Nemo : Tale of the Owl

[Windra]

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<b>Table of Contents</b>

<i>Prologue</i> - LINK
<i>Chapter One</i> - LINK

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[Windra]

<center>Nemo : Tale of the Owl
Prologue
- Windra -</center>



My life ...

How can one go about describing my life? It wasn't easy, that was for sure. From the beginning I was shunned. In the end I was seen as an equal. The path between those two climaxes was anything but rose-laden. My journey was long, hard, and filled with thorns that poked and prodded from underneath the dirt. No, I am not fond of the memories I hold. I would rather forget them, but to do so would lose a vital piece of who I am ... and what has shaped me into what I became.

Physically, I became something that I'm quite certain would draw ridicule from your voice and revulsion from your heart. I stand at five feet, five inches. Not very tall, not very short. I have short brown hair that ends at the tip of my chin. My bangs are wonky as shit - in an act of gravity defiance, the right side of my bangs shoots up and then hangs low to conceal my right eyes, which is covered by a thick black bandage: invisible to a world which it would not be able to see anyway. A smaller arching lock hangs over my left eye, a brilliant green speckled with deep emerald. Though a night-dweller, my skin is tan. I think that might have to do with my heritage, but we'll get to my lineage eventually ... like in the next chapter. Or would that be the first chapter? Anyway, I digress ... and I hear the Fourth Wall breaking. That wouldn't be too fun.

My dresswear is something you might see from the acclaimed Naruto series. Do you recall the chuunins and those thick vests they wore, with the collars that stretched upwards to conceal their necks? I have one of those, except it's char black instead of forest green. It's also made from Kevlar - bullet-resistant material is godly, in my opinion. Underneath the vest is a midnight-hued tee-shirt which, like the vest, only goes to just above my waist. That means I get to show off my oh-so-sexy belly button to the world ... whoo-hoo!

[Wolf whistle.]

Ahem ...

Complete with black zip-off slacks (they are loose and comfortable, ideal for mobility in tight situations), black armbands, black headband, and black bandages wrapped about my ankles, I look like some sort of martial artist. That's not far from the truth. You see, I specialize in taijitsus - hand-to-hand combat fighting. I could kick your ass.

Nonetheless, I sound like I look like a normal human being, right?

Wrong.

To my original appearance, add a few more details. These include:

- Razor sharp teeth.
- Dragon's feet (silver in color) complete with thick triad digits and alabaster claws.
- A dragon tail (also silver) that stretches for about five feet and is tipped with a jagged yellow spade broken from an incident long ago.

Put simply, I'm a freak. I guess it's kind of fitting, considering that I've been viewed as a nayee since I was born over five centuries in the past. However, the half-dragon appearance only came recently. For nearly five hundred years, I was thought of as a devil for a different reason. Why? What for? The answer is simple.

Humans are a strange species ...

They fear what they do not understand.

And they despise what they fear.

Even if what they're afraid of sheds just as much blood and tears, happiness and joys, as them. It's a little something we call discrimination. I, like others who were born in situations familiar to my own, was the bane of existence and the scorn of society. From the beginning to the end, I am and will always be the monster.

[Windra]

<center>Nemo : Tale of the Owl
Chapter One
- Windra -</center>




Night cloaked the eternity of the wilderness that would forever be Maine. Only the stars rushed out to greet the blackened sky, gracing the atmosphere with an ethereal glow that seemed almost too surreal to be tangible. Night hawks and owls called out in their deadly chimes, announcing their hunting parties as they tore from branches to dive at helpless mice scurrying to find shelters from their aerial assassins. Crickets deafened the ensuing noise of terrified rodents with the peaceful resolutions of mingled songs, piercing the world with a gentle choir. Shadows flicked between bushes, pausing once or twice to look over their furred shoulders only to go dashing off like mad again: silent as the clouds that passed low overhead, flickering with an occasionally limelight of a lightning bolt. A storm was approaching. It would hit before dawn arrived within less than two hours.

Two figures rushed along the dusty earth of Maine in late October. Judging by their varying gaits and patterns of running, one could easily identify that of the strangers was a man and a woman, both apparently middle-ages according to their height and weight proportions. The male was well-built and scantily clad in little more than a loincloth. Facial attributes were hidden from the world due to the darkness, but his long hair caught the moon's glow and shone with auburn tint before vanishing into onyx. The female was slightly shorter. She was donned in something of a ceremonial garb that stretched to her ankles and was stained with blood. Her complexion was far from fair - she was paler than a ghost and wane: the walking image of mother Death in all her glory. How she managed to stand with the exhaustion etched in every wrinkle upon her gaunt face was anybody's guess.

A bundle was within her arms, thickly wrapped. It could have been mistaken for nothing more than a loaf of bread had it not been uttering muted whispers and gargled cries every few seconds. A baby carried with ill manner and lack of care.

Blades of grass bent with the passing gusts of the two humanoids. The man was swifter, quickly overcoming and passing up his partner-in-crime. He looked as though he were running in terror from an area of a bad history. Staggering in her step, the woman called out after him with a thick voice choked with angst. "Ch-Chayton!" was her raspy shout, ending with a hacking cough.

Chayton paused long enough for his friend to catch up. When she was within arm's distance, she grabbed her into a loving embrace and led her forth, allowing her to lean upon his bare chest for support. "Come, Orenda. We're almost there."

Orenda was shaking her head. Every inch of her shuddered with violent gasps for breath. "I cannot ... "

"Hold on, my love ... "

Catering to the need to be comforted, Orenda furthered herself into Chayton's grip. She crushed the baby between two bodies, ignoring the stifled yelp of shock and lack of oxygen originating from the newborn. "I should not have bore this monster ... ," hissed she into the ear of her lover with malice dripping from each word like acid. "Look ... what she has done to me ... "

"It is a burden we will soon bear no longer, my Orenda-love. Look, we are almost there - the ocean leads the way!" He clutched her tightly, sweetly oblivious to the choking child even as it squirmed against his vulnerable skin.

Indeed the sea was the barer of good news for them. A roaring Atlantic smashed along the coastline to their left. Mist rolled up from the shore only to dissipate further into the sky, joining the clouds in a dance of ever-ether. Further beyond, just past a stretch of aged maples and pines, was a small settlement of tents carved from wood with leather, animal hides, and leaves stretched over them in the formation of secure roofs. The village was locked in sleep - not one light shone; not one body moved aside from their own. Orenda's sigh of relief turned into a swift gasp of pain. She doubled over, clutching at her abdomen with a yelp. The bundle dropped from her grip. It smashed into the earth headlong, sending the baby girl rolling, naked, onto the soil as limp as a rag doll. Cheyton helped his spouse rather than his seed, which he surveyed with scorn rather than concern of terror. Moments passed until the baby girl began to gargle and squirm, miraculously undamaged by the fall. Miraculously for the child, perhaps, but not for the parents who looked like they'd hoped the impact would have killed her.

"The village ... " Ordena's whisper was too faint to be heard by the human ear, but Cheyton caught the words and cupped her chin before she could take another step.

"Nature gave her to us. Nature will take her away." Nodding towards the infant, Cheyton scooped up his mate in his strong arms and stalked off into the night. He paused once to look over his shoulder like the many foxes scurrying about the location. One might imagine for a moment that he was feeling some remorse for his actions and was beginning to hesitate. In actuality he was hoping, as he vanished into the depths of oblivion, that one of those foxes might carry the baby girl off.

