As the girl walked through the forest, into the unknown, she knelt down and studied the soil. Wet. She was getting closer, and by some instinct inside her, she shot up and sprinted winding throught the trails as if she had been through them a hundred times. As she got closer there was a pull in her chest, so strong she nearly fell to the floor. But she couldn't and wouldn't stop now.

Then as she was starting to wonder if she could keep running, she turned a crooked corner she skidded to a halt. In front of her sat a vast glade of flowers, grass and . . . life. This was where she was meant to be, her heart pounding in her chest she went to a mini waterfall that merged with the pool. Never had she seen anything more beautiful than the glistening water as it tumble into the sky blue pool.

She knelt beside the pool and put her hands in, she couldn't resist, she jumped in. It seemed like forever until she came to the top. But she wasn't worried. Something about this place made her feel wanted and at home. More than anyone in her other life ever had. When she surfaced she gasped at the majestic form standing over her, casting a shadow over her face. It was illuminated by the setting sun, suddenly, more creatures appeared at the edges of the glade. Surrounding her. Encasing her in their gazes. Loving her all the more. She climbed out and walked to the towering figure, a unicorn.

She had always believed they were real. As if something had taken over her she spoke "Klef rad hir." - nice to meet you. How she knew what this meant, she didn't know. Or she had 'said' anything without moving her mouth. She inched closer and stroked the unicorns chin. She mad her way around the unicorn until she was on the opposite side. She climbed up onto its back and noticed how high it actually was up here.

And without moving its mouth the unicorn underneath her said "nogh dast mifn" - our queen.

the unicorn strode to the edge of the glade where loads of dips appeared in the ground. This must be where the unicorns slept. As the unicorn lay down, the girl slipped off and tumbled down next to the unicorn. All around them the other unicorns did the same and in unison 'whispered' "julkin filmr" - Good Night.

Wind wrapped around my spear effortlessly as it pulled me into the sky. Magic I had learned so long ago was mere muscle memory now, a flick of the wrist, a twist of the hand. In times gone it was a thing I found myself hardpressed to learn, and remember, but now? Well, now it was a part of me, just as my prey was.

I had taken in the blood - their blood. Donned scales of steel and bone - their scales. My spear tasted the ether of the great unmaking, and bore it into battle with every jump. I was to be feared, and they would know my name.

It comes closer now as the dawn flits through the woodland below. It comes closer now as the snowcaps grow large and glisten in their melt. It comes closer now, fangs of venom drip like the early dew, wings fill the sky like a burial shroud. A shroud built for two.

Clash! We pass through each other, my spear bloodless, its talons empty. I hear voices from below, a fire, a group, their mirth rising up on lullabye foregin and new.

“Bhut!” They shout.

“Bhut,” they echo with glee.

Do they shout for me?

Beritru dozed in the clearing. She peeked up at the setting sun with violet eyes and sighed. Vonrael will be returning soon, she knew. She closed her eyes to wait for the boy. What thoughts will he share with me today?

Rapid footfalls came bounding towards her from the west. Beritru couldn't help the grin that spread across her fearsome features. She hid it quickly as Vonrael's labored breathing grew closer. The sun's heat vanished from her face as it sank below the tree line.

"This is the third time you have been late in as many days, Vonrael," she chided gently. She opened her eyes to watch Vonrael stumble into the clearing. "Is this going to become a habit?"

Vonrael lowered himself to the ground, his skin nearly as dark as the dust now. He threw out one arm to point at Beritru's black scales. "I'm not late yet," he protested in gasping breaths. "The sun is still touching you."

Beritru lifted her great head to look at where he was pointing on her tail. "Hmph. Only because I am stretched out." She rose, curled around herself, and settled back down into the shadows. "There, now you are late."

Vonrael let out an exasperated groan. "But-"

"Do you intend to argue with an Inferno?"

"No," sighed the boy. He pursed his lips in quiet frustration.

This worried Beritru. The black dragon didn't like it when Vonrael maintained a silence after a day spent at the ridge. It meant his thoughts had been heavy. If only I could help to bear those burdens, but I am surely the reason for many of them. She broke the silence first. "How were the flowers on the ridge today? Have the irises begun to bloom yet?"

"When will I meet the other dragons?"

The question caught Beritru off guard. She supplied her usual answer: "You will meet them when it is time."

