RP:Something Wicked

^{Forest of Shadows}

Eyesight is all but useless now; the deep and all consuming darkness seems to caress you as if trying to seduce you into its dark embrace. Even more worrying is the fact that the path that you cannot see is beginning to lead your feet in an even more erratic route that seems to incline lower and lower leading you down into a valley, you dare not leave the path for some horrid gnarled roots that seem to line the path preventing you from leaving it. Only creatures of the Underdark could possibly see clearly here.

Vaan is crouched low to the earth, his bow gripped loose in one hand, and an arrow knocked, but not yet drawn, to be held fast in the other. A dark hood covers his head, casting further yet, his features in an inky blackness; in honesty, this place didn't sit well with the Elf, and the grinding of his teeth would suggest that in subtle gesture of his unease. Alas, this place made excellent training grounds for those that feel they've become soft, and with his recent defeat at the hands of a -human- Ranger, Vaan took his first opportunity since recovery to break away and visit this secluded corner of the world. It's isolation is for good reason, what with the whisper of the wind so fragile and distant, yet haunting, as though a wraith were hovering just 'yond your shoulder, whispering sweet nothings into your ear. The faint shift and slide of shadows as very real creatures lurk in anticipation to tear out your throat. Even the barely perceptible drone of wings flipping and flapping somewhere in the distance, might bring cause for alarm. Despite these dangers, the ominous surroundings harbor an even greater threat--the dark, twisted tree further south from here. Vaan can recall stories of it, some myth, some legend, and some he knows for fact. He takes a step further in the brush, his finely attuned ears listening for any sign of movement, his eyes--nearly blind in this haze--searching with a nonchalant ease, as though this were any ordinary forest. But the grinding of his teeth... they would suggest wholly opposite. He holds the arrow with his forefinger, and releases his other hand, to reach out below him, into a nearby bush. He bites his lip as the thing stings him, it's prickly spines a threat in themselves, before he tugs it free. Shadowrose. An interesting find, he notes to himself, as it is tucked into the knapsack at his waist.

Sabrina didn’t know this forest. Sabrina didn’t venture South of Kelay. Sabrina should have gone west at the Mines, or even North at the Pass, but no. She wandered in a drunken haze, Rohk in tow, into the Forest of Shadows. She carried herself a few yards ahead of him, he generally liked to fall back because well… Sabrina was a fine, fine, piece of bait. He would never tell her that, of course. She was talking to him in Elvish, no doubt filling him in on what had happened in his absence, but by the Gods, couldn’t she do it quietly? Her heard a snap of twig and swung his hellish maw sidewards, planting his good ear to the ground. His steps faulter to the point of stopping and he wished that little bitch would stop talking. She did stop talking, long enough to turn around and close the distance between her and the mutt who stood just as tall as her at the shoulder. He lifts his head, twin tails poised a hairs breathe above the dark lush carpet at his feet. He was now making himself a full hellhound’s head taller than she. He looked irritated and pushes her forward to wherever she was leading them. She turns around, now mocking him and calling him names that honestly she didn’t need to say out loud. She decided she needed to rest and sits down at the base of an unknowingly occupied tree. She pulls out her to-go mug, a fine silver flask that was still three quarters full according to the fair shaking she gave it before pulling it to her lips. And she couldn’t figure out why Rohk always called her ‘stupid girl.’

Vaan is suddenly jarred. Not by anything in the physical sense, but by the obnoxious person traipsing about in this hellish forest, with naught but an ant's awareness of her surroundings--he couldn't help but feel sorry for her, in an odd kind of a way, whoever it was. So he stalks closer, like an animal--the Sylvan's being known for their very savage ways--through the underbrush, until he is within close enough range to see her through the darkness. The Sylvan curses under his breath, as he takes a glance about at the forest, in search of it's denizens, before stepping forth from his hiding place. "What are you doing out here, girl?" Comes the hiss of a tone not altogether polite, "You're going to get yourself killed." His auburn brows draw down as he glares at her, "Do you know what you're leaning against?" The arrow is kept knocked with one hand, as wary eyes come to rest on her companion, Rohk. He can't help but realize what it is... and how much he would earn for bagging himself that thing's pelt. A strange itch arises on his 'trigger' finger, and he is forced to divert his gaze from it, and back to Sabrina. "Are you drinking?" He asks flatly, eyes falling to the flask.