He looked back no longer. Cheyton and Orenda kept moving even as their next-of-kin began to cry into a world where she would not be accepted, unheard by even the most keen ear under a storm ready to pour down hellfire and brimstone.

[Windra]

<center>Nemo : Tale of the Owl
Chapter Two
- Windra -
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Adsila ...

Wakanda's first breath came out in a long drawl. She cupped the skeletal fragments in her palms, offering a rough shake before casting them upon the table like die in a game of Monopoly. The minuscule bird vertebrae, beak bones, and talons strewn across the wooden fixture with a loud rising clatter that echoed throughout a house that was far from empty. It was with a dull green eye that the woman watched the landing patterns the bone pieces assumed after the chuck: emerald blinked at the formation - a good omen, to be sure, but there was no smile gracing her aged features. Behind the eye patch, the blind right eye blinked excessively: demanding light and sight that it would never be graced with again. Wakanda stretched an emaciated fingertip to prod at a lonely shard of hummingbird skull. The cartilage rolled under her touch and fell to its side like a victim touched by the hand of Death himself. Slow exhalation of carbon: Wakanda sighed, furthering the travel of the broken fragment by tipping it over a second time. The woman pitched forward, supporting her chin with her hands while resting elbows upon the wooden table carved from the finest, tallest, and oldest of pine trees. She'd had the bit of furniture for over fifty years. For Wakanda, it was a grim reminder of her age and weakness.

Gods ... She was only fifty-nine years old. How long had it been since she was pronounced a Shaman for the Mimiteh Tribe village? Wakanda had to blink at the deer-hide coated ceiling to ponder that inquiry. Ah yes, she'd become a mystic at the tender age of nine; before she even entered the stage of adulthood that everybody grew to love and hate at the same time. Youth had not held back Wakanda's special prowess for reading what could not be read by other people. Spiritual energies, ghosts, good fortunes and ill-begotten desires ... Wakanda could see everything from the faintest flicker of ethereal energy to massive gatherings of ghosts from across the globe during All Hallow's Eve, which would take place tonight no less. She was inducted instead of claimed as a voluntary kid - forced into this manner of business and future-prophesizing by no her own choice, but the choice of her elders and superiors together. Wakanda looked the part of a mystic fifty years down the road. With her bony features (she looked as though she had starved herself, when in reality it was simply the natural lithe frame of her body), ratty gray hair that flowed from scalp to the small of her back in long locks and deep curls, sallow face, long nose, and claw-like nails, she appeared to be more of a witch than a maiden of the Fates. A jagged scar worked its way up the nape of her chin to just below her left eyebrow. Her gown of deepest gold was so loose upon her body that it hung like a draping rag. Its coloration matched that of the ribboned armband tied to her left forearm and the bandanna coating her forehead. Her skin held a slightly yellow glow to it and her eyes catered to the pouches just beneath them. She was sick - her illness was as evident as the day was bright. For the last year and a half she had been dying. Wakanda's health wavered bit by struggling bit, but it was not from a common illness. Her immune system, Wakanda deciphered not so long ago, was failing miserably. Any viral or other bacterium that flew her way was caught in an instant.

Adsila ...

It hadn't always been like this. At one point in time Wakanda had been a healthy middle-aged woman with a lot to live for. But when Adsila died ... When Adsila died, everything went to Hell for the woman. The elder Shaman placed her palms at the edge of the table and gave a shove. She tipped backwards in her chair, the only good eye she had closing in a moment of stark recollection.

My daughter ...

With glorious brown locks and blazing green eyes, Adsila had been the spitting image of her mother during her years as a child. By some freak chance Adsila had not inherited Wakanda's curse and was thus free to be who she was and what she wanted, when and where, without the High Council calculating her every move for her. Aloof in demeanor and unnaturally high-spirited, Adsila had been the bright spot for many of the people in town. Neighbors adored her for the charming light she gave off: the way everybody got happy whenever she was nearby, as though all of their troubles and sorrows had dissipated into a world of make-believe where nothing could go wrong. So many children followed her like a flock of eager geese seeking a leader for the long migration south. Adsila loved it. She became the teacher for the young where their parents had failed them. Nature was on of the subjects she taught them. Adsila made them learn how to survive in the wilderness by showing them what kinds of berries could and could not be eaten, how to make fires, how to tell what direction they were going based on the stars and the growth of moss on aging trees.

Adsila was everything a mother could want. Wakanda and her held a relationship that stretched beyond the confines of the universe. It was a bond that could not be broken or at least not by them. But finally even their limits were tested. Yellow fever rampaged through the Village and claimed many a victim. Adsila was one of them and Wakanda had never been the same since. The death of her only child brought down a world of grief upon her.

Adsila ...

Wrinkled eyelids cracked open to survey everything that was above and around her. The ceiling was laced with brilliant tools of oblong shapes and sizes. Nothing was ordinary. There were hooks and claws and gadgets that didn't seem natural nor humane; weapons and ceremonial items that would be rattled at the sky while prancing about the traditional fires of Destiny. Sun-dried bird and rodent carcasses hung from leather straps, their bodies clanking together with a breeze that did not exist. Those subjects would become useful during Wakanda's multiple rituals involving fortune-telling and sight-Seeing. Cages lines the walls, along with a wild assortment of flowers and pots and pans that would make any Martha Stuart fan green with envy. For such a small hut, this place was filled with color and clutter - so much that it would have seemed impossible to have room to walk around in had Wakanda not devised a little pathway through the junk.

A tired emerald oculi surveyed the mess with little thought other than her own faded memories. A sigh escaped pursed lips. Wakanda scooped up the bones scattered about the table. A leather pouch sat at her side. She took and emptied the contents of her hands into it. Next she procured a small pipe from her person and lit it with a bit of flint lying haphazardly on a stack of papers to her right. A couple puffs of clove was all it took to ease her mind into a heavier state of euphoria. Smoke filled her lungs - instant cancer, but she who was miserable did not worry about little things like that. The Shaman exhaled, breathing slow and methodically. Her eyes slammed shut for a moment only to open again ... and blink in surprise at the sight bestowed upon her.

The smoke from the exit-wound of her pipe tapered into the atmosphere but did not immediately dissipate. Instead it took the form of something large and feathered. The placement of the beak and the round head furthered the detail of this strange smoke creature. An owl? A barn owl? The image fluttered out of view when Wakanda blew on it. She tried again, blowing heavily into the air with thick smog. Again appeared Tyto alba, clearer this time. It lasted a few moments longer. Then it finally faded into nothing.

Narrowing a green eyes, the Shaman wondered about the chances of such a vision. She also wondered what it could mean. Owls were largely considered bad omens. They symbolized horrid forthcomings: night, death, darkness and all that lurks within the confines of midnight. What is coming, my Gods? she questioned nothing.

Suddenly a loud clamoring cry rose from outside. The Shaman snuffed out her pipe and placed it on the table; she was already on her feet when a rat-tat-tapping sounded at the wooden plank outside her door. Wakanda swung about in time to witness a young man in his early teens clad in warrior garb and clutching a quiver pile through the leather strip separating her dominion from the rest of the world. The lad was out of breath. He struggled for air even as Wakanda approached.

"What is it?" she called out, voice sharp and tact.

"Lady Wakanda ... !" Dipping into a bow made awkward by his lack of oxygen, the boy gasped, "Your presence is requested ... in the Village Square ... "

Judging by his actions, Wakanda understood that something ill was afoot. She waved a dismissive hand towards him and nodded. "Thank you, young Ishen. Inform them that I will be with them shortly. My bones call to me."

