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Saoirse's blood dances with iron and trickery, a secret she has managed to sheathe from all faery alike.
Until now, that is.
When Saoirse's cunning and charade is shredded to bits by the malevolent interfering of fa...
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CHAPTER TWELVE
SPINDLY BRANCHES SCRAPED AGAINST SAOIRSE'S CLOAK.
With every which way she turned, she found herself perilously close to being swallowed by the forest. After being unceremoniously shoved from Nettleblood's cottage, Saoirse had unfolded the unhelpful map. It was not surprise that it had still been unhelpful.
GO TO THE DEEPEST, DARKEST PART OF THE FOREST, it had said. And so, Saoirse had headed towards the forest. They were tricksy woods; of woven branches, spindly bodies, hills here and there, and a foreboding darkness that encroached.
But Saoirse had strode in; back straight, features impassive, and illusion firmly put in place.
The vines had welcomed her. They had curled outwards at her approach, leaves broadening like fingers to beckon her. The briar thicket had broadened, bidding her entrance. A carpet of moss had unfurled, as if with a flick of fingers, and it greedily enveloped the sounds of Saoirse's footsteps in it's emerald, velvet-like softness. Once passed the curtains of briar, it was as if a door had slammed shut behind her, and the briars knotted back together, thorns twisting and turning. The branches had sewn shut the forest's eyelids to the outside world, vines swooping down like lashes.
But she wasn't alone. Certainly not. Saoirse's skin had prickled the moment she had stepped foot in the realm of Woodland Folk. She was no longer in the Spring King's Court. Not here. Especially not as a Mortal.
Goblins ran afoot here. Hobgoblins lumbered about, tucked away. Will o' The Wisps and Pixies lurked behind thistles and thickets. Trolls remained huddled beneath hollow hills. Cursed, solitary fey--those who owed no allegiance to any court roamed about. Everything was enchanted here, unlike Mortal forests.
It was with that thought in mind that Saoirse kept vigilance.
Her tongue fell silent--for everything listened in these woods. Her footfalls were stifled by the carpet of moss. She slipped her hood down, betraying the gleam of golden hair, as her eyes swiveled about her surroundings, jumping to and fro. Her nimble fingers slipped into the pockets of her cloak. She found the jewelry box clanging against the satchel she'd loped around her shoulder, and in her other pocket, her food, and the bottled human ornaments of protection.
She had no weapon. Unless, of course, she wanted to bash in the skull of a faery with the jewelry box, Saoirse couldn't quell a smirk as the sudden thought struck her. She canted her head, thinking for a moment. She was, herself, a weapon; and really, she doubted she could be faulted for endeavoring to protect herself. With her teeth, she pulled at the fingers of her glove. Bit by bit, her glove revealed very human flesh. Starkly tan, criss-crossed with calluses. But her glamour was only superficial, flesh-deep. The blood singing and crooning, battering against her skin, was all her own. Tainted with Iron.
