Meryl lifted her head from her scraped knees, the skin torn by the thorns of rosebushes she had run through. She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her green spring dress, now ruined with dirt and blood.
This was a habit—running off and crying beneath the large weeping willow at the top of the garden. The braid in her long black hair was fraying, threatening to come undone. Her pale grey iris' glistened and one her cheeks was bruised red and slightly swollen.
The sunlight was bright and warm, a cruel contrast to her mood. The cheerful birdsong only made her tears feel all the more pathetic and guilty.
"MERYL!"
A voice screeched her name—high-pitched, harsh, and unforgiving.
"Meryl, I swear, if you're hiding under that tree, you'll regret it. Don't make your mother any angrier! Come out! NOW!"
The shouting only made her more upset. Panic surged in her chest as she scrambled around to the back of the tree, away from the noise. She crouched low beneath the willow's sweeping canopy, hidden from the sun.
The faint crumpling of dried grass and leaves signaled someone's approach. Meryl clamped her small hands over her mouth to quiet her breathing.
Please… go away. Go away. It's not my fault. She pushed me first. She started it! She always starts it! Why am I the one getting yelled at? Just because she's more hurt than me?
Tears spilled over her fingers. She was running out of breath.
Something appeared from behind the tree and touched her shoulder.
She gasped.
Then—
She awoke with a jolt.
Back in the night air once more. The ruined cigarette packet still lay at the foot of the glade's opening. The old, awful memory had faded—replaced now by a new one.
A man was about to reach out and touch her.
"'Ey, lass, are you alri—?"
Crack!
Meryl's boot found its mark—what she assumed were the man's testicles. In the darkness, she couldn't see much, but the way he doubled over and wheezed told her she'd probably guessed right.
"Oohhhh foooockiiin, 'ell! Why'd ya do that for? Shhhhiiit! Oooh, oh god—me fuckin' prized jewels! Me plums! You just squashed me two fuckin' veg! What the fuck's wrong with ya?! I was just—ohhh god..."
As the man groaned and cursed, her eyes adjusted just enough to spot the silhouette of another figure entering the glade. This one was larger—much larger. A monstrous form of a man, with something protruding from its mouth. Tusks?
Meryl couldn't be sure. She drew a small boot knife she kept hidden for moments like this, just in case. Her stance was solid, but the way she held the knife—and the tremble in her fingers—gave away her lack of skill. This was more a show. She keeps herself a healthy distance and glanced towards any place that looks like an escape. But with the moon now hidden it was tough to calculate.
The large figure raised its arms, approaching slowly with deliberate, non-threatening body language, trying to calm the anxious woman.
"Oi, easy, lass. We ain't here to hurt ya. Cap'n saw you run off into the woods and didn't see ya come back. He got worried."
Like the man still groaning and clutching his groin on the ground, this one had the accent of a seafarer—likely from the Shattered Isles. His words were slightly slurred, whether from rum, as the stereotype suggested, or… tusks? She couldn't quite tell. All she could see were two vaguely humanoid shapes, blurred by her poor night vision.
The first man spoke up again.
"Aye… ugh. Sorry... for startling ya. I was just… I was gonna check if you were alive, that's all! Don't get the wrong idea, lass. These woods aren't safe, ya know, and a pretty little thing like you out here all alone is sure to attract the wrong sort of crowd."
He got back on his feet, knees shaky but no longer buckling. It seemed the pain had subsided enough.
"Unless, ya know, that was your intention. In which case… I can be the wrong—"
The blade was suddenly trained on him.
"A-alright... message received! You just wanted some alone time! Fair enough, lass. Do ya—do ya have a name at least?"
Silence. The blade remained pointed at him.
"Er... Cap'n, I don't think she can speak," the larger figure interrupted. "She's one o' them mimes. And you already know her name—she was in the show. Why even bother askin'?"
"Grimshaw," the smaller man said, sighing, "introductions are always important. Especially when the fair maidens are scared shitless by your fockin' face and need a scrap of normality in their life right this second."
"Oi, lay off my face or I'll give that scar on yours a twin on the other cheek. Then we'll see who's the ugly one, Norrik, you bastard."
"Nah, Grim, it'll always be you! I can't very well up and take your only personality trait from ya. Unlike you, I ain't a monster."
As the two men tore into each other verbally, there didn't seem to be any real animosity between them. The tone suggested it was more a game of one-upmanship, and it was clear the smaller one loved the sound of his own voice—regardless of whether he was winning the exchange.
Meryl raised an eyebrow, her stance easing. The bickering was distracting, and the rowdy exchange masked the usual ambiance of the forest. For an encounter with two strange men alone in the woods, this was better than expected. She had been waiting for something to happen.
And then something did happen.
Something pierced her shoulder.
A an inhuman shriek followed as a monstrous creature rammed into Meryl with what looked like antlers, flinging her back beneath the large oak tree she had once cried under.