Ishen nodded and ducked out of view. A small smile pulled at the corners of Wakanda's face. She turned towards the leather pouch with purpose in her stride. "Fate brings a gift of strange to the Village of the Mimiteh Tribe. What could it be, I wonder?" crooned the old woman with an air of mysticism as she pulled the tiny bones into her hands and rattled them together: prepping to roll them like die of the game of Life.

--

"Did you see it?"

"That marking! How could it be?"

"Devil be scorned, the thing is a monster!"

"The scorn of Kuro lives!"

"That is a Reaver mark. How did that babe get here?"

"Don't be fooled by the appearance: this creature is an abomination!"

Rising in pitch and clumping together like bells in a belfry, the hushed voices of worried Villagers quickly became rushing shouts that merged together in a sloppy hellstorm. The convergence of bodies of all shapes and sizes did not go unnoticed: well over thirty people circling one spot in the midst of the town with more people gathering by the second. Some were naked while others were decked in simple rags and tattered cloths. Still others wore their hunting/gathering garb, complete with bows and arrows and quivers strapped to their backs, along with small, nimble daggers made of obsidian and glass tied to their hips with long bits of thread and rope. The variances in their skin tone and hair color alone were enough to display their wide array of background and genetics. A few things, at least, held them in common with one another. Most of the Villagers - elders and middle-agers, typically - wore masks of terrified horror while the children and younger versions of their parents simply stared on, trying to make sense of something they couldn't quite comprehend. Newborns cried in the arms of their mothers and fathers, disliking the mush of catcalls and crows as much as sensitive-eared felines.

"We should kill it now, while there is still a chance!" proclaimed one of the multitudes. He swung an axe into the air with a battle pose and a fierce posture.

"I second that! We have no idea what this could bode for us!" shouted a second. Though female and dressed accordingly, the vocalist wavered a club with stark viciousness. A cold, calculating gleam crossed her eyes.

"We will do no such thing until Lady Wakanda has laid witness!"

A hush fell across the crowd. Everybody turned slowly, their backs shifting to take in the sight of the baby wrapped in blanket on the dirt-covered road while their eyes traced after a triad of men approaching their crude circle. Heads bowed out of respect. Weapons were lowered to sides with each gait from the three strangers who looked to have walked from the very Halls of Time, for they were aged beyond belief. The first was short and round. His nose was crooked and his skin was white-washed, mottled here and there by patches of pale tan. All that remained of his silver hair was a single curl that cascaded down the length of his nose. Tall and lanky, the second was the exact opposite. His hue was much darker, as though at some point in the past he'd been thrown into the sun and made it out alive, but terribly charred. Blood red eyes stared out from the chocolate of his body, coinciding with the fading crimson wisps that draped from his scalp. The third of the group was the most balanced. Slightly pot-bellied but with enough muscle to cast aside the small flaw, his skin held a yellowish glow. Black stripes wrapped around his arms, legs, torso, and thighs. His eyes were black and beady with multiple points of light within the pupils - a distinct hornet-like appearance. Perhaps that was why his name was Hesutu, which roughly translated to "yellow jacket nest rising out of the ground".

Looking down at her feet in shame, the woman with the club in the air backed away with shame. "Of course, Chief Hesutu ... I meant nothing by my exclamation ... "

The chocolate-hide man waved a hand about dismissively. "Your attitude is entirely understood. We do not appreciate this unprecedented event any more than you do."

"As Kuruk evasively said," announced the pudgy man with a hoarse voice, nodding towards the being with red eyes, "the appearance of a future Soul Reaver is a bad omen upon this Village. We would be better off without her here but - "

"But nothing, Hassun!" snapped Hesutu. His eyes held a fire unsurpassed by any in the far-from-little congregation. "We will not do a thing until Wakanda has deemed a necessary course of action. She is our, how would you say, adviser. To go about without following her advice would reflect badly on us all, in more ways than one." He stepped forth with a stride that held more weight with seriousness than the god Horus. "Who found the child?" inquired he as he came upon the wrapped bundle, now at the tip of his toes. He stared down with a frown, every wrinkle displaying disgust.

A young woman no older than twenty stepped from the fray. Long golden locks spilled across her back in magnificent curls. Baby blues held a sheen of sorrow, thickly masked by the aloofness she disposed and the glow of her skin. "I did," she muttered in a low, solemn voice echoing regret.

"What happened?"

The girl fidgeted under Chief Hesutu's penetrating gaze. "I ... you see, I was out with my basket. I was about to pick some daisies from the hill - I love to do that every day one hour before the sun rises from the horizon and I wanted to get it done as quickly as possible because the wind was picking up and a storm was on the way - when I found this ... baby ... lying on the soil carelessly. She - it - was crying so vigorously and looked so alone ... I wondered why it was there and where the parents were and went to pick her up. I-I wrapped her in a cloth and saw ... ," she gave a long pause, " ... the mark. On her back. Between the shoulder blades. The Reaver Unlucky Seven."

"How long ago was this?" interrogated Kuruk.

"About fifteen minutes, sir. I rose the alarm upon the discovery. People began to gather and ... well, here we are."

Hesutu's grimace deepened. He tapped the child, still sobbing but muted from the passing of time (and there were no more tears to be shed) with the tip of his toes. "I hope Wakanda is able to come up with a good solution. A sacrifice - "

"Is not needed," announced the aged female. She came up from between two tents, walking up to the rest of them haggardly. Everybody within the circle, even the chief of the village, watched as she arrived. Wakanda bowed as she entered the eclipse. She stopped beside Hesutu, gave him a scornful look in reprimand for his actions of 'kicking' the baby, and bent low to scoop the child into her arms. The rebellious actions were so deviant that many spectators shrunk back in revulsion with gasps. Hesutu was not immune.

"Wakanda, what are you - "

"I will raise her as my own."

More gasps. The chief's frown became an open scowl. "Unthinkable!"

Offering him a gaze that showed lack of concern, Wakanda blinked. "Is it so?"

"You know well what risks we would take in bringing this child into our abode! Kuro is not a force to be reckoned with, even with the powers of the Mimiteh Tribe. Our special blood would do nothing against his brutality! All the evolution in the world would not stop the wrath he and his Shadowfolk could incur upon us!"

"I have read the bones," retorted Wakanda airily. She waved a hand, passing off the anger directed towards her. "This child will be the bearer of a great burden in the future. She will be a worthy ally if treated accordingly. Very powerful - stronger than even Kuro, I surmise, given time." The generalized silence made the Shaman smile gently. "I will take her in as one of my own, raise her to be - "

But she stopped dead The baby had just opened her eyes, wincing in the light but catching the glow. Brilliant emerald met its faded counterpart. Wakanda's face screwed up into something unreadable. She brushed a solitary tear from the baby's cheek.

"Such lovely eyes ... " It came out as little more than a whisper. Hesutu had to strain to hear what was said. "You want her dead, I understand that." The Shaman's orbs locked suddenly with Hesutu's pits. "But that will not be so. I decree that she should not be killed."

"Wakanda - "

"Such lovely, big eyes." Wakanda tapped the little girl's nose. The bundle giggled, swatting at the emaciated hand and grabbing a forefinger in the process. "I think I shall call you ... Naira. It means 'big eyes', you know."

The baby genuinely smiled. For the first time in a very long while, so did Wakanda.

