treams of light flow out through the treeline. Dancing across a scatter of activity.

Bustling bodies bucha1 between shadow and shine. Fervently brought to life by the specks of dust kicked up from the hard pack.

Particles of clay, drifting lazily in the air, paint hazey the day, in tones of orange and red.

The breeze is slow.

The atmosphere anxious.

Three wooden wagons, two cloth covered, all loaded, await somewhat impatiently for a fourth, on a much used and well worn clearing. Preparations are taking place at a moderate pace. Just outside the Eastern gate of a stone walled city. In an area that used to be known as Lichtenstein, or Switzerland. Or maybe even Austria. Time hasn't really been kind to borders around here.

Heat waves ripple from the staging grounds. Departure draws near.

Two men on horseback come together.

"Terrik."

"Brahm?"

"Where do we stand?"

"Food wagon. Re-supply's done. Just tying down."

"Time?"

"Nine, ten minutes."

The two men, both clad in brown and green leather, like their three compatriots, speak in short concise sentences. There's a familiarity here, beyond the similarity of attire. These five men are not your typical trail guards.

Trail Guards. The name is not exactly a friendly term. Nor is it spoken with a great amount of trust. It conjures images of brawlers and fighters, mercenaries and ruffians. Basically anyone itching for some fight. And some pay. Hired by common folk and merchants, the ones who can't afford private guards, to lead them safely to their destination. One was almost as soon to die by their hands, as they were to the dangers they'd face in their travels. If, the coin offered to end you was more than the coin that you paid. Or your wares were worth much more to someone else. Or, they just got bored.

Mostly, when they just got bored.

"Welfort."

"Yeah."

"Take Ferril and Mohs, start at a slow."

"Yep. Catch us up?"

"We'll keep a short gap. You keep tight."

A trio of wagons start out on a trek, South Westerly. Horse hooves and wheels kick up more of that red, arid dirt. The light becomes even more uneasy on the eyes. Axles squeak. Wooden wheels crunch stone. Hooves clop. The air is bright and fluid and speckled in that incessant dust. It's almost hypnotic.

And loud.

It smells of earth, trampled grass, sphagnum.

And horseshit.

All in all, it's a good day to start a journey.

It isn't long before the supply wagon joins the caravan. A few hundred feet back. The pace quickens to a speed that's borderline uncomfortable. Distance made, when the weather is good, is time you can afford to lose if things go wrong. And things always go wrong. Rains wash out roads, trees fall, horses come up lame. Never mind the ever present dangers of sickness, animal attacks and banditry. There isn't a traveller on these roads that hasn't heard the stories. From those who survived the pitfalls.

After a few miles the caravan slows. The sun's riding higher, the shadows are short. Rottertrend's been left far behind. Even the smoke of the smith's forge is no longer visible through the green.

The trail guards have honed their focus on the surroundings. Stock has been taken, the character of the travelers, assessed. Mostly by vigil.

One or two by chat.

"Girl?", the short ugly one asks.

"Apothecary supplies. Roundtrip," the short pretty one replies.

"She seems young... Too young."

"She's also the least bit afraid of the group…" the intuitive one pauses, looks back at the girl in question, then continues. Thoughtful. "She has a Mother's Eyes."

A fourth rider trots into place, "Mohs, fall in with Brahm."

"On it," the intuitive one responds, slows his mount and falls behind.

"News?"

"Tarnished pendant," the short pretty one answers. He tips his head toward the third set of reigns, "The little one."

"Hmm."

The newcomer slows his mount and approaches the third wagon. It's loaded with plants and carefully packed sacks. He studies the lone occupant on the drover's seat. She looks to his face and flashes him a smile, then, casually, turns her eyes back to the road.

"What's your name?" the man asks.

"Molly." She flatly, respectfully replies.

"I'm Terrik, the short ugly one is Ferril, the short pretty one is Welfort, behind us is Mohs and Brahm, Mohs is the one that just fell behind. Brahms is the cave bear that looks like he's in charge. He drew short straw this trip."

"Nice to meet you." She laughs.

"Your parents live?"

"Yes."

"Troubles?"

"Nothing people haven't lived through before. We just moved, rather abruptly, still replanting. I can't plant as fast as they can. And buyers from Milaneux can be..."

"Assholes."

The little girl, guffaws. "Ha.Hmmm... My father calls them, 'persistent'." She smiles.

"Well we should have you there in thirteen days with hard travel, a little over two weeks on the out. If you get tired let us know, you can sleep in the food cart and one of us can take rein."

"Thank you. But I'll be okay. If I can get used to the sitting."

They come to a rise and the landscape before them changes.

Thick heavy forest becomes wide open field. Green grass lightens on the sway of the breeze.

It's midday. The skies are clear, save for a few horsetails, shadows are underfoot.