At a glance, it might have been mistaken for a stag—tall, elegant, its antlers branching like twisted trees.
But then it turned toward Norrik and Grimshaw.
Its eyes were not the calm, dark pools of a prey animal. They gleamed with an unnatural light—cold, intelligent, and fixed with uncanny precision on anything that moved. Feathers covered its back in an iridescent sheen of deep greens and reds, fluttering faintly with each breath. Massive wings unfurled like those of a carrion bird, a grotesque contrast to its otherwise graceful frame.
It bared jagged, canine teeth at the men—clearly visible even in the dark.
It had the legs of a hawk, talons where hooves should be, and a feathered tail that flicked silently behind it.
The creature tilted its head slightly, assessing whether the two men might be its next meal.
Its gaze settled on the smaller man, who panicked and screamed a single word:
"Peryton!"
He stood at about 5'10", and in the moonlight, the gold threads woven into his long, dark blue coat shimmered faintly. He wore it open—not by choice, but because his belly bulged too far to let him button it. His white, frilled shirt stretched tight beneath, stained with the scent of strong spirits. His brown slacks were patched in several places, and he wore tall, black musketeer boots.
His feathered tricorn hat lay discarded in the dirt, left behind when Meryl had kicked him.
His skin was a pale grey, but his cheeks were flushed a bright, rosy red, as was his bulbous nose. His ears were large, long, and sharply pointed—a plump elf with a thick black beard and a scar over his right eye that vanished into the hair on his face. His unkempt hair was a greasy tangle that hadn't seen a brush—or soap—in some time.
He broke into a cold sweat as he slowly backed away, wide-eyed.
His scent was easy to track now.
The second man, however, proved far more threatening.
From his bare back, he hefted what looked like an anchor—as though it were no heavier than a sword. His broad shoulder bore a tattoo of an ornate ship's wheel, and he wielded the anchor one-handed, raising it toward the creature in a clear challenge.
He growled, deep and guttural.
His skin was a pale green, reminiscent of an orc, but the tusks on his lower jaw were too small. Unlike most orcs, who stood hunched, this one held himself straight and tall, built like a strongman from the carnival. He wore patched purple slacks with a red sash around his waist, and boots similar to his captain's.
He was bald, his ears pointed though not as sharply as his captain's. His face wasn't pleasant to look at, but his grimace was enough to give the Peryton pause.
The creature looked back toward the mime, who was now weakly trying to rise to her feet.
It made a decision.
In the darkness, Meryl felt rows of jagged teeth puncture the flesh of her forearm. A rush of wind carried the stench of her own blood to her nose as the creature prepared to take off, lifting her while she was still frozen in shock from the immediate, debilitating pain.
She was about to be plucked from the forest. Gone.
Forever.
In that moment, time seemed to slow. A little voice called out in the back of her mind. Images flashed through her thoughts—memories she had no control over. Her estate's garden. The horrible flashbacks that always surfaced whenever she thought about defending herself.
It's going to eat me.
A sudden image surged forth—her childhood perspective. A small Meryl, helpless, watching a girl in a white dress with black pigtails punch her in the middle of a rose garden. The brat's face twisted with cruelty, green eyes burning with hatred as she prepared to mock and belittle her again.
I need to do something.
Another image. Young Meryl tripping the girl and shoving her into a rosebush. Her tiny hand grabbed the other child by the collar, the other clenched and ready to strike.
It's going to fly.
Next image. The girl in the white dress running, crying, off to tell the grown-ups—her hand clutching a tooth Meryl had knocked out. There was no hiding what she'd done.
I need to get away.
Final image. A boy in ragged clothes with long ears touched her shoulder under the willow tree, startling her. He pointed toward something in the distance—something called a carnival.
A guttural bellow ripped through the night, snapping her back to reality.
"Ohhh no, you fuckin' well don't! You ain't having her!"
The muscular, pale-green giant charged toward her and the Peryton. The creature clung tighter, determined to keep its prey.
Meryl had to act. She let the knife drop from her wounded arm and caught it swiftly with her free hand.
No more feeling like a victim... just do something.
She began stabbing frantically—its face, wing, neck, anywhere she could reach. She didn't care where. It was survival now. She slashed, hacked, and even snapped off part of its antler. The creature finally shrieked and released her, dodging just in time as the anchor came crashing down, embedding slightly into the earth. It was enough to force the Peryton to retreat. With a beat of massive wings, it vanished into the canopy above.
Meryl gasped, the blunted knife slipping from her fingers. Her breath came in ragged gulps, adrenaline roaring through her veins.
A hand landed on her shoulder, then gripped her hand tightly. Norrik—the elf—eyes wide with fear, shouted at her.
"It's never just one o' them! It's got a taste for ya now! We gotta run, lass! Back to the carnival, before it comes back with friends!"
He pulled the injured mime along, and she didn't resist. But the blood loss from her arm and back was slowing her down, her steps heavy and weak.
"Don't die yet, lass! C'mon!!"