The canyon descended further and further, narrowing, and becoming littered with broken shale and sharp flint. Despite the daylight, the canyon was narrow and jagged and deep enough that little light was to be found. Even with my night-eye I found the terrain treacherous.

Despite that, I continued fleeing for the better part of an hour, with the voices of the humans and their alarm receding into the distance. Though the distance was difficult to discern; the echoes and wind played tricks with the sound.

I lasted thirty minutes before I first stumbled, tripping over uneven ground. I jostled my left side against the wall. I bit my lip and felt a slight whimper work itself up from my core.

Leaning against the wall I paused, catching my breath, taking stock. My wounds… while they did not bleed, they ached deeply, similar to bone tired, but a line of fire through and through. One through my left deltoid, and the other through my ribs.

Luckily, the shots missed my vitals–else my situation would be far more precarious. Not that it was not precarious as it was.

While there, I listened. The breeze ruffled my ears. Rocks clattered in the distance. Perhaps from the wind, an unsteady landscape, or perhaps the slavers in pursuit.

I pushed off the wall and continued on. The bottles clinked. Tempting, but no. That would be later. After I checked my wounds. After I found a refuge. And a refuge I sought.

My side throbbed. Every step, another flash of fire, each flash growing in intensity, following along each and every fiber passing near the wound. Just what had those weapons done? No projectile could do this. But magic was strange.

From Traceless Tracks, I thought I would be safe, lest the humans stumble upon me.

But if magic allowed me to be untrackable, then perhaps magic existed to reverse the effect, to draw them to me, as a hunter pursuing wounded prey, following a trail of heart-blood.

I imagined a woodsman hunting their game, tracking, pursuing all for a trophy. What would that be in this case, my scalp? Or would it be a pelt.

I shuddered at the thought, but the motion sent pain spasming up my side.

Motherswear it! I gritted my teeth and mostly repressed the high pitched whine escaping me.

Rocks clattered again. I thought I heard a bark, maybe a swear, it was difficult to tell how far, but the fact I could hear them at all meant they were too close. I muscled on, ignoring the pain radiating with every step.

I tripped again and collided with rock.

Body: 43 (+1)

I growled and scratched at the flint, cutting away jags of the stone. No, I could not leave a trail. I rebuked myself. No noises, no trails, nothing to lead the hunters to me.

Several steps further, traveling in a clear line that followed the lee of the crevasse beneath an overhang, step after step. No trail.

How sure was I that they could follow me? I had lost the ooze monster, and that creature seemed better suited to following a trail than a human. But I could not discount the fear that there may exist a supernatural mechanism to pierce Traceless Tracks. However, that may verge upon paranoia on my part.

An inkling of a memory began teasing the back of my mind. It was not the time for recollections, but it was of note as I had yet to truly recall anything from before. But, not the proper time. I pushed the memory back down.

I needed to focus on the land I was traversing.

Even if the hunters had no way to track, it would not be overly difficult for them to climb down into the crevasses and canyons and flush through them. They could stumble upon me by more chance than skill.

I needed to keep moving!

Another step.

A rock tripped me. My own negligence… I needed to rest. Needed so many things. I had yet to go through my gains from the heist. The bottled spirits enticed me far more than they should have.

But I needed to keep going!

Except, did I?

I did not hear the humans right then. Many irregularities and wrinkles in the terrain meant a plethora of hiding spots to choose from. Traceless Tracks would likely be sufficient to lose their trail. Perhaps I could rest. Find a hole, briefly shut my eyes. Just for a moment. Just long enough to collect my strength before pushing onward.

If I shut my eyes, would I awaken surrounded by enemies? Would I awaken at all.

These thoughts and more harangued me.

Already I was near the wall of the crevasse, in the lee of the wall. I leaned against the stone. I rested my eyes, for just a second.

And there, while in the shadows, the bubbling memory surfaced…

The memory started vaguely, emotions rather than substance; I would rather have gone without. Feel and horror, being pursued, I remembered that much. A horrid nightmare chasing me, a violation of trust, a threat of silence and pain and going back to… I shuddered, struggling to pull out from the memory. But I was too weak, too tired, and perhaps, just a bit too curious.

I had enough awareness to break the surface of the waking dream, enough so to idly muse. Tiredly, I had a rational thought: memories were loathsome things. When I cannot recall them, I want them. When I cannot entertain them, they strip me, flog me, and beat me down. Soon, the fatigue drew me back under. The memory came.