[Windra]

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[OoC: CHEESY =D]


--

Nemo : Tale of the Owl
Part Three
- Windra -</center>




To this very day, human beings are skeptical when it comes to the ideology of ghosts, spirits, and phantoms. How could something exist if it is surreal - sometimes invisible, mostly untouchable - caught only in a glimpse or from the corner of an eye, or sensed by the passing of a chilled wind or the prickle one feels when the hairs on the back of his or her neck rise on end? The notion of being watched could be dismissed as a fit of paranoia and nothing more. Specters? Bah-humbug! They were no more real than the sudden flash of green light spotted when the sun sets, which has never actually been proven and officially documented other than by word of mouth ...

But the villagers of the Mimiteh Tribe were fervent believers in the forces of nature and the spirits that roamed the world. Everything, to them, had a soul - even the rock that was casually skipped across the shallows of the beach! Stepping on an ant could represent the demolition of a community. A spider weaving its web would symbolize the creation of eternity ('This is the song that never ends ... '). A bad harvest or the sudden appearance of a rare creature could determine the routines of everybody within the town: from encouraging them to work harder, be better, or understand that everything was going to be okay and there were no worries in the world. Based upon their belief system was a number of traditions that were upheld throughout the generations and had yet to be deterred, defied, or disregarded. To cast one aside was to disrespect Gaia, and that would invoke the wrath of the storms, high surges, and bolts of lightning. Nobody wanted that, now did they?

And yet here were the Elders, trying to dissuade Wakanda from commencing a procedure that was an absolute must for all newborn children.

"It shall not be done." Hesutu was shaking his head, yellowish skin catching the glint of the fire light.

He, Hassun, and Kuruk were sitting side-by-side on one side of the pyre: embers floated into the air to illuminate their figures, decent or not. Wakanda was on the other side of them, sickly and pale as ever but with a new glow to her eyes. It was well past one in the morning. Everybody within the Village was either asleep or keeping watch for rogue coyotes or wolves that might come their way to steal some food. The Elders and Wakanda, however awake they tried to act, were clearly drowsy. Each one of them had their eyes half-lidded by fatigue and stress. They were gathered in an exterior hut outside of the Shaman's home. Wakanda's wrinkled, skeletal hand was clasped around a crib made from straw and roots. Within it was a sleeping babe, soundless and at peace with the world for the first time since she had been found. One had to wonder if babies had nightmares about things they experienced. For Naira, at least, it was true. For the last five days, she'd been fitful - thrashing about and crying as though being struck from every side. More than once she'd fallen and added more bruises to her already battered young body. Wakanda had tended to each injury with the loving care of a mother. It would take many weeks for the fragile youngling's physical ailments to recover completely. As for the emotional aspects ... well one had to wonder if children could recall anything about their years as babies anyway. Maybe that was what suppressed memories were for?

"It cannot," continued Hesutu with determination and anger lining his very controlled voice.

"I fail to see the reasoning of such a decision," hissed Wakanda a little more harshly than she hoped. The woman had been arguing with the Elder Council for the better part of two hours now. She was not only fatigued and devoid of energy, but on the edge of beating them all over the head with some sort of wood. "Tradition has been firm in this tribe for centuries. Mimiteh - "

" - keeps with the culture to please the gods only when true villagers are concerned. True humans!" Hassun was very vibrant with what he said. Beady eyes looking beyond his crooked nose, he stared down at Wakanda as if she were a pile of garbage in a patch of roses. "That thing," he pointed to the crib with a crooked finger, "is far from one of us, much less ... human!"

Kuruk nodded, although his face showed nothing more than a thin frown. "Her parents were not of this Village."

Wakanda frowned. "And you know this how?"

"There was a trail of blood," he explained, "leading from the point where the babe had been dropped off. I sent a group of trackers to follow it. They came back with a grisly report." Despite his strong features, the dark-skinned male appeared visibly shaken.

Hesutu picked up where he left off. "The blood belonged to the mother. She was hemorrhaging as she and her mate walked off into the sunset, so to speak." He rubbed his yellowish scalp. The next words leaked exhaustion of another sort. "The trackers found the bodies of her and her mate about two miles south of here. It appears that a pack of some kind of wild animal - coyote, most likely - came upon them, lured by the scent of blood. Judging by what was left of them, and that was very little, they did not originate from Mimiteh. Furthermore, a census performed yesterday confirms that there haven't been any missing person reports. Everybody was and is here."

Hassun scoffed, crossing his arms. "Put simply, two strangers, one who was taking poor care for herself if at all, swung by the Mimiteh Village, dropped a burden in our laps, and went on their merry way. Only it didn't end merrily," he huffed. "In my personal opinion, they deserved it, what with bringing a Soul Reaver into the wo - "

"That's quite enough, Glub," snapped Wakanda, her gaunt cheeks appearing to deepen with her frown. Despite his large frame, the obese man backed down as though he'd been smacked upon the head by a mace and was being threatened with another whack. The baby Naira in the crib whimpered slightly in her passive sleep, but quickly became silent once more.

"The point is," continued Kuruk, "that because this child - Naira, you call her? - is not of this Village, she therefore has no right to partake in any of our traditions."

"And you would offend the spirits so?" growled the Shaman. She waved a hand gesturing to her small outskirt hut, which was filled with all sorts of ritualistic knickknacks. "'Tis a tradition we have followed for centuries upon centuries without faltering once. Besides which, Naira is my child now. You can call her parents outsiders all you want, but as far as I am concerned, she is now part of the community and will be treated as a fellow Villager, not as some monster!"

An uneasy silence fell upon the Council. They looked to one another. Hassun drew in a deep breath and you could see the argument he was preparing firing up in his eyes. Before one hissing note could be spoken, Hesutu waved him off with a flick of his calloused fingers.

"Two years ago," announced the Chief with a nostalgic note in his voice, "you predicted possible danger in my son's future. You warned me to take precaution and to keep constant watch over him. As you know, the day after you told me this ... he wandered off, as young children his age typically do." Bright eyes locked with dim green ones. "I had my eyes on him the entire time. If it had not been for your advice, I would have ignored the trouble and probably would not have noticed my child's shortcoming of curiousity and the urge to stalk off to places alone. If it had not been for your prediction, that cougar would have killed him."

There was another moment of silence, this one a little less uncomfortable. Wakanda didn't even blink. Hesutu met her stare with an equally unwavering gaze.

"I have trusted you from the moment you were given Shaman status and displayed your prowess. Because you saved my son's life ... my respect has increased tenfold. It has not faded since" He lowered his head, softly uttering, "If you truly wish for the ritual to be performed on this child ... this Naira ... then so be it."

Kuruk and Hassun and Kuruk drew up into alarmed sitting positioned, clearly put off.

"But Chief, that would lead to chaos! To have this Reaver's premonition foretold - "

"Unthinkable! She is not one of us! Nobody in the Tribe will accept this act of blasphemy!"

Hesutu's dagger words were as sharp as Wakanda's glare. "Are you challenging my leadership abilities?" he growled, staring down the two. They backed off without a word. "My verdict stands and will remain as such. The Sevenday Spirit Guide Ceremony will be performed two day from now at the stroke of midnight." He affirmed this with a sharp nod of his head.

"Thank you." Wakanda bowed her head, brushing a finger across Naira's youthful forehead to ease her sleeptalk. Hassun and Kuruk stood to leave, clearly disgruntled. Hesutu was about to follow when the elderly woman leaned forward until the embers licked at her face. "I do, however, have one more request."

The Elders paused. Hesutu, on his feet now, was the first to turn back to her. "And what is that?"

