Mercedes staggered over and picked up her sword, even as the bear clawed at its face, massive claws digging furrows in its own flesh. Blood cascaded in freshets down its face. The bear staggered to the side and sat down; Mercedes launched herself into a wobbly run towards the bear; forced her aching body to move. How long had it been since she'd hurt so much?

  When she got closer, she realized why the bear was in pain; one of the blacksmith's arrows had lodged in its eye.

  The bear thrashed around, stumbling as if drunk, blood flying in great drops and splashes. Maybe the lightning had hurt it? If so, it wasn’t enough to actually kill the thing, and it would take days for the magical gem to accumulate the necessary power again to use a second time.

  Even as she thought this, other villagers appeared with spears; they cautiously circled the bear, darting in and out of range with their homemade spears. A couple others had bows like the blacksmith, but she could see that the arrows were just getting caught in the tangled mat of its fur; most likely never even touched the skin.

  She circled around and darted in, slashing at the tendons in the ankle; a good hamstring would render it immobile and easier to manage.

  Even as she moved and cut, she was aware of the villagers eyeing her. In Degan, elves were associated with the church, with education and spiritual guidance; here elves were everywhere, and not necessarily affiliated with the Church. Had they encountered those elves out here in this backwater village?

  After the bear was hamstrung, she was able to finish off the bear with several sword-thrusts through the ear. Whatever else the bear was, it was stubbornly clinging to life.

  Something she was aware of, as an elf, as a being who was familiar with magic, was the sense of magic around the creature, and that magic seemed out of place and strange.

  “It’s dead.” She announced to the villagers, but they didn’t relax as much as she thought they might have. She briefly considered the logistics of having the carcass shipped back to the city of New Degan for study and dismissed it. The beast was huge, there was no wagon on the continent capable of transporting such a monster, nor were there horses capable of dragging it.

  She jolted. Speaking of horses...

  She gave instructions that the beast should be dismantled and the parts burned; the villagers looked relieved at the suggestion, even as she went to check on her horse.

  *****

  Simone sat on a low grassy knoll, carving the end of her walking stick with her belt knife. The knife she'd been given by Alteima was tucked in her belt at the small of her back. Even though it was a strange addition to her kit, it seemed to sit comfortably.

  Things had changed since Simone's time in Alteima's tent. Part of it was what Alteima had revealed; part of it was things she'd learned through her visions with the spirits.

  When Simone met Ash, her world had grown beyond the tribe, had opened to realize that there were other people, other parts of the world, other languages, other beliefs.

  Through her guided vision with Alteima, she learned more about the history of the elves, why they stayed away from the mammoth peaks of the northern mountains and the things that lived there.

  History was important. There were lessons that needed to be learned and remembered from the past.

  Each time her world expanded, there was a period of adjustment. Her world had changed; she struggled with the changes. She understood what it was she was supposed to do- she understood it, but wanted to rebel against it.

  The plains wind rose up briefly and ruffled her hair; she closed her eyes and turned her face into it, savoring the feeling. As the wind died, she opened her eyes, and resumed her carving. She was far from her tribe; they were miles south, and she wasn't certain she would even see them again. On this, the spirits were silent.

  She looked down at the stick she was carving, and dug the tip of her blade into the wood, carefully chiselling out a spiral. In a little while, she'd rub ashes into the wood, darkening it so that the spiral stood out, but for now, she carved.

  Simone turned her head; the forests awaited a few hundred feet away.

  Simone knew what was expected; she rebelled against it. Why did it have to be her? Why couldn't the spirits have chosen someone else? There were many tribes of the People of the Plains, there were many shamans. It didn't really have to be her.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  She reached over to the remains of her small fire and scooped up some of the still-warm ashes and rubbed them into the stick.

  She glanced to the small clay pot at her feet; in it was some precious dye where leather thongs were coiled. When she was done with the ashes, she'd fish out the dyed leather thongs and wrap them around the stick in the patterns she'd been taught.

