Liutre

The Royal Wood

Just outside Nabąść, capital of Rarzemland

The continent of Sopipairo; planet of Shuuyer

455 [1365] : 17 : 39

(39th Day of the 17th Month, 455th Cycle [1365th Phase])

Nothing moves in the little clearing. At least not that can be seen at first. It’s serene sight. Red, purple, and black leaves set the scene, enhanced by the reddish light coming through the gap in the canopy, which perfectly frame the small sun, Bora, the sole source of light to the small planet. To the east can be seen a sliver of much closer–and so larger in appearance–Kvum, the brown dwarf home of this world.

“Fly, Kraw̃!”

The sudden shout breaks the silence of the clearing. A myriad of critters scurry for their hiding places as the violet tranquillity is disturbed. Immediately after, a speeding form bursts through the underbrush, flashing by in an instant. Leaves, sticks, and dirt are kicked up in its wake.

The reddish sunlight peaking through the canopy dances on its iridescent shell as it goes. It is large and crustacean in form. The shell of its front-half is smooth and pointed in front, shaped almost like a bullet. Its long antennae are laid back against its sides. Large black eyes just protrude above the shell, set on small stalks. Two flaps under its belly, just behind its mandibles, open and close, pumping air through its lung-like gills.

Below, eight multi-jointed legs hammer the ground, propelling the creature forward. Each ends in small but sharp triple-claws that dig into the earth, giving it incredible traction across most any surface. Unseen, hidden just under the flaps of the front shell are two large arm-like claws folded up, ready to lash out at threats.

It practically dances as it goes. Its abdomen is long, covered in segmented plates, and held straight out behind. Its edges are smooth, and it twists side to side, helping the creature make its nearly impossible turns.

Yet, it is not its appearance that is the strangest part. Or, if not strange, then incongruous, as perched atop its back is a slender rider. At present she is clad from head to toe in light armour, yet her weight is still not enough to slow her shelled mount. A shining helm covers her head, face concealed behind a mesh-like mask. A long sword hangs from her left side, and a runeshot pistol from her right in a cross-draw holster.

Sitting before her in the saddle is a young woman, tiny in comparison. The girl’s turned facing her, so she can clutch to the straps and edges of her armour. She in turn clutches the diminutive figure to her chest with her left arm. Her right is noticeably missing its proper hand. Instead, a powerful prosthetic grips the reins in its place.

Just through the mask, a patch can be seen covering her left eye. Her remaining right eye is a stark sight. The pupil is bright white, glowing faintly. The iris is a bright sea-blue, also seeming to glow. The sclera surrounding it however is a dark, fathomless black. From under the edge of the helm, shimmering golden hair flows. It looks to be made from actual gold, despite its flicking about like proper hair.

The branches claw at the rider as her loyal mount, Kraw̃, tears through the thick underbrush. She is Liutre Reuche ble Sancre, until recently a famed Master (and occasionally Group Warmaster) in the Gelvsian Terrestrial Army. Now, she’s Master-at-Sail in command of the former juggernaut, the Pyw̃dząo.

At present, none of that matters. Right now, she’s fleeing for the life of the terrified young girl in her arms and the unborn child in her belly. The poor girl hugging to her chest is Mai Mowmowi. Only three months ago Mai was just a lowly tavern worker. Today, she is the most important person in all The Vau (or at least she is until her child is born).

Mai sobs. Liutre can’t blame her: she’s not only terrified, but in pain. The contractions have started. The child is coming fast.

Liutre holds the little faiblinokir lass as tight as she dares without hurting her. Mai’s scarcely a woman. She hasn’t even come of age. From what she told Liutre, she’s scarcely over ten phases.

Liutre can’t believe it, but The Lady has never led her wrong before. In a nearly a hundred combats, Lady Bora has always seen her through to the other side. Though, in this case, it is more appropriate to say Bora led the poor girl to her. Liutre knew at once it was Lady Bora’s will when Mai showed up on her doorstep with her tragic tale.

It was confirmed by the dream she had that very night. She stood in an open plain, looking upon a hill. Atop it stood a stoic woman. Her hair was a light colour that she couldn’t quite make out. It might have been white, or even pink. The sky was storming and black behind her. The distant woman turned to face Liutre. Despite the span, Liutre could see every detail perfectly. The woman’s skin was a patchwork of light faiblinokir blue and shining eistruisian gold. Her eyes glowed a dazzlingly bright purple.

A Paragon.