"But I'm ready now."

"That does not mean that they are ready to meet you, Vonrael."

"I want to see the curled horns of the Stones and the Winds' six wings," he continued as though he hadn't heard her, "and I want to listen to all the Infernos speak at once. You all must sound like a huge forest fire."

"And what of the Storms, Crucibles, Aquas, and Frosts? Do you not wish to see them?" Beritru inquired with feigned shock. "I will have to inform them at the next Council meeting."

Vonrael jumped up in alarm. "No! Then they won't like me!"

Beritru laughed at the look of utter panic on his face. "They will like you, my pride, there is no need to worry about that. Well, perhaps the Aquas will not but you must not take it personally. They care only for themselves."

The boy frowned as he laid back down in the darkening clearing. "They can't be that bad. They're dragons, after all."

Beritru stared at Vonrael. His brown eyes were lost in the blazing clouds above them. Perhaps you should have been raised by your own kind. It is my fault that you are here in this clearing tonight. Your kindness to the dragons will be misunderstood and taken as naivete or weakness. The dragons would kill you for simply being human and the humans would kill you because you know too much about us. Her obsidian claws sank into the earth in humbling terror. What have I done?

Slowly, Beritru gathered her thoughts. "Vonrael, there are a great many things that you must understand before you are truly ready to meet the dragons." She knew what his counterpoint would be before he even said it.

"Like what? I've read all the tomes in your hoard."

"Yes, you have been studying diligently just as I have asked of you. But do you truly understand the meaning of what you are reading?"

Vonrael scrunched up his face in thought. Beritru never thought she could come to love a human expression so much. "I think?"

"Then how did the Infernos get their purple fire?" asked the Inferno.

The boy answered hesitantly, "Your ancestors asked the stars for it."

"Why was it difficult for them to do that?"

"Because they had to travel to the territory of the Frosts?"

Beritru shook her head. "That was a grueling journey, but that was not what made it difficult. What made asking the stars difficult was the pride of the Infernos. We had to overcome what we contained within ourselves," she said gently. The sun had fully set now and the night stars were emerging to take up their solemn vigils. "We humbled ourselves in a foreign land to receive the fire that would always set us apart. That is what you must understand about the Infernos."

"What else should I understand? How much else is there to know?"

"Vonrael, every star in the sky could tell you a story and you still would not understand all there is to know," answered the dragon with an infinite patience. "I will find that old tome of myths I have and we will look through it tomorrow."

Vonrael could only reply with one disappointed word: "Tomorrow?"

"Yes, my pride, tomorrow. Now run back to the cave and get some sleep, the sun will return before you know it."

The boy raced by her to do as she said. "Good night, Beritru!"

"Good night, Vonrael," she called back.

Left alone once more, Beritru returned her violet gaze to the stars. They twinkled and she knew they would hear her. If you had told the old Beritru that one day she would relinquish her place on the battlefield, she would have laughed. If you had told her that she would choose to raise a human on top of all that, she would have thought you all insane and turned her back on you. She growled faintly as she rose from the dusty clearing. But it is you who have turned your backs on me. I have not heard so much as a single word from you in centuries. I am now merely the embers of who I once was. There is no more Beritru the Brutal, she thought as she stalked back to the cave, just a dragon and her boy.

She appears to be kneeling. An outline. Neon red. Blood, against the absolute blackness.

—Shhhh, Monk says. Shhhh.

He must have fallen asleep. A different sort of darkness.

—Huh? he says.

—Quiet, Monk whispers. Don’t move. Anxious. His loose black shirt. And the slender golden crucifix.

He sits up, blinks. Says, —Huh?

The woman appears to be kneeling. The woman appears to be a woman. The ocean floor barren. Behind and to either side of her. A bleak wet desert snuff-colored. For miles. And miles. Nothing. Before her about twenty feet of nothing. And then the Plinko. Hovering a couple of feet above the surface. This weird world of gloom. Her eyes huge. Pupils expanded. And this so dramatically as to have done away with iris. With sclera. Just a bit of opaqueness viscous. Reacting to the incredible pressure. This sudden intrusion of light. Otherwise just wide-eyed blackness. One third of her face invisible. Eaten. Consumed by the outer darkness.

But yes.