  Her world was changing, and the more it changed, the more she struggled with accepting it. Just because something was, didn’t mean that Simone had to like it.

  She closed her eyes and listened for the voices of the spirits.

  Long, long ago, a Great Terror had come, a disaster that threatened the People. The ground would quake, great storms would rage, and the world would be split asunder.

  That was the vision given to the shamans, so long ago.

  The People of the Forest looked at each other. “We know what to do.” And they disappeared into their forests, ever secretive.

  The People of the Plains prayed to the Spirits for guidance, for mercy, for clemency, and then finally, for protection.

  The People of the Mountains, already strange, prayed wildly for salvation, and a Thing, an Outsider answered with delirious mirth and seething hungers answered, damning them for all time.

  On the prophesied day, an enormous fireball eclipsed the sun, plunging the world into unnatural night as it howled across the sky, shredding the air and shattering the sky with thunderous fury.

  Once it had passed, and the sun was once again visible, the People of the Plains relaxed, but that had only been the precursor, the harbinger of things to come.

  The quakes came, the storms came, the rivers dried up, all the good things to eat died. But the spirits were true to the People of the Plains, leading them to food, to water, to safety. And so it was, that after the world had ended, the People of the Plains survived.

  Simone opened her eyes as a fox spirit approached from the forest. Fox spirits weren’t actually foxes, but something else instead, something beyond Simone’s ability to articulate. They, like most spirits, were wise, clever, and if managed wrongly, dangerous.

  It slowed as it approached her, and then stopped and sat, watching her carefully. There was caution in its poise and demeanour, something every spirit manifested around her. Most- all- shamans could talk with spirits in some form or another, but a few, like Simone, could command them, make them do things they might not ordinarily do.

  Simone performed a ritual greeting, hands moving gracefully in specific patterns, fingers curling. She tapped her heart, her wrist, drew a spiral in the air with her finger. Without the painted symbols on her skin, it could be hard for the spirit to formally acknowledge her, so she introduced herself as best as she was able.

  “The Forest is a dangerous place for one of the Plains, child of Alteima.” It observed in a hollow voice that seemed to come from the earth, rather than the fox itself. It was an indifferent, disinterested observation rather than a warning or admonition.

  “The spirits of my People urged me to come.” Simone admitted, and then paused. “Have you any advice?”

  The fox’ spectral head tilted to the side.

  “You walk into danger, both from without and from within.” It finally replied. “Only darkness and shadows lie for you at the end of your path. Tread lightly.”

  Simone wanted to ask for more, but this visitation was unprompted by her, so she didn’t have the right to press too much without commanding, and she knew she was too new, too untested to command a spirit.

  “The forest...” She began, then paused, considering her words carefully. “Is vast.” She decided. “And I am very small. Can a guide be arranged for me?” She asked, trying to keep her request within the bounds of a request. “I...” She started, and then stopped. Spirits didn’t need things like food, or water, or shelter, and as such didn’t consider such things to be important. Distances were likewise irrelevant, as were most other mortal concerns. Asking for help navigating the forest, finding food and water, and asking after other mundane concerns could be risky, depending on the spirit.

  The fox threw back its spectral head and laughed, barking at the sky.

  “I shall.” The fox decided, after it stopped laughing. “Although you are rude, you show forbearance. Come, mortal.”

  Rude?

  It took a few minutes of thought as she packed up her small camp: Most meetings with spirits involved various entreaties and appeasements, and the burning of offerings. The shamans that invoked the spirits also commonly painted themselves in specific patterns so that they could be more easily seen and recognized by the spirits.

  Naturally, Simone had done none of these things; she hadn’t expected to meet a spirit in this place, hadn’t made the necessary preparations or provided any offerings. The spirit had approached her, unprompted.

  She sighed, a frown twisting her features. It seemed as if she’d have to paint herself and prepare some offerings.