She had a dark tone to her voice, reeking of impending doom. "I know very well that the Villagers want nothing more than to see Naira dead. They are not willing to have a young Soul Reaver wandering about the Village like any of the normal children." Her eyes lit up to mock the campfire. "I want you to assert a rule towards everybody that she will not be struck. If so, the offender will have to answer to me. Is that understood?"

As if being threatened by his scolding mother, Hesutu bowed his head. "Fully."

The air was tense for a long while. Wakanda suddenly broke into a smile. "So then, two days from now! I will make the preparations. Be sure to let the Villagers know of this ceremony!"

--

October fell to pieces, succumbing fast to November's call. With Autumn failing fast, Winter was taking hold of the state of Maine, at the time not identified as a state. A chill possessed the air that held firm like no other gust. A Villager would fall to sleep with a small pond in front of his or her house that had been formed from the afternoon's rain, only to find it frozen over in the morning instead of evaporating. Occasional gatherings clouds promised snow. Sometimes there were flurries. Sometimes there were not. It all depended, as the Villagers said, on what the Spirits demanded.

A sevenday had passed since Naira's presumed birth. As was customary, a ceremony (though it had faced the danger of being canceled) was to be performed as custom and tradition demanded. The men and women of Mimiteh, as noted earlier in this chapter, were firm believers in the forces of nature. This did not stop with events that happened in their everyday lives (with long-term or short-term effects), but also during the birthing of every child. It was thought that young fledglings of the Village were linked to an animal that would represent his or her spiritual essence and likely future path. Alligators dispensed the notion of adaptability, whereas dragonflies signified a life of a whirlwind of activity. Horses represented a great ability to cope with all obstacles. Due to the shedding of its skin, a snake represented life, death, and rebirth - constant changes and transformation. Images of these sprites would be brought to life during the ceremony performed one week after the birth of a child: The Sevenday Spirit Guide Ceremony. In a brief but ever-fateful moment, a ghostly image of an animal totem would be made real to all onlookers, and the ultimate destiny and characteristics of that child were to be determined.

The subject of this ceremony was Naira. With a Soul Reaver practically on the alter, it was no wonder why all of the Villagers of Mimiteh were nervous ... Would she be good, or evil? Dark, or light? It was about to be found out.

The night was cool. For the first time in five days, the clouds let up and gave in to the sun and clear skies. Right now the stars were visible - all of them. Constellations previously unknown to man twinkled in the sky, still bright due to the lack of technology, pollution, and other barriers that would prevent crystalline visibility. Despite the beauty of the night, the cold was still a gripping matter. Breaths exhumed in clouds of frozen carbon. Bodies gathered around the Village Square's massive campfire were huddled together in shivering masses - both from trepidation and the cold. A hoot from a nearby owl whistled once and vanished like a ghost's whisper on the wind.

Wakanda stood at the head of the campfire. On either side of her were the three Elders and resting in a basket before her, covered from head to toe in blankets so that hypothermia would not set in and sickness wouldn't arrive, was Naira. The child was fast asleep, stirring occasionally as though she felt the many eyes peering at her sleeping quarters with anxiety, tension, and disgust. Wakanda glimpsed around. With a once over, she slowly stood. A basket she'd had sitting at her side was taken up. Her old hands clasped the matter inside. Closing her eyes with a sigh, she approached. Embers lit up her face, highlighting the wrinkles and shading the pits. All the Villagers clenched their teeth, muscles taut and prepared for the worst. The only thing keeping their objections silent were the quiet glares from Hesutu. That was enough to make a lion tame.

She tossed the matter into the air with a flick of her right wrist - the pyre light revealed it to be an odd mixture of some type of dust, dirt, hematite pebbles and what appeared to be animal blood - and the ritual began. Stalking about the campfire, she continued to throw the medley of objects into it while chanting something that could not be understood by the Villagers - a language so ancient that nobody in the present would be able to untie the tangled tongue. Once she completed three revolutions about the fire, Wakanda set the basket on the ground. She stooped over Naira's cradle. Aged eyes softened slightly in their sockets. For a moment she said nothing, only absorbed what she saw: youth. An innocent baby with nothing but aloofness in her heart and mind. Would that change for the worst in the future? What kind of metamorphosis would Naira be forced to undergo?

Images, hazy and out-of-focus: blood and fire, lost and alone. Wandering, confused, later determined; Revenge. Anger, hatred - cold emotion. An offer of some sort that may cost a life ... what would turn out to be a very long life filled with strife, perilous events, new and breaking friendships and rivalries, striped beasts with sharp teeth and angels ...

Wakanda shook her head. Clasping her nose in sudden nausea, she swayed. Hesutu grabbed her shoulder to settle her. "Are you alright?" he whispered.

The Shaman paused for a moment. After taking a deep breath she replied with, "It's nothing."

In truth ... everything she'd just been presented with, those images ... they made no sense and yet they fit the puzzle perfectly. Wakanda's eyes shone with great concern and wisdom for a second before they faded into concentration. She lowered her skeletal hands, one covered in grime, into the cradle and picked Naira up. The child gurgled once. Emerald eyes, so bright, cracked open as if to say, Why did you wake me up, Mama?

Wakanda smiled. "It's time."

And with that, Naira, only a week old, was raised into the air as if being offered to the fire. There was total silence from all around - even the chattering of teeth halted. Everybody was in silent anticipation, revolted fear ...

And then a plume of smoke exploded from the flames, erupting upwards. It hovered there, lifeless and blotchy. Taking shape slowly, the ether spread out and stretched. Edges that appeared to be feathers extended from the main body which was thick and pudgy. A beak, a tail ... Eventually color was added to the form - brief flashes of tan, brown, white and black with a small smudge of yellowish-orange. Talons, too! The beast flapped its mighty wings, calling out to the world with a cry of dispersing life before vanishing as quickly as it came. For anybody unfamiliar with the Mimiteh Tribe, the lightning-quick spectacle would have been as awesome as being stuck inside a tornado's funnel and living to tell the tale. For the Villagers, however, there was nothing 'cool' about it.

For what Naira's totem beast was ... shook them to the core.

There were few creatures in Native American mythology that had negative meanings. One of them was a representative of darkness and death, wisdom yet terrible omen. That was an owl.

Naira of the Owl was lowered. Wakanda gently turned her around so that the babe and the woman gazed at each other with expressionless faces.

"Interesting," was all Wakanda could say.

[Windra]

Nemo : Tale of the Owl
Chapter 4

The world was full of many beasts. Things with claws and teeth that could rend flesh from bone. Creatures bearing spines that, when pricked, introduced toxins into the victim's bloodstream. There were those that spewed sticky nets in which prey would be trapped, helpless to watch its victor tread along the web with hungry eyes staring. Elongated reptiles were naturally apt to coil about your neck, crushing the trachea and thus restraining nourishing oxygen from entering starved lungs. Huge monsters of thick muscle and burly mass could crush bones on a whim. So many breathing, bleeding monsters capable of ending one life after another.

And yet there was no beast fiercer than the life-giving ocean.

She went out there sometimes. When the moon was full and the night was full of nothing but chirping crickets and hooting owls ... when taunts and hisses and curses and cries drove her into hiding from the public eye long enough to calm her own inner turmoil ... The scent of salted water was euphoric. It teased her senses, made her crave more. She could feel it all the way in the village. So when her tired body and bruised skin and burning eyes could take no more, the little one would wander on bare feet through the overgrowth and rough brush. Thistles and branches would swipe gently at her cheeks: a caress from nature.

