense of so he did not entertain the notion for long. Finding a particularly dirty glass to stare at, it hung above the bar opposite him, old fingerprints had disturbed the ancient grime and left a fresher, thinner film of muck on top.

The woodland appeared to eradicate all sound once Ginnade pressed onward. Galahad’s hooves were muffled against the dark, loamy trail, the only noise the faint jingle of the pouches and knives at her belt. She moved unhurriedly, scanning every shadow, every flit of branch or leaf, reading the grove as if it were a book of mysteries. The scratches on the timbers had been fresh, deep enough to make her frown. But now… now the trail had begun to vanish. She knelt, tracing the damp earth with a gloved hand. Paw prints --- too long, too jagged --- cut across the mud, then dwindled into nothing. Branches snapped underfoot as she followed the fading path, but with each step, the usual murmurs of the nocturnal woodland appeared to retreat. Owls ceased their calls, the wind dropped, and even the insects held their hum. A suffocating quiet settled, and a shiver ran down her spine.

"Ginnade," murmured one of the hunters behind her, voice barely above a rasp, "I---I think we’re chasing ghosts."

"Or something worse," she muttered, eyes narrowing. Her voice carried, low and steady, but a razor of warning lay in it. "Keep your bows ready, and your wits sharper. Whatever left those marks isn’t a bear. Not any bear I’ve ever seen."

The men behind her traded apprehensive glances. The younger ones clutched their arrows tightly, knuckles white. Even seasoned trackers felt the gnawing unease. Ginnade’s steely gaze swept over them, and though she did not smile, the silent authority of her presence pressed them into submission. They moved another hour, tracking ghostly prints and the fading scent of fur and iron. Nothing appeared. No rustle, no snarl, no sudden snap of a branch. The trail ended at a small clearing where the earth was churned and wet, but not with blood --- just dark soil, clotted and raw. She crouched again, inspecting the ground.

"This… ends here," Ginnade said finally. Her tone was flat, practical, but her eyes flicked to the shadows that seemed to loom like waiting wardens. "The creature we followed --- whatever it was --- went off the map. We aren’t hunting a bear. It’s… something else."

A taut silence stretched. Then one of the older hunters spoke, voice trembling despite years of experience. "Then… we leave it, miss? Retreat?"

Ginnade didn’t answer immediately. She rose, brushing soil from her gloves. The moonlight shone faintly through the canopy, pale and revealing nothing. "We’ve wasted enough time," she said finally. "The King will hear what we found. That is enough for tonight. Let the creature be. Lives aren’t cheap, and this---" she gestured vaguely at the dark grove around them, "this is beyond simple hunting."

The party fell in line as Ginnade signaled the turn back, and the woodland seemed to exhale behind them. Hooves and footsteps stirred leaves, whispering faintly, but the oppressive silence clung like mist.

Galahad shifted beneath her as she nudged him forward, snorting once.

"They’re afraid," she murmured, more to herself than the horse. "Afraid of the grove, or of what hunts in it. Either way, they’ll follow without complaint, for now."

A young hunter, barely more than a boy, whispered, "Ma’am… do you think it’ll follow us?"

Ginnade cast a sideways glance, expression hard and unreadable. "I don’t know. I don’t care. You don’t linger where death waits, boy. Remember that."

The path back was familiar but eerie in the night. Twisting roots and low-hanging boughs seemed exaggerated under the moonlight, and every step sounded louder than it should. The party remained close, bows ready, eyes darting at every shadow, but Ginnade kept her pace unperturbed. She didn’t look back; she never liked to.

By the time they emerged near the outskirts of the village, dawn’s faint edge had yet to break. Ginnade’s eyes caught the stables immediately. She dismounted, the leather creaking as Galahad lowered himself onto the ground with careful precision.

"Easy, boy," she whispered, patting his neck as she looped the reins over the post. Galahad snorted, stamping once before settling, coal-black coat gleaming faintly in the dim light.

The hunters lingered, reluctant to leave her side. "We… report to the King then?" the oldest one asked, voice firm.

"Yes," Ginnade replied, sliding the yew bow from her back and setting it carefully against the post. "Tell him the truth. Whatever we tracked isn’t a bear. And whatever it is… It’s deadly enough to silence the forest itself."