The outline of a skull. A spectral sort of band, red. In spectrum argon meeting, bleeding into ultraviolet. Coloring what is her neck. Which falls unmistakably into shoulder. And this—in red—unrolling to define her back. Which rounds to inform her rear end. From the curve of her shoulder two brilliant red lines descending. At a bit of an angle. Perfectly vertically. An arm. Terminating in nothing. Meaning that she does not have hands. Or that her hands are not illuminated. Ever. Or, maybe, just presently. Maybe her hands are dug into the sand. Only he, Asan, has been told that this grey desert, the bottom of this nameless trench, is more rock than sand. Where inverted islands are separated from each other by interminable stretches of Abyssal Hills. And these alienated by their endless Plains.

A fish, negatively buoyant, floats in front of the window, suspended in this inverted space. Another, partly silver-black and white, flashes on and off, its bioluminescence fantastic and mysterious. Here. Where an animal’s eyes often evolve to become so large as to not only become the creature’s dominant feature, but, in appearance, ridiculous. More humorous, it has been pointed out to Asan, because these eyes, despite their size, are essentially worthless.

This is not true of the woman before them. Like a deep sea fish, her eyes have evolved not as a consequence of sunlight, but of bioluminesence. And in part her own. Sensitive not to the monochromatic blue light from the down-welling sun, but to the broader range of color that does not exist except as the result of chemiluminesence.

What would humans? Or, Asan thinks, What part of me …. What part of myself would evolve solely as a result of my own thoughts …. Of reflections turned inward?

There is a creature beside her. The animal uses its fins to stand. Is this a pet? This is only his first dive. Asan understands absolutely nothing. But even way down here. At the bottom of everything. So much life. Strange mollusks. Starfish. Large animals, these, with arms curled so that they assume in appearance a human skeleton’s ribcage. Factor in their descent. Their slow, deliberate plunge through the various depths of the ocean’s identified zones. And Asan, so submerged, has seen more different life forms in these past several hours than throughout thirty years walking the earth’s surface. He wants to ask Monk what she is, but it is clear. He knew.

Asan knows.

There is enough red, though. By degree of gradation. Although the Woman occasionally flickers. Not like a broken bulb. No. But as though she were the faulty socket. Still, Asan makes out that Her arm is in front of her leg. Clear, the red outline of her thigh. Her hamstring. And Her knee, which rounds at its cap. Here begins, or is so concentrated—who knew / who knows—a thicker, a duller, a less radiant red. Which intensifies to mark Her abdomen. And this swelling to outline the considerable heft of a breast. Which is, of course, incredibly buoyant. Directly beneath this the suggestion of Her other knee, raised.

Asan makes to look for feet.

It is as he has thought. Given the impression of her position fully formed, one foot is obscured. But the other is visible. It glows right there before him. Her toes like Christmas lights. Although this—Her toes—might be more of an illusion. The power of suggestion. This being all very foreign.

A plan in the heart of man. How this is like deep water. And how this takes insight. A person of understanding. To draw forth from the wellspring of consciousness. Of perspective. Asan had read this, or something like it, somewhere before. Here we are. Unique, eternal aspects of awareness. With an infinity of potential. Yet we. As a race. A species. The most dominant. The most powerful creatures to have ever lived. Look how we have allowed ourselves to evolve into an unthinking. Into an unquestioning blob. It is pathetic. One does not have to read about this particular phenomenon to know that it is true.

The submersible, which Monk had long since set to ‘stealth’, awakes. Something in the system triggering a needed response. Asan knows nothing about technology. Even less about science. The Plinko was developed. Tested. And, ultimately, trusted. If something happened to Monk, there is a button. All Asan has to do is press this button (which, the size of a hockey puck, is centered upon the main control panel) and the computers will take over. He will be delivered to the surface.

This is the extent of his knowledge. His understanding. Which, as it has been explained to him, is fine. He is not there to operate anything. Rather, Asan’s purpose is to ….

…. This. Asan’s purpose. This was never articulated. Yes. Within his contract—which runs twenty-plus pages—there are hundreds. There are thousands of words. But none of these state why he, specifically, has been selected to participate in the Mission. But it is implied—if you carefully examine the Benefits and Bereavement clauses—that he is here primarily to see what will happen. To a human being. Who, after penetrating the skin of the sea, descends to depths that, even one generation before, were considered unfathomable.