She glances back down at Mai. Will her child truly be a Paragon? The fact the child exists at all is an impossibility if her father is who Mai claims. Faiblinokir and elves can’t interbreed.

She can’t think about that now. Now, she has to flee, or everything will be lost. Liutre can barely hear the cracking of quarrels and the flashes of runeshot streaking past them. The thrashing of the branches against her helm, mixed with the rapid drumming of Kraw̃’s many clawed feet, mostly drowns them out.

The projectiles don’t concern her. Her armour will deflect them. They’re meant to distract her and Kraw̃. It’s the sporadic flashes of molten metal streaking past that worry her.

Liutre knows the flashes too well. They’re super-heated shards of iron, hurled with immense strength; product of one deeply learned in the ancient arts of the gods: magic. To emphasise this point, one strikes a trunk off to her left. It super heats the water inside instantly, causing the tree to explode in shattered wood fragments and steam.

She knows exactly who is pursuing them. Her blood runs cold: it’s Prince Ûbân himself. Ûbân will stop at nothing to claim Mai and her child. Any outcome in which he succeeds is unacceptable. If he wants to kill the child, it could greatly weaken resistance to ZheīSho’s movement in the future. If he wants to raise the child as his own, it will put too much power in his hands and lead to a second War; one that the forces of the Dominion may not win.

At any other time, Liutre would turn and fight. Not today. Today, she must fly. She must reach the gate that Bora arranged. She must get Mai and the child to safety. She’s the only hope. She’s all that matters.

Liutre can’t lose focus. Kraw̃ practically dances as he darts between the thick trees. He’s a raeflit, a long domesticated species of piuvod. The riders’ mounts behind her are urtrintas. They are much faster than Kraw̃, but not as manoeuvrable. However, they have much better stamina, and there are more of them. She will not lose her pursuers easily.

The beacon attached to Kraw̃’s saddle blinks faster, increasing in speed as they near. So close. She’s so close.

A quarrel glances off her helm. Liutre’s ears ring with the loud clang that nearly disorientates her. Mai shrieks in alarm. At the same time, piercing pain stabs her shoulder.

Liutre steadies herself in the saddle and glances down. Somehow the projectile managed to find one of the few gaps in her armour. Luckily it only penetrated enough for the pointed tip to hit skin, the bulk of the shaft and fletching still exposed. She knows that pain too well.

Silver.

The fuckers are using silver. A cold sweat sweeps across her forehead at once, and she hunkers down lower, trying to seal any gaps in her armour. Suddenly, the projectiles have become just as deadly as the enchanted shards that the Prince is sending after her. While elves like her are not immortal, they can heal extremely grievous wounds with the proper healing magic. But not silver. Nor gold, nor copper. The three Primetals. They can cause extreme pain and even scarring to an elf at just a touch, as the quarrel is doing to her shoulder now.

Liutre risks releasing Mai just long enough to reach up and yank the quarrel out, hurling it away. The burning sensation vanishes at once, but a sharp ache persists. She’s lucky it struck that shoulder. If it wounded the left one with her remaining good hand, they would be in trouble. The prosthetic is good, but it cannot compete with a proper, feeling, hand. Still, that’s one more scar for her collection.

The saddle’s beacon distracts her from the pain. It’s nearly a solid colour. She’s almost there. The forest is getting lighter. The shots have stopped. The streaks of Prince Ûbân’s enchanted shards have ceased. Have they fallen behind? She can’t risk a glance over her shoulder.

Sunlight. Kraw̃ bursts into the clearing, skidding to a halt. It nearly launches Liutre and Mai from the saddle. Irritated beasts stamp and hiss in front of her.

Liutre pants, catching her breath as she makes sense of what’s happening. She grits her teeth. She’s an idiot. Sharp-eyed Kraw̃ saw the truth before she did.

Five riders and their mounts block her path. The urtrintas hiss, swaying their slender, segmented tails back and forth while chittering their mandibles and stamping their front limbs at Kraw̃. She pities the beasts. This isn’t going to end well. Probably not for anyone. But the mounts don’t know any better.

Below her, Kraw̃ tilts back a bit. With two loud clicks, his hidden forelimbs unfurl and extend out. They spread wide, revealing their jagged, clawed ends. They’re lined with razor sharp barbs, easily strong enough to easily punch through the urtrintas’ exoskeletons. Kraw̃ can snap his claws forward with enough force to slice an elf or okir in half.

