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Her apathetic expression only serves to further solidify my accusations. The girl remains furiously perfect in all regard; a beautiful statue that appears unfazed by my vexation. Which...left me to believe her unreadable regard is what one can reasonably expect in their dealings with an undead spirit. I attempt to recall stories that would give me insight into the habits of this monster; but those old memories are corroded and distant. Though...one trait strikes me as an important classification, this ill omen is known for its woeful scream of despair. A banshee's cry is said to bring misfortune and death upon those who hear it. 

After my reckless verbal lash electrifies the air; I consciously shift back on these chilly haunches...bracing for the retaliation I've already set myself up to expect. Every fiber within me is anxious and filled with rising heat -- tendons are pent to spring into action at a moment's notice. There is a cowardice snip of me that wants to run from this place as fast as my muscled limbs can pump; never to look upon these accursed woods again. But a banshee couldn't be outrun -- which meant direct confrontation is the only solution. I've nearly convinced my subconscious that I wasn't afraid to fight for my right to draw another breath. Even so...this thundering heart lumps feverishly -- forcing an icy sheen of fear to creep passively across my skin. In the back of my mind, a small voice asks if this is the end of my journey...

Over before it had hardly begun.

Her dark jaw loosens, unhitching; I draw a rigid breath and curl up my upper lip with anticipation. Fortunately, no unworldly cry passes from those lips, no gashing of teeth. She doesn't transform into a terrifying, shrieking monster of lore either. Rather, the woman simply attempts to strike a conversation. Her admission is plainly one of confusion...though any possible frustration is unreadable, nothing reflects visibly upon that pristine mask. My pent nerves soften ever slightly. The plates in my mind rotate to absorb this new wave of information -- I quickly come to the conclusion that an undead omen wouldn't bother with conversation. Also, they wouldn't deny themselves. Which could only mean… I’d been horribly misguided. My fear subsides on the wake of cooling regret. “Do Ní ...” vocals breathe out, hinting on the intangible relief that thaws my rigid stance. Damp nostrils flare apart, they suckle heavily on the air between us -- tasting the tension and uncertainty. “If you aren't a banshee..." The off-balance confusion in my cords slide off in a plume of cooling smoke. My attention drifts to her barren shoulders, with scrunched temples digging a ditch as I struggle for an explanation. A needled tone rises from my chest, openly exasperated, "then explain what happened to your wings?” The absence of feathers and her ignorance to the common tongue is befuddling.

There had never been anything like this woman before.

Various mentions of unhelpful lore dash across my mind; though none describe her behavior or physical attributes. I lean forward, centering my weight. An announcing crack of debris caught underfoot and a bright word of unfamiliar origin signals the arrival of someone (or something else.) My nearest audit flicks sharply to the source; I square this body and throw up another rigid wall of antarctic regard. The girl that emerges is different from the first in every aspect...like me, her frame is robust -- though unlike me, the lass is stunted with short limbs. Her face is honest and flawless; a rich canvas of virgin sand bleached by sunlight.  My gaze travels accusingly across girl number 2 -- flaking notice of her finer features in favor of skipping automatically to that plump waist...only to find it depressingly bare. "Blasted bullock's, there are more of you!?" I bite out.

Before anything further could be done or said – the telling hum of hollows pushing into the wind snags my full attention and quickens the pulse. My confined pinions strain against that biting rope. Bits of snow fall to the ground as they press earnestly in response to a jealous surge that tightens it's talons around my soul. In that watchful instant I’m overcome with a wave of dread; tart panic mingles with relief which becomes the colors of my expression. Combined with the clash of uncertainty, it makes me feel sick in a way that nothing else ever had. But those feelings subside when the young flyer touches down, somehow avoiding the dense canopy of branches overhead. I anxiously lean in to trace that speckled hide, grazing her birthright with a lesser amount of brittle irate. Those curious orbs, a mutation of color, fix themselves upon me after regarding girl number two. I again feel an unpleasant tightness building in my chest, useless words of frustration flick to the tip of my tongue…a scowling subconscious barely manages to leash me in. Aside from my spine quivering subtly, (a natural response to the moister sinking past a thin coat) I stand as silent as stone beneath her scrutiny.

This whole business is confusing – and I hate how it left me gasping for balance. Their idle banter has nothing to do with me, but when the child suggests to 'move on,' it sounds like an assumption that we...or rather I...should be traveling with her. Lilacs harden into ice, dismissing the idea, “Dul pé áit is mian leat.” Only when that raspy statement had left me did I remember that at least one member of this trio didn’t understand the common tongue, "Go wherever you want," I translate a second later under a breath of smoke. Dismissing them...my attention shifts to the scuffled areas around us... bitter disappointment is the next wave to strike. Because now the areas I'd uncovered are laden with fresh power, and the night sky seems unrelenting. With a crestfallen glance at the enormity of my situation, I have a moment of brilliant, horrific clarity, "I'll never find it in all this..."

Glossary

Do Ní - your not...