Sabrina is jolted, her eyes glowing up at him and looking puffy from recent tears. She tries to push herself up the side of the tree but finds a hard time gripping anything with those blasted gloves. Clearly the gloves were the problem here. She removes the gloves and pushes upward to stand before she tucks the flask in her shorts pocket almost with a flash of guilt. He had the heir of a curfew officer. She was grossly underdressed, having left her coat in Frostmaw only hours ago. She travelled by hound, so in all actuality the walk would have taken two good days otherwise. Her left arm began to emit a beacon of light as the tattoos lit up while she searched through memories for who this guy was. The light comes to a stance and she would have blushed at the thought if her cheeks were not already alcoholically induced. Rohk plants his scaly behind on the ground. He gives no charge to the male as anything Sabrina would know about the Sylvan Rohk too would have known the moment she thought it. The pair of silky black gloves were tucked in her back pocket and she stumbles a step toward him.”Its called a tree. Sylvan, you should know that.” She was trying to be funny, but Elvish was a hard language to be slurred in to still be able to come off with a punchline. She pointed at his nose and smiled. It was obvious only in the reflection of pupils that sought to annihilate the playful mint of her eyes that alcohol was not her only problem this night. Something had to maintain a pleasurable balance of full-blown inebriation and no passy-outtedness.

Vaan hesitates, unsure whether to scold Sabrina for her drunkeness--in this place--or to comfort her. Still, that nagging feeling in the back of his mind kept him wondering about the oddity that surrounded her. Why did she get mad at the Lycan-Elf for touching her? Why is the creature following her like some lovesick pup? The Sylvan grunts, "That tree..." Vaan ceases, glancing over to it as though it were a very conscious entity. "Let us not speak of it." Instinctively, the Hunter reaches out for Sabrina's hand with his free one, in attempt to lead her from this quagmire of death and decay. "You shouldn't be here, it isn't safe, Lady Sabrina." His voice is markedly more serene, closer to the normal tone he uses when interacting with sober people that aren't stumbling about in a forest waiting to consume everything and everyone.

Sabrina was too drunk to pull her hand away before he could grab it, but not so drunk that a sudden rush of dead-cold panic didn’t scream from her mouth. “No!” It was too late and soon the High Sylvan would feel her panic flow through him tenfold. It would radiate from his palm through his whole body and in most cases this panic resulted anywhere from mild heart palpitations to… unfortunately a replay of the soldier who wet his pants in Frostmaw; the whole reason for the gloves in the first place. Before she has time to argue further Rohk already had her by the side of her breeches and yanked roughly, throwing her into the nearby tree. He growled at Vaan lowly, crouching over his person who had a fresh gash raked across her forehead. She trembled, holding that hand like he had cut it clean off. Lucky it was panic. Lucky she was drunk. Lucky… it wasn’t fear. She sobered up real quick- well sober enough. She rose silently, running her hand over Rohk’s heated spine and into his glowing hackles. He was heaving steam from his maw as he allowed her to lift herself astride him. She looked down at Vaan with a million apologies in her eyes. “Home.” After a moment of hesitation Rohk took off toward Larket in a jolting speed befitting a bat equivalent of his breed.

Vaan is stunned. Flashbacks. Like an all-consuming storm of harrowing troubles, rippling through his mind. A cascade of every terrible nightmare relived in vivid unison, coalescing in a profound rush of horrible panic. The experience rocks him, causing knees to buckle, and the bow and arrow to be discarded as Vaan begins gasping for air, his lungs burning for the need of it. Each breath is short however, haggard and short. His fingers claw desperately into the rotted earth below him, tears to begin streaming down his face. And then. It all subsides. Like waking from a dream, the fog suddenly evaporates. Cold shock runs through his entirety, as eyes glance up and about in search for the woman that had just done this to him. It was not with anger or malice he searches... but with a sense of sorrow. What wickedness had been cast so upon her, that she couldn't relish in even a single touch... and what would be that powerful, to remind Vaan of memories he couldn't even recall, from his earlier life. The tree stands as silent vigil over the entire experience, mocking him with it's overbearing aura of death in a sick replay of those newly remembered events. His past. Like a thunderhead, it loomed in the forefront of his mind, and he wished so desperately, for them all to be forgotten once more.