I had been running. Fleeing.

A horror pursued, though I had not caught sight of it. I just knew it. It had done something, something to a pretty friend. It had been doing something to all my pretty friends. A predator, one that left me so frightened I had bolted and had grabbed a possible chance of freedom–though it had led me into the woods.

A forest of unfamiliar hills and textured terrain, fir trees thick enough leave no room for brambles, only dead branches at my height. They grabbed at me. Loomed at me. Terrified me. But they were better than the alternative.

I swallowed my fear and continued onward, inward, away from the hunter.

I was wounded. Many scratches and scrapes. My cheek bled. My knee bloodied. My hair a mess. Tears and grime stained my cheeks. I had survived that first day by luck and the fact that death by thirst takes longer than twenty four hours, at least in a temperate clime. But thirst I had aplenty. As well as hunger.

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Evening began and shadows fell; the forest grew increasingly dark, until only flickers of moonlight shown through the slivers of canopy. I could no longer see. I stumbled in the dark, roots or rocks, I was unsure.

Darkness forced me to slow my pace. I wandered with my arms outstretched, unsure which direction I was headed, though hoping I was not wandering in circles. With my hands before me, I noticed just how small they were. Still pudged with baby fat. The trunks of the fir seemed mighty all around me, but this was no old growth forest. Could not have been. How small had I been? What age? It must have been young.

Soon, without my frenetic pace, I cooled off. My clothes, a frilly dress, damp with sweat, chilled me. So cold! I had no blanket; my escape ill-planned, if planned at all. I could not recall.

Desperate for heat, I scooped mounds of fir leaves, moldy dirty needle like leaves, on top of me. I burrowed in to find any warmth I could find. My teeth clattered. But no longer did I feel like the matchstick girl. Why did I remember the matchstick girl? A bitter part of me, a small part of me, felt jealousy: at least in the story, the matchstick girl had died warm and happy, even if an illusion.

Howls and yips danced among the trees. Not wolf howls, these lasted longer, warbled more, and came at a higher pitch. The coyote’s were singing. My fear redoubled. My body was small and weak. I had bled. Surely they could follow the scent of my blood and set upon me. Hours passed. The coyotes sang from nearby. I felt I could almost reach out and touch them. I thought I saw yellow eyes flicker by. Impossible–my eyes had been shut tight. My imagination then. It had to have been.

A squeal, a shriek, then rending of flesh and snapping of jaws.

I waited. And waited. All that night, I waited, expecting to feel teeth tearing through my skin, through the nape of my neck, at any moment. But nothing came.

Dawn peaked over the hilltops. The morning crisp and cool. But I could see. I could no longer stay. I needed to escape the forest, find a road, civilization, help. So long as it was far from the horror that chased me here in the first place.

I vaguely remembered the horror, a face–no! I blotted it out, too terrible to even envision. In my waking body, somewhere distant, I felt the fur raise on the back of my neck. Even there, in the real world, I knew some monsters were better left forgotten.

I got to moving. Traveling. Downward. Following after the sun, chasing the morning. I never warmed up, but I did grow warmer. My dress was a mess. Torn. Stained. My knees had bled through my white stockings. I was missing a Sunday shoe. This was bad. Very bad.

Good girls are clean girls.

My body flinches and recoils. No, best not to think of it. Safety first.

Close to midday, I stumbled out onto a paved road. This meant civilization. But also danger. The horror would be searching for me, likely watching the road. Not many lived this way, but some. All it took was one stranger. One heading into town. From there, the sheriff office. The monster always warned against the sheriff; they must have been safe.

So far as plans went, I felt it was a good one. I could not help but smile, just a fraction. Excitement. Soon I would be free. If ever I could be.

A car was coming. They traveled the right direction. I did not recognize the vehicle. I could not remember if the monster had others. Maybe. Maybe not. I waved them down. They slowed to a stop. Of course they did. I was a pretty girl. I was a good girl. They always stopped. It was a nice man. Older, a bit rough, smelling sour. But nice all the same.

He spoke. I could recall the intent, but not the words. He worried I was attacked and lost. He asked where my parents were. I cried; this was not difficult.