Despite their numbers, the urtrintas seem to draw back a bit. Raeflit like Kraw̃ are powerful and sturdy beasts compared to the light urtrintas before them. Raeflit were bred as war mounts, while urtrintas are meant for light cavalry and racing. All of them combined would not be enough to take down Kraw̃.

She looks to the riders. They’re garbed in black, a fitting colour for those in the prince’s retinue. Their lumpy tunics hint at armour hidden underneath. It is not thick armour, but it is there.

Their faces are covered, heads hooded, leaving only their eyes open. Liutre notes that: the hoods will hinder their peripheral vision. She next catalogues the eyes. They are all natruisian like her; their skin a deep, shining blue. Their eyes glow faintly out of their hoods: blue dots in bright white rings, set in a black orb.

She looks past her attackers. The gate lies just beyond them. It is a blazing disk of red light; a swirling vortex of promised freedom, now denied. She’s lifted the parcel just to drop it again.

Her hand moves from the reins to the hilt of her sword. The hooded riders tense up at once. The two on the flanks have their runeshot pistols and quarrellers trained on her. The two beside them have copper-tipped lances at the ready, while the one in the middle has his sword drawn, its copper edge obvious.

Unfortunately for them, her sword is also copper. Unfortunately for her, she’s just one person. Still, she has faced worse odds charging the withering fire of Alliance repeaters as primetal barrage-shells rained death from above.

She can just make out their expressions through the slits in their hoods. They range from disappointment to smug victory. However, their tense movements give away their apprehension. Which is what they should be feeling. She may be alone, but she can guarantee she’s seen more combat than any of the villains before her put together.

Liutre glances over her shoulder. She can hear Prince Ûbân and his remaining retinue approaching. She does her best to maintain her composure. She can’t show any weakness. This is combat. This is what she lives for. Hell, she enjoyed the war.

“It’s over,” calls the central rider. “Surrender the abomination.”

Liutre says nothing. She doesn’t have to. The riders ahead are all eyeing her hand on the hilt of her sword. They know she’s far deadlier with it and one good hand than they could ever hope to be.

“Abomination, is she?” Liutre raises an eyebrow. “We have a different opinion on that. All I carry is an innocent woman with child.”

She glances back over her shoulder again.

“I do hear an abomination coming now...”

Mai whimpers and hugs tighter to Liutre’s chest.

“It’s going to be alright,” she whispers softly.

“Lying to her is cruel, Master,” sneers the central rider, his Wattnan accent thick.

Liutre narrows her eyes.

“Who’s lying? Am I lying to her? Or are you lying to yourselves? A hundred of your Wattnan comrades have fallen before me in exchange for a hand. Another hundred for an eye. And a few for my ear, I suppose. What makes you think you’ll do better?”

The group falls silent. Their urtrintas stamp the ground in agitation, long tails continuing to swish and sway. Their insectile faces are expressionless, but somehow she can sense the hunger in their fathomless black eyes as they look her and Kraw̃ over. An urtrinta will happily eat fallen foes. So will Kraw̃, though he’s unlikely to have time today.

“Give us the girl, and we might kill you quickly,” another demands, his voice full of faux bravado as he breaks the silence.

“Might…” snorts another.

Liutre does not look around as she hears Prince Ûbân and his force enter the clearing. The prince sighs.

“Master Liutre,” Prince Ûbân pleads. “Don’t be a fool.”

Liutre’s eye twitches. Fool? Who’s the fool? The one who fights for life, or for chaos and destruction?

His very voice infuriates her. It drips of youth trying to project an age greater than truth. How the hells are so many so taken with him? How do they buy his message of domination? What the hell can he know at his age?

“You’ve fought bravely… you did your duty. You fought with honour. But this is over.”

Liutre turns in the saddle. Kraw̃ turns as well, as if reading her thoughts. Liutre’s lips tighten as she looks into Prince Ûbân’s face. He’s removed his hood and mask.

Grudgingly, Liutre recognises a bit of why people take to him. He’s stoic and handsome (for a male). He’s towering of figure; his golden skin shining in the red light of Bora. It does little to hide his youth, however. He’s younger than Mai; still a boy. He even shaves his head, a mark of the Wattnan military: stealing the valour of true soldiers.

It’s the sight his eyes that finally sends shivers through Liutre’s body. They’re yellow: the mark of a Contra. The insidious countering darkness to a Paragon’s light. Wherever a Paragon is chosen, a Contra is also marked.

Those haunting eyes glow and crackle with his Jor. She understands now. Of course he’s a Contra. And if he’s a Contra, there must be a Paragon. Liutre’s lips tighten as she confirms in her heart that Mai’s child is indeed this new Paragon.