A soft breeze thick with the sea's aroma, whistling ever-quietly as if to say it was alright, always brushed the hair from her broken, tear-streaked face as if to say that it was okay, everything was going to be alright. "The sea welcomes those the land does not."

Breaking from the last vestige of trees, she would stand staring out beyond the trecherous cliff. Green eyes wide, unable to fully comprehend the beauty of what lay before her. It was so much. It was too much. Here blew the air, here smashed the sea. How could something so dangerous be so wholly awesome? Wave after wave crashed against conflicting tides, rocks, and shoreline. If she looked down, perhaps she could catch a glimpse of raccoons making off with their horseshoe crab dinner, or the newborn wolf pups frolicking like the giddy children they were.

She adored this place. Everything just felt right.

Pressed by the smoothness of grass blades against her naked heels, the child sat with her legs dangling over the precarious edge. She leaned back. By supporting her weight on her arms she could lean back to watch the stars. They twinkled and shone. Green orbs widened in awe as one pinprick of light quickly flashed across her range of vision and vanished into the night.

"Shooting star," she whispered to nobody. Soft in vocals, light in octave. Bliss circled.

[ Make a wish. ]

The ghostly voice was so airy and light: so peripheral that one would question whether they had heard anything at all, or if it had just been one's imagination. By now the girl was used to this odd occurrence. Welcomed it, in fact, for the milky sound belonged to the only other being that would socialize with her other than her own mother, Wakanda. "I can wish upon the moon and stars, Polaris and Sirius, even on the galaxy trail," said the child, weight heavy 'pon her own words, "but I don't think it will come true."

Movement from behind. Feathers splayed out in the form of two giant wings. Curiosity peered out from two black, beady eyes that devoured everything they rested on. [ Defeatism has always been the mind-killer. ] Hoo! The shrill call went unheard by roosting birds, fast asleep in their nests. [ A positive attitude will get you anywhere. ]

A moment of silence made the tiniest sounds audible. The child swept aside a lizard crawling in the grass by her thigh before it could start to climb and turned her head with a soft smile on otherwise bleak features, glimpsing the surreal barn owl hiding within the shadows. "You were always horrible at giving uplifting advice, Leise. But you know just as well as I do ... " Her vision traveled beyond the flora and fauna. The village was but a silhouette on the horizon, imbued here and there with fading lanterns. A vacant, distant point of firelight appeared in one of the girl's green eyes. "They will never stop hating me, will they."

Now the owl was always brusque with honesty. Being the girl's totem spirit, what more could he do? Lie and present to her an array of falsehoods? [ I was never very good at coating my words with sweet molasses, ] came the wise reply. [ Though your mother loves you very dearly ... and I myself admit that I have grown very fond of you throughout the years ... the others will continue to despise you until your departure from this place. ]

This was not the first time the word 'departure' was mentioned, yet it still picked at her curiousity. "You keep saying that. What do you mean?"

Leise's ebony beak clicked. [ All in good time, young Naira. Advice I may beseech upon you, but of your future I will not preach. I do not dare to tread on Fate's toes. ]

Naira heaved a sigh of impatience, rubbing her forehead. "Pleaaaaaaase? At least give me a hint?"

Nothing for a moment. Then ... [ Let us just say that ... your life will be long. And interesting. And long. ]

"That is not helping me much ... " She sighed at Leise's choir of hoots, unable to decipher whether or not he was just making the noises out of habit, or if he was laughing. Did the barn owl ghost have a sense of humor? She sorely hoped so.

It had been seven long years since her birth and abandonment, her adoption and her acquiescence of Leise the Barn Owl guide. Despite her youth, Naira behaved more like an adult than most of the other children within the village. Days and days of being chased, tormented, abused by angry townfolk, stoned by kids who were told by their parents that she was evil ... those days taught her how to survive in the midst of chaos. She learned quickly, adopting methods of stealth and honing old ones. This included her bloodline ability, traced from mother and father to biological child - two inherited traits that made her more special than normal humans.

This was the great secret of the Mimiteh Tribe - the reason they were so revered by other Natives that prowled the lands. Centuries of unhindered worship to their gods resulted in gifted abilities passed down from one generation to the next. A mother who healed quickly gave her quick cellular regeneration abilities to her son or daughter by means of genetics. One might breath flames. Another might touch and object and turn it to stone. For Naira, these traits included hindsight from the mother, and speed from the father. But the lineage was questionable, for her now deceased parents had not been part of Mimiteh, and thus should not have been of the blessed bloodline. 'Twas a curiosity that could not then and never now be explained, for those whom the answers could have come from no longer lived.

Years of running made her into a very agile little girl. And she was smart, there was no denying that: Naira figured out a lot of things well before those within her age group did. Damn it all, though ... she had tried to make it all better, tried to defy her own 'banishment from regular society' by helping others, by being friendly ... always smiling. Once while gathering berries in the woods for Wakanda, Leise alarmed her that there was a bear nearby. She made haste to climb a tree before the beast could come within ear shot and, in doing so, saw that it was chasing a little village boy with vengeance and roars and snarls. The basic instinct had been to help. And she did so, bombarding the bear from above with branches, stones, pine cones ...

Spooked by the sudden unseen attack, the bear ran. Naira climbed down to see if the boy was okay. Her good will was thanked with a sucker punch to the face, tear-soaked accusations that she had somehow sent the beast after him. The boy promptly ran off to his family with the lie streaming from his maw. When Naira returned to the village that evening with a basket of blackberries, she was greeted with a mob of ten people. They beat her down and stole the berries. By the time Wakanda got wind of what happened, Naira was already ditched, unconscious and injured, in a field nearby. Her surrogate mother found her by following the circling turkey vultures.

Since that time, Naira learned that there was no way to convince the villagers that she was anything but evil. But what of the Reaver taboo, anyway? She knew nothing about the mark on her back. True, it was slightly intimidating (if nifty-looking, in Naira's opinion), but was that really enough of a reason to cast her out?

They thought so.

In fact, the only thing keeping them from killing the 'scourge of their home' was Wakanda's forced vow upon the tribe chief, Hesutu, that no harm would come to Naira. And while that promise had been broken many times, no life-threatening blow had been inflicted.

Naira sighed into her palm. Green eyes glided over the soft skin of her fingers. They were bruised in many placed with patched of healing yellow in others: a thumbnail map of the rest of her body's injuries. A stab of pain in her upper abdomen reminded her of the possibly broken rib that was smacked with an angry elder's staff. Naira shuddered at the sudden cold feeling enveloping her body. She suddenly wished not to be alone. To be surrounded by comfort. Thoughts drifted to Wakanda. Her little heart writhed in her chest.

Softly, she spoke. "Will mother die?" Naira may have been young, but she knew and understood the concept of death. It frightened her.

[ You ask me, yet you already know the answer, do you not? ] answered Leise. There was a sullen mood about him. Was it possible for the ghost to be sad? Pained, at least? [ Her condition is growing steadily more severe. ]

Nothing could break the quiet that settled now. While Leise shifted into a position of comfort, his bleak eyes staring down at his leige, Naira vouched to say nothing. Her visage was focused on the distant horizon. A stray cloud moved out of the moon's line of fire, allowing the last quarter's light to shine down once more upon the raging sea. Shadows from trees stretched out like skeletons' hands. One rested 'pon Naira's back, silently swaying in the chilled breeze. Autumn was a quick racer, speeding along the seasonal calender. Within a few weeks it would be turning the corner, intent on taking this territory at full-speed.