“P-police,” I stuttered, in a pathetic voice, almost a mewl. This also, was not difficult. I requested a ride. Of course the man acquiesced. He was not the monster. He might have been a monster though. It hardly mattered. We were traveling in the right direction.

He kept glancing at me, frowning, as we drove. He asked questions. I made faces and refused to answer. He turned on the radio, and though staticy, there was music. Not very good music. That I kept to myself.

We were halfway to town; the roads curvy, over and down hills, passing through old mudslides, some farms, many trees. Eight miles to go.

When I looked away from the man, I could not help but smile. Almost. Almost free! What would I even do with it? Maybe school? My pre–my friends–had mentioned it. It sounded fun. Maybe I would try?

Seven miles to go.

A car on the side of the road. The hood open.

Dread coursed down my spine. I shivered, trembled.

“N-no!” I said. I already knew though. I knew that car. A woman was flagging us down. How did she know? She must have spied upon traffic. We were on one of the few straight-aways. I begged the man to keep driving. I pled.

His face twisted in a mix of confusion and something else. The woman was not ugly. She made her assets work. She looked pitiful. The man said it would only take a second. That a gentleman never let a damsel go unassisted. The man was a fool. No longer could I contain myself, I told him that, that he was a fool.

He parked behind the woman and got out. The woman’s eyes met my own. Those cold horrific eyes. Then she pointed at her engine. Of course, of course the man went to look, bending over the engine block.

I needed to run. I scrambled out from the seat belt. I pushed open the door. I could still outrun her! I could get back to the forest, I could–

The man collapsed, the woman tossed something aside, glass–a syringe–I had seen her use similar before, when we brought friends home. He might wake up, he might not. I could not wait to find out. I ran down the shoulder, down the embankment, towards the safety of the–

Her long legs, so much longer than mine, they ate the distance between us, too quickly. Her spindly fingers on my shoulders. My momentum arrested. I kicked and screamed.

Good girls never run.

Mind: 53 (+1)

…that memory, that torment, I wished had remained forgotten.

I recalled where I was, in the crevasse. My body felt different now; I could see in the dark; I could do magic; I had survived in the wilderness for days.

Resting had been a terrible idea. I needed to run. Needed distance between me and that awful dream. I began moving further down into the canyon.

But I could not keep my head clear!

I stumbled, on roots–no!–on rock. There were no trees here. Even now that horrid dream found ways to torment me. I fell, this time catching myself with my right arm, my good arm. The impact still jolted through me, through my wounds. Agony. I was trembling. I was in no state to go on. I could not.

Had I found shelter in that dream, then perhaps I would have found a different fate.

Shelter. I made my decision: I would find shelter.

I scanned further downhill. The terrain, irregular. Many places from which to choose. A shelf of rock with a crack between it and the floor. The shadows were deep enough, even during daylight, that my eyes could not penetrate that space. It would have to do. It would work. Yes. Shelter.

One step, one agony. Two steps. Three.

Each movement hurt, but I refused to succumb.

Nine steps.

I stumbled again, this time catching myself on the ground with my left side. Sharp rocks. My nerves screamed. I screamed! Though it sounded like a yelp. I hated myself for it. But I hated the pain more.

I wormed the rest of the way into the interstitial space between rocks. My wounds–I should tend to them. But I felt so weak. My eyes still so heavy. My throat parched.

Every time my heartbeat, pain throbbed.

I wanted to sleep. But if I did, would I remember? I did not want to. The fate I found was the least of my torments–the guilt was worse, always the worst.

The glass bottles of spirits had clinked. Just one sip. I could manage that much. With one hand, I worked a bottle loose, I worked the cap off, I took a healthy swig and nearly spat it out. Fire. Lightning. Down my throat. Or my lungs. I coughed. Some sprayed. The cuts on my lips, on my muzzle, they stung.

I took another swig.

Spirit: 43 (+1)

Blessings: Rank (1/9)

* Body: 43 (+1)

* Mind: 53 (+1)

* Spirit: 43 (+1)

Talents:

* Athleticism (3/9):

* Climbing (8/9)

* Stealth (7/9)

* Trackless Tracks (3/9)

* Closed (5/9)

Spells:

* Illusion I (1/9)

* Touch (1/9)

* Closed (0/9)

* Closed (0/9)

Gifts:

* Obsession (2/9)

* Closed (0/9)

* Closed (0/9)