In the distance campfires dot the sides of the road. Late spring smells like sweet musk and rotten leaves. There's a hint of stews, coffee and meats cooking. This caravan's lunch is eaten, by guard on the hoof, and traveler on the wheel. Even the horses have to eat on the trot. There will be limited rest. This journey's at a strong, steady pace.

"See that patch just before the treeline?" Terrik asks.

"Yes."

"We'll be stopping there to swap out the horses. Stretch and replenish the water."

"Okay."

Terrik nudges his mount up toward his companions. His long blonde ponytail whips in the air.

Ferril's eyes meet his curiously, "Well?"

"How old would you say the kid could be?"

"Guessin. Twelve, thirteen tops."

"It's his."

"She doesn't look anything like him."

"Thank the souls for that."

The three guards laugh. The drive continues.

day away, as the crow flies, a young woman walks out of a lake. Her bathing done. Her food still cooking, on a campfire not far from the shore.

She is tall by most standards. A little over 7 feet. Her eyes glow, subtly, under a canopy of heavy tree growth. One is green, the other blue. Her hair is light blue, almost white, pulled back tight, braided with clean shaved sides. Revealing scars, some animal in nature, some more weapon-like in their precision.

She stretches reverently as she ascends upon the shore. She is lithe and agile in her movements.Yet, surprisingly heavy are her footprints. Water droplets flit in the waning light, reflecting, seductively, on her dark olive skin. Her muscles ripple and flex with every movement. In a way that conveys a strength the way a big cats movements do.

As she turns, to gather her armor, a pearlescent shimmer catches the eye, flowing down her spine from her neck to her tailbone. Her hips are graced with green and blue patches. As are her knees. Fish scale in lucidity, leathery in texture.

She dons her maille, pulls a fish from the fire, sits on a rock and eats the catch of the day. Sniffing at the wind, pondering her next actions.

When her meal is finished, and her stomach sated, she climbs a tree and settles into the crook of a branch. She leans back against the trunk, legs crossed, hands turn upwards on her knees. A sword across her lap, a bow placed within easy reach hangs on a twig beside her.

Her eyes close.

Her breathing slows.

Her thoughts flow.

She thinks back on life, her younger years. Distant memories come back to the fore.

Dragons, are very real in this world.

They're called Skrilliks. Because of the sound they make when they kill. And they're not, the intelligent, sometimes benevolent, beings of ancient yore. They are violent and greedy, simple minded creatures. Comparable to sharks, in their feeding habits, with wings. They are vicious and cruel. Just ask her mother. If she were still alive she'd tell you a tale.

For thirteen years that poor woman suffered because of one. For, once, on a cold dark night, he descended. And took her, in merciless claws, to it's lair. She wasn't taken to be food. No! She was taken, to be bred. He could scent her ovulation from the sky.

The after effects of that rape, and the birthing of a child made of that very same spoiling, took a toll on her life. Yet, this single-minded, violent act, ironically, gave her something special to rise above the pain for. It gave her something to nurture, something to love. Something to pass on a bit of herself to. More than just her genetic code.

She would have thanked him for that precious gift. If she hadn't killed him the night the child was conceived. Driving a sliver of steel through a gap in his chest scales.

When the baby arrived she adored it. Vowing in her heart to raise her true. Even if it meant living as an outcast. Or her child being, superstitiously, deemed evil's bastard.

The girl knows this. Her mother never held back with the truth. The harsh reality.

Now here that child sits. Grown. Out on a limb. Until the dreams come.

This moment slips. The memories play.

Her mother's still in bed. This is unusual.

Words come, soft in tone, pointed of message.

"It is what you are, but it is not, who you are. You are smart and kind. You are my beautiful joy. And I would go through that, a hundred times or more, to have, you, here, with me."

"You are dying."

"Yes."

"And I will have to leave.

"It's likely.

"They won't let me stay here without you."

"But you'd leave on your own eventually.

"I'll be alone."

"No you won't," she smiles, touching the girls forehead, "I'll be here always. Fortune, will find your way." Her words became soft and shallow. "The pain fades. Em'a... The pain fades."

Smoke and fire fills the vision. Her mothers body burns on a bed of wood.

No!

It's the cabin that's burning.

She watches from a few feet away, and a few more feet up. Much like where she sits now. In a crouch instead of a Zen. Her mind becomes cold, calculating. Just like her mother taught her.

Steel your heart. Clear your mind. Think. Plan. Act.

There are eight of them. Hulking. Gray skinned. Humanoid, but changed. Aberrations.

Bigger than me. But not as quick.

Frothing at the mouth. Sniffing at the air. Squinting at the treeline.

Been run hard. Relying on scent. Not the best eyes. Stay downwind. Low.

They're not looting... Strange. ?They didn't go for the meat? Stranger.

They're heading towards the village. Shit.

Do I really have to warn those skritbacks?

Think.

Think.