He knew that it would be totally dark. That the temperature would drop. He knew something about the bends from Radiohead. That there would be life. What he doesn’t know are the specifics. That which Monk knew. That which Monk knows. Pressure one hundred times one percent of volume …. How this latest submersive is reinforced with 12 cm acrylic by 900 m something or other which equals ….

It is not so much that Asan is confused, as he is disinterested. (It is that sort of thing.) He is the crash test dummy. Asan is an ATD. If he perishes, no one will mind. But the Plinko. If something happens to Monk, Asan is, it has been determined, capable of pushing a button. Of resurrecting one impossibly expensive piece of technology. Monk is what Corporate considers Talent. Asan, if considered at all, is not considered anything.

Whatever had happened—oxygen being released into the chamber / something mechanical owing to heating or cooling—the vessel made a great enough sound. Or caused enough by way of fluctuation. A disturbance that the Woman registers …. No. Owing to Her stillness, the Woman most certainly was abreast of their presence. What happened is that the Woman became uncontrollably alarmed. The Plinko awoke in her instinct.

It is strange, what happens next. Asan is certain that the Woman is human. As human as a creature like She can be. But physically? If not physiologically exact? It matters not. The Woman is human. Arms. Legs. Hands. Feet. Three dimensions. All that. Perhaps the visual is a result of the submersible’s highly specialized lights. But the Woman, as opposed to darting off like a fish—or running, like a person—seems slowly to fade from view. Her body flattening. And the red like the air inside a balloon popped. Dissipating. Her side—or sides—turning the silver of a mirror, reflecting, Asan is fairly certain, some blue spectrum of light cast from the Plinko.

And then, like that, the Woman is gone.

Or, Asan thinks, maybe She is just not visible.

Father Bartholomew Kirkland – Bart for short – hung up the phone, rubbed his chubby hand through his thinning hair and adjusted the wire-rim glasses perched on his short fat nose. He’d just handed over his best hunter to the enemy. He didn’t think he wanted to, in fact, he was almost sure of it, but he had anyway. Why?

Because of her.

He didn’t know her name, though memories that flashed through his mind like a slideshow suggested he’d known her all his life – and loved her for even longer. He felt no emotional attachment to any of the fragmented images; it was like they belonged to someone else.

‘When had she first come to him here in his office?’ He pondered.

Reason told him today had been the first time he ever saw her, but a desire burned in him to encounter her flesh again like he’d done in the past.

‘If that’s the case, why can’t I remember anything about it?’ His heart asked his brain, not that it made any difference at this point – she instructed him, and he obeyed.

She sat across from his desk in a centuries-old, ornate, hand sculpted, red-leather bound chair and shook her head, “Are you going send them help?”

The words drifted from her delicate black-painted lips like a whisper along an autumn breeze, floated into his ears, and massaged the pleasure centers in his brain. Thick graying brows furrowed as his beady brown eyes followed the slow sway of the woman’s raven hair. It appeared to undulate along its length, to her ample cleavage, where the tips wiggled with a life of their own.

‘Had he noticed that before?’ He thought, ‘Did it really matter?’

“No…” Kirkland answered to himself and the woman with hesitation.

“You are correct, Father. You aren’t.”

With a bend at the waist to maximize the exposure of her breasts, she gripped the knobbed arm rests, and rose with grace. The black silkiness of her gown shimmered as it unfurled from the seat of the chair onto the floor. The dress fanned out around her legs in waves as though a breeze blew under the hem. Her stomach and breasts fit snug inside the fabric. The outfit ended in a curve half-way up her soft round bosoms where two delicate straps connected the top to separate wrist-length sleeves.

She ran her perfect wet black tongue across her lips. Eyes like dark discs shimmered in the middle of an ocean of white on her face. They stared, unblinking, from under thin black brows and feathered lashes. Her dark makeup contrasted against the chalk white skin that covered her smooth porcelain body.

Silence filled the Dragon’s Blood-scented chamber. Kirkland’s gaze locked onto her as she glided across the red Victorian rug and rounded the desk. The rest of the study, with all its replica religious artifacts, copies of ancient texts and scrolls, and lavish faux leather furniture vanished from sight. There was only her.

The woman allowed her long slender fingers to walk across Kirkland’s desk. Black fingernails tip-toed across a hand-carved humidor box full of Cuban cigars, hiked over a miniature wooden globe mounted on a brass pedestal, crawled through stacks of scattered paperwork and open books, and hopped the distance from the desk to the priest’s hand.