Until then, a sort of chill fastened onto all that lived near: a forebearer of nature's ominous warning. And that was a cold that could not be warmed by a blanket and hot drink, much less a mother's love.

--

Naira allowed a few more moments to pass before she was on her merry way. The trek was taken alone: Leise's feathered body flitted somewhere else for the time being, content to spend some time to himself. He took his leave with silence, not mentioning where he was going, nor when he would return. The young Reaver was used to his sudden vanishing as much as she was to his random appearances, and she took it with a grain of salt. Using foliage to her advantage, Naira stepped this way and that. She was determined to make as little noise as possible. It would not help her situation any should a particularly stressed villager take notice of the most hated member of the tribe. Though she was so used to pain that she could withstand a great deal of it, her body was prone to give out well before her mind registered anything was wrong at all.

Something odd lingered heavily here. Naira could not shame. A sense of wrong. It tugged her in all corners. She was rushed by an innate sense: hurry! What? What w -

Ah ... that could be why.

Trepidation stole her heart away. Naira was running long before she knew her legs were even moving. Horror prodded at the back of her mind: absolute fear. What had gone wrong? Did something happen? And more importantly ... why was there a line of villagers stretching from her mother's tent opening all the way to the other end of the village? Every person held a torch. Every person held sullen expressions. Every person had tears in their eyes, streaming down their faces. Some wiped their cheeks on their sleeves while others stood shameless in the fires' flickering lights.

"Mother!" Naira was yelling, voice so loud that it startled even herself. Many turned at her call. anger partially wiping away the grief as they backed away with hisses and snarls at her approach. The child ran with one arm outstretched, determined to push through the crowd if she had to. There was no need. Such a strong loathing was felt towards her that they all shirked out of her way, inadvertently carving a path right into the tent. She flew into the entrance, brown hair flying, green eyes wide. Brushing past the opening's leather flaps, Naira skid to a halt. She was not prepared for what she would see. Not prepared at all.

The village's two elders - Hassun and Kuruk - along with the chief - Hesutu - stood in a circle around her mother's bed. They looked up as Naira drew near. All three glimpsed briefly at one another. There was a collective nod and they, surprisingly ... stepped back. The young Reaver was allowed to look at Wakanda, lying there pale and listless. Eyes rolled behind closed lids. Jaundice-imbued skin was glossed over with sweat. A haggard groan escaped pursed lips, which smacked together every now and then.

"Water ... " The moan was pitiful. Ragged and hoarse like dead leaves brushing on stone. "Water ... ," Wakanda begged. Her long, gaunt fingers clenched and relaxed, trying to grab at something that simply was not there.

Naira dipped her cupped hands into a nearby water bowl and strode towards her adoptive parent. One questioning gaze was laid upon Hesutu. He did not hold it, as was expected, and looked away very quickly. A sickly emotion had crossed his eyes. It made Naira's stomach turn. Was it possible to loath another, even in this situation?

"Why didn't anybody summon me?" Naira hissed. She suddenly realized how silent it was. Nobody spoke. Nobody moved. Were they blinking? Even breathing? And they dared to call themselves human? When no answer chased after her words, she stepped up to Wakanda and tilted her hand towards Wakanda's mouth. "I have water, mother. Open your mouth and drink, please ... "

One frosty green eye opened at the sound of her daughter's voice. Lips parted, practically inhaling the fluid as it was introduced. Therein came a gasp for air when the drink was depleted. Naira started for the water bowl again, but fragile hands reached out, clasped the girl around the arm. " ... N ... aira ... ," Wakanda groaned, feebly tugging the child back. "You ... always weh ... " Words lapsed into a coughing fit.

Naira placed a hand on Wakanda's back. She swallowed hard. Why did it hurt so? "Don't try to talk, mama."

"Adsila ... used to call me mama, even when ... she got older ... " A cold coil wrapped around Naira's heart. Some sense of impending doom .. She fought hard against the burning in her eyes.

"M - "

The hands shifted to Naira's neck. Instinct caused the girl to stiffen - she was no stranger to being strangled by those that hated her. But Wakanda's touch was gentle. Feeling the tension in the sternocleidomastoid muscles made Wakanda frown. There was sadness so deep that rivers could run through it. "These years ... ," a deep breath ... two ..., "you've been ... hurt so many times. I'm s ... orry I couldn't ... "

Sorry for what? She couldn't finish. Wakanda began to cough again. There was blood this time. It dripped down her lip, spewed onto her hand as she tried to wipe it away. Naira shook her head ferociously, vehement and determined and, yes, wet-cheeked. "Mama, you - "

Once more cut off. Wakanda was eager to speak. She was forcing herself to do so, despite the obvious weakness her body cried in. "I love you, remember that ... " The once-great shaman pressed her lips against Naira's cheek. Feverish warmth rested 'pon that dry maw. Gentle fingers, though dead and thin ... brushed away a stray tear, directed Naira's vision, which had fallen to the ground, back to focus upon her mother's face. Wakanda was smiling. Something behind those eyes startled the little girl, yet she could not read it. "My child ... do not be afraid."

Dry throat, clenched tight. Don't sob. Don't cry. But she was. She had to. Such a raging torrent of water could not be dammed up by even the Hoover, "Mama ... I ... "

Through the blurred haze of her vision clouded by water, Naira could see Wakanda's eyes close with sluggish motion. What had once been troubled, then happy, looked suddenly peaceful. Hands fell from Naira's neck to flop limply at the bedside. Gaping for air, finding it suddenly hard to breath, the little Reaver reached out, tentatively grabbing a hand, crushing it in her grip. She hoped for a return grasp. When there was none, a kind of dread loomed within.

A rush of air came from Wakanda's ajar mouth as her chest fell for a final time, pushing the last breath out of the body, into the atmosphere, into the night sky ... a final hint of warmth leaving behind a shell that would only get colder.

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Nemo : Tale of the Owl
Chapter 5
- Windra -

For all the gold in the world, Naira could not rightly remember what had happened next. Lost in such a dismal state of mind, she neglected to notice the forming cloud of hatred behind her. Movement unseen. Malicious intent. Blind-sided, the young girl was suddenly overcome by a horrendous pain in her skull as vision exploded into lights and stars.

She awoke many hours later, body resting on something cold, wet, and hard. It was only when the dullness of unconsciousness faded off that she realized every time she breathed, dust and dirt was entering her mouth and nostrils. Naira coughed violently, eliminating the product from her lungs in desperation, even though every bone and muscle in her tiny self burned and ached. Attempting to sit up brought on a massive headache and churned the contents of her stomach. Multiple times in the following minutes, she was forced to retch and was surprised at the presence of blood.

Green eyes remained half-lidded, for it hurt to open them any further. She couldn't handle the light of the sun at the moment. The left side of her skull felt odd and dry. Every time she moved her jaw, Naira felt something tug on her skin. Vision blurred, Naira reached out to touch whatever substance rested just below her temple. Whatever crusted material lay there peeled away relatively easy. It was a dark red, almost brown. Dried blood that had originated from her ear. A concussion? That would explain the double-vision she was having, the migraine, the nausea. Wakanda had treated a few members of the Mimiteh Tribe for such a condition when they fell on their head or were struck in the face with a heavy object.

Wakanda ...

Naira's confusion of why she was in this spot in the first place faded, giving light to horrible understanding. Her mother was dead. She had been the last barrier of protection between the young Reaver and the rest of the Tribe. And there was not a soul here that wished her alive.