A shiver passed through the hunters, and one muttered under his breath, "Gods keep us alive."

Ginnade’s eyes swept the stables, the village just waking, smoke curling from chimneys. Her hand rested lightly on Galahad’s flank. "Gods don’t hunt for us. We do."

And with that, she signaled the hunters to leave. They disappeared into the misty roads, murmuring among themselves. Ginnade remained a moment longer, gazing into the shadowed forestries beyond the town, senses vigilant, mind turning over every scrape, every paw print, every untraceable movement she had pursued tonight. Something had trekked those woods. Something that had eaten the night itself. And Ginnade would be ready when it returned. But now, the exhaustion made her slip from the stables and toward her shanty that dwelt near the center of the townlet.

The men did not take long to take their leave, the mumblings of whatever things they needed to purchase fading as they ventured outside. Leaving four near empty bowls. His eyes slid sideways to catch the abandoned food, a moment of consideration before he acted. It was pitiful and shameful, but Faelin wasted no time in frantically scraping the contents of them all into a singular bowl. There was perhaps just enough for a few mouthfuls.

Taking up the nearest spoon, he began to dig into the compiled remains. The look he received from the barmaid was not missed, it only drew his head upwards, jaws set strongly as he chewed. They could think of him as some strange pauper, some beggar that survived off of their rubbish. It did not bother him. They were not his family.

Even if he wanted to leave, he wouldn’t know where to go. There would be other groups out there, people like him, but they would never live up to the memory of his family. Not only that, but who was to say they wouldn’t gut him where he stood for trespassing. Most of his kind were the kill first, ask questions later variety.

The metal grated along the bottom of the wooden bowl, gathering up the last specks of wet gruel to shove into his mouth, Faelin rose immediately. Still chewing that last mouthful as he made for the doors, pushing them open with a harsh shove, he stepped outside. The winter sun was blinding in the mornings, reflecting off of the frost and always hung low in the sky. Miserable season. Miserable.

His hands dove into his pockets, making to shuffle the coat closer around himself, nose still dipped beneath the top of his scarf to keep the cold from nipping at it. The calls of shopkeepers made the loudest sound as they boasted about their goods, that the king himself would gorge himself on them.

His legs led him away from the inn, crossing the heart of the courtyard with quick ease, eyes trailing along the edges with a hint of apathy. Until he caught sight of a woman. Far studier and well-fed than the other women that set up their lives here. She was a traveller, not only that she carried herself taut and strong backed. He had seen her before. With that man, the kingsmen.

Faelin’s neck twisted to look back at her, almost falling over his own feet in the process of gawking at her. Had she come here knowing he was what he was? That he had to be in the nearest town with this chill or else he would freeze to death. That he had torn at her hunter brethren months ago, was she here for him specifically?

Catching himself, Faelin managed to not fall completely flat onto the worn cobblestones. Instead, his hands escaped their constraints and prepared to meet them, but there was no need. He managed to keep his balance, scarf dislodged from his face, the loop hanging low around his collarbones.

Maybe it was time for him to risk the dangers of other werewolves, to flee this place and the memory of his old home. It was possible for him to survive that way, yet he did not know which way to run. Where was the nearest town? What if there was no prey outside of these woods? He would starve, especially in winter. Now was not the time to leave. He must wait for spring. Once spring came, he would be able to survive out there on his own.

In that moment he set about concocting his future escape. In the spring he would turn tail and flee, leaving behind his blood soaked past once again. The thought made his heart twist and ache with agony. It was all he was good at, surviving cruelty and running away. Run and run and run, all he could manage.

Even when he was happily living at home with his packmates, he was assigned the menial tasks of cooking and patrolling the closest parts of the forest. He was not strong of mind, whilst his body was honed for a life of killing, Faelin could not bring himself to fill the shoes of his leader. He had been strong, determined and did not hesitate when it came to murder. Perhaps that was why he was the first to have his bones broken and a bolt through his head.

Faelin, by comparison, was a coward. He had left his family to fight their battle, streaking off into the night to avoid joining them in their gruesome deaths.