That was the last. Okay Em, into the cabin, grab… Sword. Meat. Pack. These could be scouts. So make it quick, quiet, clean.

Now is the time. Take a deep breath…

Go.

No more coming, good.

We're in.

This, this, this, and this.

Done? Sword, meat, pack, bow, quiver, mother's journal. Good.

What next? I guess... follow?

Scan the treeline. Listen. No movement, no sound.

Go.

Don't look back. Eyes forward.

You knew you'd be leaving soon, nothing to be here for now.

Tracks. They're spreading out... Couldn't have asked for better prey than this... Maybe I could take out five.

No. No. Just get to town and warn them. Don't get greedy Em. Three, should be enough for a safe path. Just get through, warn them and move on. Don't stay for the fight. Just go.

There's one.

Scan around.

Clear.

Nock... Pull...

Steady… Aim…

Breath in... Lead… Breath out slow...

Loose.

That's one, two more to go. Movement on the right, ahead.

"Anpétu wašté"

"ȟtayétu wašté"

"?Émičiktuŋža yo."

"No. You're not interrupting. Yes... I speak Old World too. So, don't hurt yourself tripping on the words... You have something to ask? Or are you just going to spend another five minutes staring at my ass?"

"Just admiring the colors... But, I have to say, I noticed... They don't like you much."

"That's not news. But, If you thought I was oblivious, thanks. Could have been embarrassing... If not. Then I'd have to ask... What are you after?"

"I'm just... Wondering."

"Wondering. About?"

"Why?"

"Why, what? Why is the sky a lovely shade of green today?"

"It is. Isn't it? So green it's almost, kind of blue... But, that's not what I want to know… What I want to know is. Why fight alongside these people, if you know they wouldn't do the same for you?"

"Some of these people are family, whether they like it or not. And I'm so much better than they are. In so many ways. Their sister, aunt, cousin, saw to that."

"Where will you go?"

Sniff. Sniff. Sniff... "That way."

"Care for some company?"

"Are you going 'that way'?"

"Oddly enough. Yes. Not that it matters which way we go. But, the cantonment's that way and we could use a resupply. And a couple of them, could really use a bath. I'm Peter... Peter Ruggel."

"Em'a. Em'a Non."

"Well met, Em'a. Those scruffy fucks over there... are, Brill, Johar, Niels, Stev and Yung. We're Dragon Rangers."

"You mean Skrillik killers."

"That too. But Dragon Rangers has a much nicer ring."

"Well, I'm heading off in two. No sense staying around here. Have no place to go back to. So, if you're going that way, keep up."

"Will do... Oh, the ass is nice too, by the by."

"That. And a well placed arrow. Might, put food in my stomach."

"Ha. We have a spare mount if you want."

"No thank you, I'm good."

"Seventh, Saddle up."

"Fuck Pete. We just ate."

t's been five days since the trip to Milaneux began. Over a hundred hard earned miles have passed beneath these wheels. Twenty five miles at a time. That's a pretty good clip for horsedrawns. The ride, so far, has been uneventful. With the exception of a mountain lion, who decided he wanted the deer on the spit, rather than hunt his own. Needlesss to say, lions on the menu for this nights fare.

The girl on the third cart quietly eats. One hand on the rein, dipping her last bite of hard roll in the last scraping of grease.

A tall lanky man slowly makes his way up the field. His hair is shortcropped. His mustache thick and long, down past his chin. Both slightly more salt than pepper. He pulls up next to the third vehicle in the procession and slows his mount, to parallel the rhythm. Chewing the meat off a bone, he sidles up to the drover.

"How you holding up, Molly?" He asks, in between bites.

"I'm good. How's your food?"

"Good. Real good. We should have you join us on future runs. We could use someone with your herbal talents," Mohs compliments. Then finishes licking his fingers clean.

"Trail guard!" The man in the lead schooner is getting edgy.

He bids Molly a, "Gotta see to this," with a nod of his head. He puts his horse to a short gallop and pulls up alongside the first wagon. "What you need?"

"Wife's feeling sick, can we slow down."

"Herrr Up!" With attention garnered on him, a simple open hand gesture, straight up over head, slows the caravan to a moderate pace.

"Better?"

"Yes, thanks."

The lanky man turns his horse abruptly and settles to the back of the pack. Next to a bear of a man on a very stressed horse.

"What's with the pace?"

"Says his wife isn't feeling well."

"Shit. Wel!"

"Yeah, Brahm."

"We're slow for awhile."

"On it. I'll take Terr and scout. Mohs goes front, put Ferril on Molly's left, you hang back a bit."

Mohs shakes his head and looks at Brahm, "I thought you were leading this trip?"

"I am. But between you and me, who do you want taking lead on a slow pace? You, me or Wel?"

"Good point."

"I tell ya Mohs. I don't like going this... pace."

"You and me both, Brahm. Back to the lead. Watch your tail."

"You too."