The dark fabric of her gown withdrew up her legs until only a knee-high black skirt remained. Where the garment had cinched her stomach and breast moments ago a black short sleeve button-down shirt hung open revealing a black bra beneath – her small soft milky midsection aroused him.

She inched her bottom onto the desk and sat spread-legged in front of him with her bare pale feet propped on the chair’s arm rests. Her skirt slid up into a pile at her waist, revealing… nothing – she had no gender, only a smooth ivory-colored mound where there should be a vagina.

Kirkland felt as though this ought to alarm him, but the seductress excited him too much. He’d only been with one woman before swearing an oath of abstinence when he became a member of The Will – that woman had not made him feel as this one did.

With a quick slap, this woman knocked his pudgy hand off one of her petite feet – he withdrew with a start.

“No, no, now. You know the rules. No touching. That would violate your oath wouldn’t it, Father?” She scolded with a stern whisper.

“Yes…” He said. The sound of her words again coiled around his brain.

“And why aren’t you going to send them help?” She asked and leaned in close enough for him to feel the cold chill of her soft voice.

“Because it’s what you want.” He said.

“Good boy, Bart.” She patted him soft on the cheek before cradling his chin in her hand. Embarrassment turned him several shades of red and pink as a bulge grew in his slacks.

“And do you always do what I want?” She asked.

“Yes…” He stuttered as she cupped either side of his face with her cold hands and brought him closer to her.

“And why is that?” She asked.

“Because you are my goddess.” He was compelled to say. He didn’t feel it was the wrong answer. He wasn’t sure why he’d said it – but he did believe it.

The seductress pulled his mouth close to hers, and whispered, “Yes, you are correct.”

The smell of Dragon’s Blood flooded his head as he inhaled her icy breath. Waves of pleasure quivered in his knees and his knuckles strained as he griped the chair arms tighter.

She tilted her head to kiss him.

“Yes…” He groaned and waited – mouth agape and eyes closed.

A black gelatinous tentacle slithered from between her parted lips, slipped across his tongue, and down his throat. His hands locked around his thick neck and clawed at the dark spindles that invaded his lungs – he struggled and choked.

The appendage leaked into every crevice of the Father’s body, filling him with her darkness. The vessels across the surface of his skin became engorged and black as the symbiotic invasion flowed outward from his heart to his fingertips and toes. A fist of darkness squeezed his heart harder with each slowing beat. Pools of black ooze filled his eye sockets and leaked down his cheeks like blackened tears; and the woman’s vile poison dripped from his nose.

The knot of darkness gripped his heart tighter while tiny tendrils tickled the sensitive sections of his brain. His body grew rigid and twitched with a sudden spasm that shook the chair – then he went limp.

The woman withdrew all of her from the priest, slid from the desk, and pushed his limp body back in the chair. His head drooped to one side and a teardrop of black ooze dribbled down from his eye. She scooped up the discharge with a single delicate finger and licked it clean with a grin.

“Hope you enjoyed that as much as I did, Father Bart.” She laughed and sauntered out of the study.

Her clothes streamed around her like thunder clouds around a tornado as they metamorphosed into a nun’s habit that was to her liking. The parting clouds revealed a skin-tight gelatinous tube dress that shimmered like wet latex under the fluorescent lights, eight-inch stiletto heels, and black gloves. Her face melted away into the darkness of a hood that rose from her shoulders and draped itself over her head.

She strode down a hall full of busy priests, nuns, and acolytes. They were unaware of her presence as they scurried to finish their nightly duties before bed. No one realized they took an unconscious, but deliberate side-step to avoid her as she approached, and none of them heard the click of her heels echo on the cobblestone-tiled floor as she passed.

A nun screamed somewhere behind her. There was a flurry of commotion in the building and people raced along the corridor towards Father Kirkland’s office. She smiled and stiff-armed the front door of the monastery.

Once outside, she strolled across the porch and down the concrete steps to the end of the walkway. At a tall wrought-iron gate that led to the street she stopped and stared up at the full moon – the bright white orb reflected in the deep black pools of her eyes. Her wardrobe came to life once more and spread forth from her body. A curtain of darkness hung around her pale naked body and curled in the air like a wave preparing to crash onto the beach. She closed her eyes and bowed her head. The wave crashed onto her and she exploded into a cloud of black dust that evaporated into the night sky.

