Eventide is softly casting o'er the earth a magic spell,

And a love-song, everlasting, on the night wind seems to swell.

Their act was well put together. Not good enough to fool a soul experienced with treachery, foul play and taunts but well enough to ensnare a naive girl still wet behind her ears. Though hardened by the flames of war her heart remained soft and pure, soul yet untainted - the battles she had fought had been, though still horrible enough, honest and straightforward.

This was nothing of the sort, though she was led to believe so. Unlikely though the tale was, the illusions weaving through the dark woods patched the more gaping holes and sent a thrill of horror down the spine as Erthë followed the direction of Belial's gaze and saw a monstrous something emerge from the underbrush. It was shadowed, indistinct, a mere silhouette but one that touched upon all the right places. Instinct, for what it was worth, screamed about danger and while her conscious mind still had trouble comprehending this sudden turn of events Erthë found herself pulled along with panic as it swept her off.

Oblivion screamed and spun on his heels, threw himself in before her and told her to run. Erthë stared at him with mouth half open, startled by the sudden urgency, by the furious fire in his eye as he stared wildly at her. He was so close, she could feel the heat of his body flush against her skin that was no longer quite as icy as before. Something hummed and quivered within her, an unknown something she was not yet old enough to fully comprehend, and it moved her to action even though she didn't know why...

Retreating. Right. She took a step back, and two, three; but it was as though her thoughts were wheels suspended in mid air, unable to connect with the situation. She tore her gaze away from the passionate black stallion and looked at Belial again, at the approaching creature wreathed in shadow...

Oh. Right. Run. Trouble was, she couldn't. Not on those legs. Fly? Not with the canopy so dense above her head, she barely had room to spread her wings properly. And again - unable to run, gather speed, take off without an elevated position to start from.

Solution?

Fight.

And it was as though an electric charge shot through her brain, connecting limbs with brain and brain with thought. Even as Oblivion shouted at Belial to fight the creature off the wintry lass reached for her bow again and pulled it from the wing, brought it up to a suitable height and released it. Even as it settled in the air, hovering before her she grasped the string and moved, stumbled out of the shadow of the suddenly so protective knight and sought to aim for the monster that supposedly was coming to slay her.

"Move!" she cried, tone commanding despite the onset of adrenaline that distorted it into something high pitched and frail - and as soon as she thought herself to have a clear shot Erthë let go of the string.

Without a sound, in a flash of piercing white light that illuminated the forest and burned away even the densest of shadows, the magical arrow shot off towards the cause of this situation - towards the empty shadow that would neither bleed nor crumble or scream in agony as life blood rushed from tapped veins.

But she didn't know that. Nor that this was all a game, a play, a horrible joke.

They chose a poor heroine for their act... perhaps one who had never fought to save her life would have been better suited to crying and fainting and screaming for help.