[ AW ] Dust and Moonlight

How has he gotten here? What hand had plucked him from the world to place him into another? The questions float unanswered in his mind as he rouses from a fitful and restless sleep. His paws ache. Had he walked here? He must have. There are cracks lining the enamel of his claws, raw-red rubbed through the skin of his pawpads. Pink and weeping. And yet, he finds himself tucked beneath a bough of branches, the falling leaves of Autumn having draped over his curled form in an earthy blanket. The crispness in the air tells him it is early morning before he even opens his eye to see the light barely touching the grey skies through the broken canopy of trees, and he blinks once. Twice. He tries again to search the corridors of his memory to find some answer for his being here--and yet, he can find none. Nothing but a thickening fog that threatens to lull his mind back into it's broken consciousness of semi-sleep.

But he cannot sit here and linger and slowly, EVER so slowly does he rise gingerly to his feet to shake free the cloak of leaves that has begun to cling to him. The stars are still visible in the sky as the swarthy cloak of night has yet to be chased off by the sun, and so his tender wandering is by only the sparse silver light dotted through the trees. These woods are unfamiliar? But has he been here before? Perhaps in a dream. Perhaps this is simply an extended dream. An especially vivid one. Yes, this must be the case.
Why else would the fireflies dance so carefully through the trees? Are they sprites, enraptured by the moonlight just the same as he?

He is barely not a child, a yearling now he wears a mask of curiousness and indifference in equal measure, too thin and gaunt and yet too full to have noticed. He smells of moss and dust and his feet do not follow the path of his eyes but he still finds himself walking, walking, walking in an aimless stumble to chase the little sprites into the darker hovels. Or more likely, following fireflies back to civilization he has not seen.

Ciara Whelan was a woman of the early morning, and she could often be found sneaking out of her den and into the wilderness as soon as the first bird chirped in the sky. It was often long before the sun truly crested the horizon, as was the case today. She had a restless heart and an adventurous spirit, and she found that her thirst for nature and her hunger for life never sated, no matter how long she traveled. She knew that her responsibilities to her clan were looming, but it made her enjoy the time she spent away more and more. Since the rebellion, her father had made it clear where he stood on the potential coming conflicts. But Ciara did not know how she felt about it. That was something she needed to decide soon, but she could not do so when she was surrounded by the vibrant and hungry Whelan militia, nor the scattered peaceful believers who spoke up during their meetings. And she certainly could not do so under Toren's thumb. She would probably be scolded when she returned later, but she would only take a few hours off. Even the heir to the Whelan Clan needed some time to herself -- or, in Ciara's case, a lot of time to herself. But she usually did not encounter many others so early in the morning. Actually, she hardly encountered anyone so early in the morning. So it gave her great pause when she scented another up ahead -- and even greater pause when she smelled the lingering scent of blood. She froze where she stood, alert, as her blue eyes found a figure up ahead. It was walking away from her, and as always, she had been moving quietly. She might not have been spotted. She further thought of turning away when she realized with a start that the wolf was not a Highlander. The scent was foreign, and she knew she'd recognize a Mainlander anywhere, and so that left only one possibility: Outlander. One who had not been here long enough to pick up on the scent she loved so much. Her nose crinkled, and suspicion clouded her eyes. She was about to turn away when something crossed her path up ahead. It was a hare, and Ciara's eyes latched onto it immediately, not because it was unusual to see a hare, but because it was a pure white hare, and because it did not run from her, but instead sat on the path before her for a moment, lingering, before it moved away into the trees. Ciara did not realize she'd been holding her breath until she exhaled. Slowly, her eyes moved from the path towards the retreating figure, and she felt the weight of the Fae upon her. She could not ignore this sign. So, with a sense of foreboding, she followed the figure and the smell of blood until she grew near enough to speak. Her voice was naturally lower-pitched, but clear like a river over rocks. "Aye," she said, her lips turning down into a frown. The male looked haggard. "You're bleeding." It was just her nature to be direct. She did not see any outward wounds on him, but perhaps his paws.. "From travel?" she asked a moment later. She maintained a safe and separate distance even now, and her gaze was cautious. She felt a mild concern, but she knew she would not be here if not for the fair folk.                    ""

STOCK➤ Dawnthieves ART ➤AMPHI

He does not jump nor startle, instead seemingly permanently entranced by the flickering lights of the sprites before him. It is the hare, the white rabbit that crosses the path in front of him after garnering the attention of the sun-strewn woman behind him. He pauses to stare, to watch as it ambles along, munching a few bits of clover in it's little mouth before continuing on it's way--but not before stopping to gaze directly at him. He blinks in its direction before it lopes off back into the trees and he suddenly makes a desperate plea towards it.
"No, wait! C-Come back! I d-d-don't want to be alone h-here!" He turns to try to follow it away--only to be stopped in his tracks by the words of Ciara behind him. He spins, whipping around and landing back on his bottom as the ache in his paws leads to his balance finally giving out. He hits the ground with a soft 'fomp' and the remnants of moss and leaves fall from his coat as he stares at her, wide-eyed and hard to read.