There is a pear out in the flats of Antarctica. Not just any pear, but a living, walking, breathing, hairy pear. It's name is Peari; Peari is the last pear of its kind. Peari can run and wants to free and swim through the freezing oceans to meet its friend Loch Ness monster. Peari does not want to become a chunky pear smoothie swimming through all of that cold ocean and ice. Wish my personal favorite mythical creature Peari the last pear a safe journey.

Dawn made her way through the underbrush, pushing aside branches and leaves that almost seemed fake. They were oddly colored; blues and greens, even silvers and violets. Everything was strange here, but when she, a young, ambitious explorer, somehow ended up in this mystical realm, she had not hesitated to run off into danger immediately. She had absoluetly no idea where she was, or how to get home, but that didn't seem to bother her. She pressed on, blindly crashing through the forest.

She knew she had to find something good, or she would never hear the end of the relentless teasing from her sister Holly about her adventure.

After a few more minutes of walking, she came to the edge of a clearing, or so she thought. Only a couple feet ahead, the ground fell away, revealing a steep cliff. Something caught her attention, aside from the weird glowing flowers in the trees.

She could hear voices, though they clearly were not speaking English, or any language she had ever heard, for that matter. Dawn crept as close to the edge as she dared, using the bushes for both support and cover, and looked down into the valley.

It was half underwater, with more than a dozen waterfalls spilling down into the crystal pools. She could hear the falling water now, and she was surprised as to how loud it ws, considering she had not heard anything until now.

Dawn saw what she at first thought were fish swimming around in the pools. It was only when one burst out of the water, and somehow scaling the entire cliff wall, which was two hundred feet down at the very least, and landed next to her. Dawn shrieked and jumped back, but she was half stuck in the bush, which she now realized was full of thorns. Despite the fact that she had several scratches on her arm, a few of which were bleeding, she was immediately awestruck by the sight before her.

It was not a fish at all. It seemed to be a strange mix of lizard, dragon perhaps, and a cat of some sort. It was maybe only the size of a typical house cat, so she assumed this was the case. It had no hind legs, Dawn noticed, so perhaps it was also part snake? Its skin was a shiny and smooth silver, with scales in only a few places. Its forelegs were one of these places, where the smooth skin turned to bumpy scales, though still seemingly cat's paws. The tail also had scales, as well as four rings made of some kind of metal wrapped around it. The tip of its tail had a soft puff of silvery blue fur, as did the top of its head. It had a face that definitely resembled a lizard, with sharp teeth when it opened its mouth. The insides of its cat-like ears were lined with the blue fur as well as what seemed to be a layer of webbing to protect the inner ear from water. The most amazing part of this beautiful creature was the forms on its back. They appears to resemble wings, but at the same time, they looked like webbed feet that one might find on a bird. And they sparkled, translucent blue that stretched elegantly all the way down to the tip of her tail, turning from the wing like shape into normal spines.

Before Dawn could react, the creature squeaked at her, blinking its large yellow eyes. Stunned, Dawn could only stare at it more. The creature crept a couple inches closer and nudged her arm with its nose. It was so strange, feeling cold scales instead of warm fur from a being that looked so much like a cat.

It seemed to notice the scratches on her arms, and made a noise that almost sounded like a laugh, before gently pulling the brambles off her. Dawn stood up, still mesmerized by the little creature.

It tilted its head at her when she did not move, confused as to why she did not leave. Dawn wondered if it understood that she was lost. Judging by the look in its eyes, she guessed it did.

Neither of them knew the way for her to get home, so Dawn ended up following the little cat down a path along the edge of the cliff to the pools below. She could see now that there were dozens of the small creatures, their scales and fur ranging from silver, blue, and purple, to gold, red and green. They were beautiful.

Dawn sat in front of one of the pools of sparkling water, glancing up from her notebook every now and then. She had drawn the creatures from every angle, and the little silver cat that she had first found had brought various plants and even small animals to her. she drew them all, writing even more.

Nearly a month passed before Dawn returned home. As expected, Holly was asking questions the instant she saw her older sister enter the house.

"Where were you?!" Holly demanded. She wasn't exactly expecting the simplicity of the answer that her sister gave her.

