Cursed - Part 2

The smell of elven blood came to Sharalae's nostrils, warning her to caution, yet exhilarating her at the same time. Despite the large form of her lower body, her eight legs picked their way nimbly through the undergrowth. Skittering swiftly along, she reached a clearing and paused, hesitant to leave the comforting shadow of the surrounding trees. She had only found her way to the surface earlier in the afternoon and had not dared to brave the blistering light of day. Only when the sun had set and night had fallen had she gathered her courage to venture out.

Fearful of the brilliance of a pale moon or the sharp, bright glint of stars she had heard so many frightening stories of, she held a slender, exquisite dusky arm before her face. Tentatively, she peered up at the night sky, but no moonlight or starlight seared her vision. Above her was only a blanket of darkness.

She smiled, comforted. Perhaps the stories she had heard had been only that--stories. And that was fine with her--the daystar was terrifying enough. Looking about she noticed several dark forms scattered about the clearing in a haphazard manner. She watched them for some time, but seeing no movement, she approached the nearest warily. Using two of her arachnid limbs, she turned the body over, revealing one of the sources of the blood smell.

An elf male lay before her, his glazed eyes still wide in shock, pale skin even paler in death. A crossbow bolt protruding from the gap between his leather chest armor and his shoulder guards and the dark slash across his throat bespoke of the manner of his demise. Sharalae did not need to examine the bolt to recognize the work of her people.

A strange symbol, a roughly rectangular shape containing an abstract flame within, bedecked the circular clasp of his cloak. A leather pouch lay open on the ground nearby, apparently tossed there after being emptied by the elf's killer. A plain, but serviceable dagger was still belted about his waist. Removing it and slipping it about her own hips with a sigh, Sharalae moved on to examine another Siavaedi corpse.

By the time she was finished, Sharalae had found some leather armor, a belt, a cloak, a water skin and even a little food. She found a bow and quiver as well, with enough arrows to last a bit if she was careful. She had never been particularly skilled with either weapon, but grimly told herself she would learn, and learn quickly. It was either that, or die.

She cast about, looking for the trail of her brethren, noticing how the packs tied to several strange four legged creatures, also slain, were all open, their contents strewn about the site. Had Raelona found what she was looking for? Or had they gone away empty-handed? Did the elves know about the books? Did they know what had been put into motion and what was coming?

Picking up the trail, Sharalae scuttled once more into the trees, feeling better now that she was armed and armored. It made little sense she knew, her current form was capable of considerable defense, but Sharalae was used to wearing armor and carrying weapons, and old habits died hard.

She shivered, not entirely from cold, pulling the cloak tighter about her. She would give anything to be able to speak with the traitorous Siavaedi if only to learn what they knew, so she could warn them of House Sha'nul's plans and betray her betrayers. But there were centuries of hatred and war between the Siavaedi and her people.

And old habits died hard.

To be continued...