No, he does not want to be alone here. But oh, what's worse is being with a stranger. At least he could understand the simplicity of a rabbit. He could understand it's mind and it's actions. But other people? No no, that was harder. That was...frightening. She was frightening, despite probably being nearly the same age as him. There's a frailty to him, even though it doesn't seem to be in his body, but rather in his actions. Lost, placed here? He does not know the term for 'Changeling', he doesn't understand and even if he did he would only be wounded by it.
"I-I don't...I d-don't know.... S-sorry. I'm...I'm s-sorry..." he begins to get back to his feet, either unphased by the pain or more worried about his company than his health, because he begins to push himself back into the treeline with a fragile uncertainty, apparently thinking to find comfort in the woodland.
Oh, if ONLY the rabbit had stayed....

The boy was desperate, that much was clear. His pleas for the hare were still ringing in the air by the time Ciara spoke. She appeared to startle him then, for her turned too quickly and lost his balance. When he hit the ground, he did not immediately scramble to his feet. This was a sign of how exhausted he was. She surveyed him closely, almost warily, though she knew that if there was a more dangerous creature here, it had to be her. Soon enough, however, he began to get to his feet, a babble of words streaming from his mouth. "I-I don't...I d-don't know.... S-sorry. I'm...I'm s-sorry..." She blinked slowly, watching him somewhat coldly still, but the fact that she still remained, flighty and distrustful as she was, meant something. He began to scramble meekly back towards the tree line, and Ciara almost let him go. But something nagged at her: some inner humanity, perhaps, or some innate loyalty to her spirituality. Whatever it was, it prompted her to say gruffly, "Wait." She still looked at him uncertainly, but now there was a discomfort there that had bled away from open distrust. He could not harm her. Indeed, he seemed so harmed that it would be merciless to let him go in this state. "Ye won't get far here in such a state," she continued, her low voice blunt. "The forest can be unforgiving to those who don't know it." Every syllable she spoke had the beautiful, lilting accent of her country wound into it. For the first time, a fondness entered her voice. The forest was something beautiful to her because it was so wild. "It looks like the fair folk want ye here, and if that is so, then I must help ye." It was simple, especially when she said it like that. "Sit down. I'll get something for your paws." She waited, toeing the line between patience and faint agitation, for him to acquiesce her.                    ""

STOCK➤ Dawnthieves ART ➤AMPHI

His breathing finds itself arrested, stuck in his chest and throat as he stares at her with the wide eyes of a stranger in a strange land. She speaks in words he knows but with an accent unfamiliar to him and he wonders just where he really is. Fair folk? There were folk around here? His panic morphs into confusion and with careful steps he makes his way back to his feet, though her demands for him to remain where he is seem to fill him with some sense of foreboding dread. But his father said t hat not everybody was mean, nor out to get him, and it paid to make friends. Or try to, anyway. Where was he, anyway? The thoughts flow in one ear and out the other as he worries about, pacing back and forth in his tiny area despite the small blood stains beginning to soak into the forest floor.

To sit still is to be idle, and to be idle is to be dead. He cannot be idle any longer, he has spent too long being dead. So he paces, though his one seeing eye does not leave her face and his brows have pulled taut, knit into an expression of mild confusion tinted with that hint of hesitant fear. ......But he would learn nothing like this.

"Wh..who who.... are the...folk?" he finally asks, his voice a quiet tremor. Ah, it strikes him! "The lights?" The dancing lights he had been following before the bunny had caused him to face her--yes, perhaps that! The thought seems to show on his face, as his expression finally leaves the open fear and moves into something more akin to curiosity. Yes, it was the lights that had woken him, roused him from his absent slumber. They were the reason he was here after all. Perhaps they'd lead him to his father. Perhaps this is why this girl was here, too, golden like the sun with eyes like a clear sky. Yes, surely she was of them and thus, it would be rude to deny her help.
"O...Okay..." he finally agrees.

@Ciara