Then he realised his scarf had fallen from his nose, in a panic he threw a hand up to wedge it back into place. Had she seen? Faelin’s eyes darted back to the woman, sparing only a second to look at her before snapping his head away from her. He had not wiped the dried blood from his face, was it obvious? Or did it simply look like the rest of the crusted mud on his skin? What was he thinking, venturing out without cleaning himself up. He never forgot things like this.

Last night had rattled him, the flash of the lavish regalia of the king had injected that old fear back into his bones. Made him teeter closer back to that man who ran away, and he was about to run away once more.

The streets were barren, the usual hum of chatter replaced by the soft rustle of leaflets in the breeze. Smoke curled from chimneys, winding thinly toward the dawning welkin. Lanterns wobbled gently outside cottages, casting pools of golden light that barely reached the uneven cobbles. Ginnade’s boots made a soft, constant rhythm on the stones, and she let herself stride in silence, ears alert to every murmur of movement, every muffled sound. Halfway through the townlet, she noticed a figure in the distance, standing near the edge of the square. At first, she thought it might be a drunken townie, one of the usual late-night vagabonds. But something made her pause. The figure wasn’t moving in any discernible way, and though the distance blurred the details, there was a certain strain to his presence that set her nerves narrowly on edge.

Ginnade slowed her gait, letting her eyes adjust to the dim light. The man’s head was turned, seemingly in her direction --- but she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her, through her, or past her. Shadows clung to him like a second skin, hiding the finer details of his face. A scarf wound tightly around his lower face masked most of his features, leaving only a narrow strip of skin visible. Ginnade’s gaze lingered on that strip, noting the faint dark blotches that marked his cheek. Dried blood, perhaps, or some other blot --- either way, she hummed under her breath. Not my business, she reminded herself. Most men in this town ended up bloodied one way or another, whether from work, quarrels, or their recklessness.

Still, her senses were prickling. The stillness of the streets, the dwindling light, the way the figure held still --- all of it pressed at her instincts. She maintained her distance, aware that the moment she drew closer, the figure might respond in ways she didn’t want to test. Her hand brushed against the hilt of her knife, not in anticipation, but as a matter of habit, a grounding reminder that she was never entirely unarmed.

Ginnade’s gaze shifted away briefly, taking in the vague outlines of the townlet around her. Windows shuttered against the evening chill, the wooden beams of cottages casting long shadows on the cobbles. She could hear the faint grind of a door swinging in the breeze, the distant clatter of a cart’s wheel against stone, but nothing else moved.

The streets seemed to have emptied themselves, leaving only her and the solitary figure.

She shifted her stride, careful not to appear hurried. There was no need to confront, no need to engage --- yet her mind declined to let the presence go unnoticed. Each tread forward was measured, each sound in the townlet seeming louder in contrast to the figure’s stillness. The scarf hid more than his countenance; it hid intent, it hid answers she had no right to demand. The distance to her hut was still significant, but Ginnade’s strides carried her naturally in that direction. She noted the familiar outlines of cottages she passed, the little details she always recognized --- the broken shutter here, the dull paint there. Her eyes flicked back toward the figure from time to time, attentive but not fixated.

Even so, the blotches on his face lingered in her mind. Blood or not, it was unusual to see a stranger in the village at this hour, standing alone. She wondered briefly if anyone else would notice him, if anyone would ask questions, but the thought passed quickly. Curiosity was a dangerous companion, and she had learned long ago to keep it in check.

Ginnade’s boots struck the stones again, the sound stable and even, a small anchor in the quietude of the evening. She skimmed over her shoulder when a shuffle of feet made her instincts to swivel, the scarf around the man's visage uncurling, demonstrating a face that made her immediately take note. Gaunt-like and almost sunken.

Her hand flexed slightly at her side, fingers brushing against the strap of her satchel, the knife tucked inside, and she drew in a slow breath. Ginnade’s eyes narrowed just a fraction, the edge of vigilance whetting along her instincts. She was meticulous, but she was also aware: some things demanded acknowledgment, even if only from a distance. And so, keeping herself at a prudent but deliberate distance, Ginnade finally allowed her voice to rise above the tranquility of the street, soft but carrying just enough to reach the figure.

"You alright?"