She takes in the prince’s face again. There’s pain projected in the prince’s eyes. Liutre doesn’t believe it for a second. She knows now just how great a liar ZheīSho is. Everything is for show at all times. She’ll get him to crack that vernier.

“Give me the girl, and I will spare her,” Prince Ûbân continues. “The abomination inside her was not her sin. It was mine. I will not punish her for it.”

Liutre raises her eyebrows. Mai stares up at her. Her fear makes Liutre regret her swagger as she looks down into the sweet freckled face. In spite of the situation, she’s lost in the moment. She’s never understood the disdain for faiblinokir: such striking beings.

Mai’s long, slender ears droop down onto her shoulders. Her yellow eyes wide-set; the pupils black horizontal slits. Her nose is flat but wide, ending in a soft wet tip that twitches as she breathes. Her tufted antennae are flattened against her hair in her near panic. Her skin a soft blue.

Liutre does her best to smile, to reassure the girl.

“Again I beseech you,” Prince Ûbân presses on, trying to appear composed and commanding, but benign. “It is hopeless... I have no quarrel with you, beyond you standing between me and correcting my mistake...”

Liutre reassures Mai under her breath. “It’s going to be alright. It’s all going to be alright…”

“Think: where are you going to go? Through the gate? To where? To which other world? To Shuerash? Her wretched homeland? They’ll hate her child there just as much as here. To Shudo? Or the nothingness of Shusheva? To the other end of Shuuyer? Anywhere you take her will see her spawn as an abomination. I can make it quick...”

Prince Ûbân shakes his head, pity radiating from his face. She believes not a word. The only words Ûbân speaks are lies. He sews hatred and calls it love. He speaks peace and promises war.

“Nothing but death lies beyond that gate for you.”

Liutre allows herself to smirk. That’s what the prince thinks. There are those on the other side who’ll receive them. Those who’re sworn to give their lives in the service of life. Life for life.

“Liutre… you are surrounded! You cannot hope to defeat all of us at once! You cannot fight with the girl in your arms!”

Liutre’s smirk only grows. She finally heard the crack in his voice. The sense of urgency. He wants to end this on his terms. He wants his riders to see he is the master of all things. He even has command of his enemies. She’ll see to that.

“Oh, I think I can. The trouble for you is: you cannot all fight me at once.”

Prince Ûbân’s face begins to lose its pity at last. There’s a flash of rage, but it’s quickly replaced by sad resignation. Liutre continues to smirk. She can’t show any weakness, either. Her refusal to acknowledge certain defeat will gnaw at them. Fear will creep in. They will wonder what she knows that they don’t. The difference is, she’s willing to die for her cause. Are they?

“Hold tight to me, lass,” Liutre whispers and at last draws her sword.

The riders ready their weapons, but they cannot act. Especially not the ones armed with runeshot or quarrellers. They might hit each other. With projectile weaponry, surrounding your enemy is a hindrance not an advantage. Mai grips tight to the edges of her armour. Liutre rests her lone hand on top of Mai’s head as the riders surrounding them begin to fan out, trying to find more agreeable firing angles.

Behind the rider to Liutre’s left, there’s a flash and hum. Another gate appears, and just as quickly vanishes. Prince Ûbân furrows his brow, turning to face the intrusion. It fills Liutre with elation. Unexpected, but very welcome, cavalry has arrived.

The air is rent with rapid blasts of percussion. Mai screams in shock, releasing her grip on Liutre’s armour to cover her ears. Liutre automatically hugs her tighter.

Wide holes are blasted in the light armour of the rider directly in front of her. His mount rears in alarm, dumping the body before tearing off into the undergrowth. In the wake of the slaughter, Liutre’s beloved stands, snarling as she bears her twin heavy runeshot pistols.

She’s a striking figure, as all prutruisians are, even if they are not so tall. Her skin is sea-green. Her eyes are all black except the white pupil, with dark brown hair. Her long tail trails behind her, so powerfully muscled that despite its length she holds it off the ground.

Torih Hlomin, her closest friend and dearest love, turns her snarl into a sneer as she spies Prince Ûbân, drawling in her soft Jumoian accent.

“Surprise, fucker.”

Kraw̃ acts at once. Her steed, whom Liutre has raised since hatching, knows what to do. Kraw̃ buckles his many knees and drops almost to the floor of the clearing. Liutre leans hard to the right. She grips her left leg hard to the side of the saddle, leaning heavily on the right stirrup to keep herself seated. Mai shrieks and grips the armour tighter. A quarrel hisses through the air where Liutre’s face had been barely a second before.