The extend of their cruelty was fully realized when Naira made an attempt at standing. A stabbing wave of pain flew through her leg and she collapsed in a heap, tears welling from agony.

"My ankle ... "

Tiny fingers palpated the tendons and bones. The thick skeletal knob on the side of her foot gave way to another shock of fire slipping up to her waist as soon as it was touched. Broken.

"It isn't nearly what you deserve," came a voice from behind her. With Naira's present state of mind looming into the darkest corner of the universe, she hadn't even noticed there was anybody there. Truly, she was alone an forgotten in the midst of the tribe's territory. People moved from tent to tent without so much as glancing in her direction. The occasional youngling would throw a glimpse her way, but the fear or callousness reading upon their faces was more than enough to make Naira feel so much smaller.

There was only one who dared to stand in the small circle of dirt that was Naira's turf. Hesutu stared with disdain, mouth forming into a grim scowl. No note of kindness. Just an underlying notion that he wanted to kill her where she sat.

"Why are you doing this to me?" Naira asked. The heartbroken cracking of her voice alarmed her. She hadn't noticed the tears slipping down her face, either. "What have I done wrong?"

"You know exactly what, little devil."

She wasn't exactly sure where the courage to speak out was coming from. But a fire was beginning to roil the newfound emptiness of her gut. "Because I was born with a scar?" she snapped. It didn't come out nearly as intimidating as she hoped. Fear held back the worst of it. "I don't even know what it means! How is it my fault?"

Hesutu shook his head. The frown was gone, but his expression was unreadable. He circled Naira from a distance as if she were a rabid dog.

"Your kind has been feared for centuries," he stated, voice remaining level and cold. "Destroyers of souls. Ravagers of worlds. Marked from birth to become the most vile things known to man and beast. Your kind would sooner end thousands of lives before coming to a truce." Naira flinched, backing up and hands and feet while absorbing these facts. Her eyes were wide. And a trepidation sat in: not because of the unveiling ofo facts, but because Heutu seemed to be holding something in. He reminded her of a fire about to explode. Without warning he took a step forward, moccasin-adorned foot planting firmly in the earth. "You even had Wakanda convinced of your innocence, you conniving little brat! She was a kindly woman, and you spun her into a shrewd old fool!"

It was like the anger had sparked a kindling in the air. The broiling hatred that fueled Hesutu planted acid in her throat.

The courage that lingered earlier took a foothold, urging her on. "My mother was no fool, you snake!" she roared. It was still not impressive, but Hesutu wasn't paying attention to her outburst. He'd gone pale in the face because Naira was suddenly rushing forth at incredible speed, going from point A to point B within the blink of an eye -

- and was suddenly jerked back by something tight knotting around her neck. Her trachea constricted. Shocked, she was slammed hard on her back, gasping for air while hands reached to her throat. Something had been tied around like a leash. It was thin. Fishing wire? Naira pulled at it frantically. No good. This stuff was made out of metal. The only thing that could cut it was a fine-edged blade.

Temporarily winded and incapacitated, Naira lay prone on the dirt. Hesutu took advantage of her current disability by standing above her. He lifted a foot above her chest before smashing it down onto the sternum. A distinct crack! resounded along with fresh pain. Just as Naira was getting the ability to breath back, she resented it for the waves of crippling stinging that cme with it.

"It would grant great pleasure seeing you die," Hesutu spat, venom poisoning every word. "Slash a mark upon Reaver kind. Rebellion!"

He was pushing his foot down more. Through wheezing gasps as the breastbone slid, Naira managed a weak mutter. "Then why don't you?"

"Wakanda ... " Hesutu slowly eased off her chest, though it was clear he didn't want to. "We swore an oath to her that we wouldn't kill you after she passed. Once my word is made, I will not retract it." the Mimiteh Tribe chief spat next to Naira's head. "But you will never be accepted here or anywhere, pathetic little monster. We won't lay a claim to your life. However, the elements will. You'll die lonely, miserable, hungry ... It will be a stab in Kuro's eye, and the means for a righteous celebration."

There was a moment in which he was silent, a blank look on his face. As he turned to leave, there wasn't so much as a hint of remorse. Naira was left lying alone, hurting, and bleeding. A new brand of emotion was forming in her stomach.; It was cold and wintery: frostbitten like ice. And beneath it burned the hottest fire she ever felt.

For days she remained out in the grounds. None dared to tread near her as her wounds healed save for the brave soul who stepped up once in a while to brand her with new ones. Days turned into weeks. It rained and poured. Exposed with no shelter, it was easy for Naira to get sick and a wonder that she didn't succumb to illness. But the vertigo was nothing compared to the pangs striking her stomach. Sometimes she would go a whole sevenday without getting so much as a crumb. Often enough the scraps that were thrown are her were rotten and old. In time, Naira would not be beyond scarfing down a slice of bread blanketed by mold. She had no choice. And the natural penicillin in the moss often cured whatever ailment she was suffering from at the time. An unintentional act of kindness from the Tribe members, to be sure. Had they known anything about medicine, they would have stopped throwing the bread to her.

As the weeks transgressed into months, Naira found herself feeling lighter than air. Malnourishment resulted in the loss of body fat and muscle tone. There was barely anything left of her but flesh and bone. On many days she would suddenly break down, unable to cope with the loss of her 'mother' and longing for the warmth of a hug.

She had been a little fortunate, at the very least. Some of the children passing her felt honest-to-goodness guilt and sympathy. Some would sneak off in the middle of the night and bring her freshly smoke venison, or loaves of honeybread just removed from the fire. For these random acts of kindness she was eternally grateful, but puzzled, and Naira often met the caregivers with growls and harsh mannerisms until their trust was unquestionable.

Naira felt as a wild animal trapped in a cage. Most of her broken bones were lucky to have mended properly, but the ankle never felt quite right after the initial breaking. Her walk became more like a hobble, but at least she could move. On days when nobody bothered her, Naira often strode in circles to keep her circulation running. The friction kept her warm on cold nights.

There were many times when she conversed with Leise to ease her loneliness. The ghostly Barn Owl was ever-present, refusing to leave her side. This was fine by Naira. His companionship was worth more to her than her own life. Leise would tell her of the expeditions some of the other spirit guides had been on, filling her mind with images of lands far over the horizon and lavishes she might not ever see.

One night, Naira decided to be bold. "So what of my future. I know you won't tell me all of it, but can you at least throw me a hint ... ?"

The owl was perched on a low-hanging branch of a nearby tree that stood just outside of Naira's worn circle. His wings shifted. He did that thing that always amused her: he spun his head, and it cracked a smile on the girl's otherwise bleak expression.

[ I've already noted that you will have a long life. ]

"Surely you can tell me more than that."

[ Hoo! ] It was difficult to tell the emotions of the owl. He never seemed to give any off. But Naira guessed this was possibly amusement. [ There will be strife. Much bloodshed and loss. You will see many wars. And there will be comrades-in-arms. ]

"That's very vague, Leise," stated Naira with a disappointed look.

[ If I give you more information, you are likely to attempt to alter the path you've been set on. Your fate is set in the stars. ]

The young Reaver gave a hrmph. She paused, rubbing at her dirt-encrusted chin, before pressing the spirit guide avian with another inquiry. "Will I ever be free?"

She was surprised at the response.

[ Sooner than you think. ]

And somewhere in the distance, where the Tribals were celebrating the recent victorious hunt of a youngling, a shrill note escaped into the air, instantly freezing Naira's blood out of instinct: a scream.