"I was... with some friends..." Dawn replied.

The Kytalo, as she had named them, were her little secret. Especially Kyota, the little silver one, who had given Dawn the little key that now hung on a small silver chain around her neck. The key to her world.

Petal Blossom Peony the faerie sat on the edge of a cliff at the edge of a field over the ocean combing her fingers through her peony colored hair and crushing the flowers on the bottom of her dress made of peonies. She dangled her little pink slipper off of her foot over the sea and sighed, resting her elbow on her leg and her chin on her hand. She was so very, very bored. Then she heard a rustle at the edge of a field and a little Jackalope with grass dangling off his antlers hopped out of the brush and sat down next to her. "Hello little Jackalope." She said boredly.

"Hello. I am Apollo Bowie Flynn and I would like to sit on this cliff and be bored as well. May I join you?" Declared the little jackalope.

"Sure, the cliff of boredom is available for all to use." Petal Blossom Peony shrugged. And with that the little jackalope sat down next to her and she peeled the grass off his antlers. Apollo Bowie Flynn began eating the grass and found that it was nice to be bored in the company of a new friend. Next to him, Petal Blossom Peony thought the exact same thing as she boredly ate her bag of sugar coated flowers.

The whistle in the wind disturbed my slumber. It is an abnormality in this normally quaint forest of oak, ash, and maple. The applause of leaves, the sputtering of intermittent creeks, and the crack of trees leaning to and fro are the only sounds I am accustomed to. I sat up and focused my ears on my surroundings: the whistle was distant but it seemed to be moving in some direction. I pulled on my boots, armed myself with my bow and a skinning knife, and set off into the night.

Curiosity is dangerous in a place you are not comfortable with but I am no stranger to the dense understory of these woods. That does not stop me from being cautious, though. I have hunted a great many creatures that got too comfortable here and I am susceptible to the same traps they are. After getting my bearings and pinpointing a direction of the whistle, I began my slow plod through the brush.

As I moved, I felt a sense of anxiety grab my stomach. Am I walking right into a trap? This is exactly what I would do if I were trying to catch a tough prey. The knot in my stomach pushed and pulled at me but I snuck forward nonetheless. I should turn around but I cannot point my body away from the source of the whistle for fear that it would begin chasing me.

I continued to follow the sound as it changed into less of a whistle and more of a heavy wind. It was rythmic and dense, it seemed to tug at my very soul itself. I am too far gone at this point to turn back now. I must know what is causing this abberation. The forest began to open up into a patch of recently downed trees. There was no sign of a fire and the stumps do not have the telltale sign of lumbermen. No, they seemed to have been torn down by the wind.

When I reached the center of the clearing the heavy wind sound begin to shift into a more... human sound. It was unending with no breathe taken but it's pitch raised and lowered periodically. It was as if a woman was being tortured for some ungodly crime by creatures determined to wring every ounce of pain out of her. I resisted grabbing my knife to remove my ears and forced it further into its holster.

As I struggled with my desire to escape this sound, I saw it. My blood began to chill like the coldest winter has just descended upon me. My skin felt as if it wanted to retreat back into the woods behind me. My feet told a different story, though. I began to walk towards what I saw. Just inside the treeline was a figure cloaked in a tattered robe, who seemed to be floating a foot above the ground. It's hand was extended towards me pointing at my heart. It's mouth was agape and it was filling the world around me with that soul rending scream. It eyes were weeping but filled with hate. Not a hate for me, but a hate for my life. A hate that extended to everything I have ever done and everything I will do. I began to cry and beg. I apologized profusely, I said whatever I could to get that hate to stop. I cannot imagine a world without that hate; that hate is the soil, it is the air, it is the food, it is the water. My breathe became shallow and rushed; I couldn't dream of controlling myself now.

The figure began to move and then it was gone. The scream was gone but that hate remained. It boiled in my veins and caused me to gag, retch, and vomit. I curled up on the ground and waited for the day to come.

I awoke when the sun hit my eyes, it must be noon. With my senses now gathered I looked back upon last nights event. A Banshee. Gods, what have I done to deserve this. That hate remains in me, I pray and thank my lords for allowing death to take that hate from me. I... cannot contain it myself. Strength, bravery, skill, talent; all of it is nothing in the face of a being that hates your soul. I am so sorry, I must have been something awful for you to feel that way about me.