Liutre roars in defiance, brandishing her sword. Kraw̃ springs forward. Torih’s runeshots roar to life once more. No one expected her, not even Liutre herself. Nor did they expect Liutre to go on the attack.

A shard of Prince Ûbân’s power flashes past. He stands his ground, but most of his riders do not. Another is cut down by Torih’s fire while the others turn and make for the cover of the trees.

Liutre keeps her focus as Kraw̃ leaps straight past one of the quarrellers as they turn their weapons on Torih. From her low angle, hanging almost parallel to the ground, Liutre can still see the stunned face of the rider as he realises, too late, what’s happening. His urtrinta hisses and tries to turn, but the spindly legged beast is too slow.

Her sword slashes. She feels the slight resistance as the blade slices just under the lower hem of the rider’s armour, right above the hip.

Kraw̃ is leaning to the right. Liutre keeps her grip with her legs and the stirrups, following around. She’s moving away from the gate, flanking Prince Ûbân and his riders. Liutre’s blade flashes again, this time into the flank of another urtrinta. It staggers back and collapses at once, spilling its rider.

The rider cries out and begins tumbling backwards off his mount. Four down. Yet the other riders are recovering. She must get to the gate. She must get Mai to freedom. Salvation is just beyond.

Liutre grunts righting herself in the saddle. She winces as she feels something punch her back, but she ignores it. Kraw̃ regains his manoeuvrability and turns in a flash, flicking his powerful tail to help steer him. Liutre is just fast enough to clash her blade against the sabre of another rider.

She becomes aware of the shouts around them as Torih’s pistols run out of ammunition. Their silence is even more deafening than their fire. Torih holsters them and swings easily into the saddle of a now riderless urtrinta. Liutre tucks her sword under her arm. She draws her own runeshot pistol and tosses it to her love, who catches it easily. Torih blows her a kiss, brandishing the pistol in one hand, then drawing her own sword with the other.

Liutre heads straight for Prince Ûbân, re-wielding her sword. The bastard’s face is pure rage. Gone is his handsome facade of pleading reason. The Prince wants to kill her. It’s consuming his mind.
But not if Liutre kills him first.

Prince Ûbân draws his last steel shard. He raises it high over his head, aiming it towards Liutre, following her as Kraw̃ pivots. The prince may have attended the finest military academies, but Liutre learned to fight on the battlefield itself. No amount of education will ever beat experience in Liutre’s eyes.

She gambles. Liutre hurls her sword at Prince Ûbân. It tumbles, point over handle in a perfect rotation, heading straight for him. The prince reacts at once, and just as Liutre predicted, he ducks to the side as Liutre had. The effect was not to hit the prince, merely to distract him.

It works. Prince Ûbân drops his shard, just as it was beginning to glow. It bursts on impact, wounding and frightening the prince’s mount which begins charging off, nearly spilling its rider to the forest floor.

The celebration is short-lived. Another of the prince’s cronies takes a swing at Liutre. She dodges but with her hand now free of the sword, she ably catches the front of the rider’s cloak and tugs hard. She drives the crown of her helm into the other’s forehead. She hears a cracking as the helmeted headbutt is so powerful it splits the unprotected skull. The rider goes slack and Liutre releases him, turning away as he falls limply from the saddle.

Mai, still clutching to her armour, shrieks. Liutre experiences only the briefest guilt. Mai must have seen that. She’s no warrior. She was just a tavern worker when a disgraced elf prince crossed her path and decided to teach an ‘uppity’ faiblinokir a lesson. Mai never wanted this. She doesn’t deserve this.

There’s an opening. The gate is clear. Torih is waving her towards it with one of her reloaded pistols, firing the other into their attackers between waves. Liutre digs her heels into Kraw̃’s flanks to urge him forward.
She’s done it.

The gate vanishes but not because she’s gone through. It’s obscured at once by a blast of soil and detritus. Sticks and dirt fly into her face. Kraw̃ rears back. Liutre reacts instinctively, leaning forward hard to keep from tumbling out of the saddle. Prince Ûbân has recovered and blasted the ground before them with his magic.

Kraw̃ turns. He’s moving away from the gate again. Liutre grits her teeth. The longer this takes, the lower her chances. She catches a glimpse of Ûbân’s grinning, victorious visage as he raises an arm once more.

There is no steel rod to concentrate and focus his attacks any more. It is now pure rage and unrestrained power. The leaves of the trees around him begin to wither. His mount staggers, its eyes rolling. Ûbân is channelling, sucking the very life and Jor out of his surroundings, even his steed, preparing to fire it at Liutre.

It happens so quickly, Liutre didn’t see what happened. Prince Ûbân cries out in agony and lowers his hand. Another of the attackers shouts as well. Liutre blinks and at last tugs the reins to slow Kraw̃.

The prince is twisting and turning in his saddle. His weakened urtrinta can barely move. Something has latched onto Ûbân’s arm. It’s small, even smaller than Mai, and jet black. Another rider has a similar one attached to his shoulders. The rider is feebly trying to stab the object with a dirk, but his arms move slowly, even feebly. Blood is pouring down his armour.

The rider turns giving Liutre time to see what’s happening. The bulge on the rider’s back has ears. Large ears, pointed, each the same size as its head. What the fuck is it?

The pint-sized beast has landed on the rider’s back and plunged its razor-sharp fangs deep into the rider’s neck. Not only that, but it has some sort of glove on its hand with several long blades. They’re plunged deep into the rider’s side, straight through the armour.

It’s the same with Prince Ûbân. Another strange beast has sunk its battery of teeth into his forearm. Its bite is so powerful that despite its size it’s bitten clean through his bracer.

The prince attempts to beat the little being against the side of his mount. The impish creature releases and drops to the floor of the clearing, snarling up at Prince Ûbân before immediately going on the attack again. It moves so quickly Liutre can scarcely see it.

She doesn’t stop to think about that. Liutre realises she is forgotten. Torih is forgotten. Mai is forgotten.

She taps Kraw̃’s flanks again. Her steed lurches forward. The swirling gate rushes to meet her.

She’s done it. She grits her teeth. Mai screams again.

Kraw̃’s feet hit the ground. He takes a couple bounds and comes to a halt. Liutre returns to her senses. Her head’s starting to swim. She recognises the sensation too well. Shit, she’s more wounded than she thought.

She twists a little in the saddle, looking left and right. She has no idea where he is, but it is lovely land. She’s so dazed she can’t help but appreciate it over the seriousness of her situation. She exhales, letting the adrenaline die off.

Mai’s sniffling. Liutre pats her little back slowly. They did it. She looks behind them. The gate is gone. They made it. However, her fear for Torih begins to grow.

There’s movement to her left. She vaguely becomes aware of a nearby figure. She fixes the newcomer with her one good eye. Kraw̃ obligingly turns so that she can see better. She pats the good boy’s shell in appreciation.

She winces. Pain is starting to spread across her back, driving into her body and consciousness. She reaches back with her lone hand, and manages to touch a hole in her armour where a runeshot had hit her. Then another. She hadn’t noticed. She’s never actually noticed being wounded until it’s over. Strange that. She starts to grow dizzier.

A figure’s approaching. Several, actually, but her eye focuses on the leader. It’s a man, a famicanokir by the looks of him. His fur is a gentle brown with white underside. His hair is also white, with kindly, pale-blue eyes. His ears are broad and pointed, with little tufts of fur inside.

Liutre smiles. She knows the man at once: Sherad Howa’i, leader of the Knights of the Vau.

“I’m... here...” she pants, the only words she can manage to say.

“Yes...” Sherad says, moving closer. “You made it, old friend... Bora’s Light, you’re injured! Healers! Are you alright, Miss Mowmowi?!”

Mai’s panting heavily. Liutre looks down at Mai who’s staring at her own lap. The front of her long skirts are stained. Liutre’s no healer, but she knows what’s happened at once. Mai was not wounded, but her child is coming.

“She... the child...”

Sherad hisses, cursing under his breath.

Suddenly, there is activity everywhere. People have surrounded her and are plucking Mai from her grasp. Her mind, running on instinct, tries to pull Mai back, but it’s no use. Others are doing their best to lower her from the saddle. Kraw̃ obligingly kneels to assist.

She’s lowered to the ground, laid on her side. She can’t focus on any of the faces over her. She feels the hands moving over her back, inspecting the darts and rune-shot wounds. There are at least five more.

“It’s alright, Master... We have you now... You did well... You did damn well...”

Liutre doesn’t acknowledge them. She lets the words sink in. She did it. She got Mai here. Now her child is being born. The new Paragon, the new person, child of elves and faiblinokir.

She heaves a deep sigh, closing her eyes, and feeling no more.