“Come play with us,” the little girl said, her smile growing even brighter.

“Yes, come play with us.” Said Mr. Finklewink in his much too deep voice, his big rabbit ears flopping as he bobbed his head.

Britina took her sister’s hand as they ran up a winding staircase toward an unknown adventure. They laughed as the sun warmed them, and the servants began to sing as they skipped through the halls. They never did this together. Her little sister never had the opportunity to run alongside Britina. Together, they burst into their father's prize garden. Mr. Finklewink laughed along with the two children.

The garden was considered to be the most exquisite garden in the city. It rivaled all of the other lords' and ladies' gardens. It was in the center of the large manor. Around the perimeter were the rose bushes, all in full bloom. Circling the fountain in the middle was a canopy of flowers with all the colors in the world. This was Britina’s second favorite place to study. Her favorite place to study was far off into the future.

The two sisters giggled, laughed, and, yes, dear reader, they frolicked. They twirled faster and faster, their dresses billowing out as they spun. Her little sister never did this. Mr. Finklewink sang along in his absurdly deep voice. Dizzy with enjoyment, they fell laughing as only children could laugh.

Britina plucked a nearby rose, intending to place it in her sister’s hair as she’d done many times before. But suddenly, she felt ill. Before crumbling in her hand, the beautiful rose emitted a dreadful stench, the smell of death and rotting flesh. Shocked, she looked at her sister lying next to her. Dead eyes stared back. The little girl opened her blacked mouth and groaned.

Mr. Finklewink stood, which he never did, and stumbled toward her. “Flesh!” he and Britina’s sister moaned in unison, reaching out for her. Terror gripped Britina as she screamed, jolting herself awake.

--

Prunhiline smiled at the snoring mage. The sun was warm like the plains of her home. The wind reminded her of the breeze that crossed the flat lands. Her eyes shut, but she shook her head, attempting to wake herself. Again, her eyes became heavy, and her head dropped. The ever-alert warrior fell fast asleep.

The warrior stood proud and tall, well, taller, looking over the plains. Across the tall grass was a herd of bison. She could see other animals gather near the pond. Her smile grew wide as she recalled her first kill of each. Like everyone in her village, she was an accomplished hunter, her title bearing the names of all her kills, so many it would take from sunrise to sunset to list them all. She was proud of her title.

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“Prunhiline,” Said a deep voice next to her.

Prunhiline looked to her right to see her father standing next to her. He was seven foot two and two quarters because every inch counted. His harness was adorned with knives of all shapes and sizes, each used to dress the day’s kill carefully. He held his long metal spear in his right hand.

“Daddy!” Prunhilne stood straight and tall.

“Are you ready to hunt?” Her father asked.

“Yes, Daddy!” She said with excitement, raising her own equally long metal spear.

Together, they sprinted toward the herd of bison. Other great hunters from her village joined them. They ran quietly and swiftly. The old shaman ran to her left. He was one of the oldest people in their village, but not as old as the old wise woman. The shaman easily kept pace with Prunhiline as they raced toward their prey. This would be a good hunt!

The village worked in unison. The experienced hunters identified the slowest members of the herd, marking them with juicy berries that stained their fur. The other hunters protected the spotters. Soon, the fastest runners began the perilous duty of directing the prey away from the herd. They used the blunt end of their spears and shouted to push the beast to where they wanted it.

Once the beast was separated from the herd, the other hunters prevented the herd from intervening. Knowing this dance of death, the herd kept its place but watched and mourned the loss of one of its own.

The chief, his daughter, and the shaman closed in for the kill. Prunhiline and the shaman struck their spears deep into the bison’s hindquarters, hitting the spot they knew would bring it down. The chief had the honor of killing it. He drove his spear deep into the beast, piercing its heart. A few seconds passed as the dying creature thrashed but could not move its powerful hind legs. It died quickly. The hunters cheered, and then they all fell silent as the shaman chanted thanks to the beast and the gods.

The herd let out a final cry, honoring their fallen member before moving on. The hunters set to work, each with their own task. Every part of the bison would be used; nothing would go to waste.

Prunhiline stood proud next to her father. They inspected their kill, which was part of being a hunter on the plains. Prunhiline smiled up at her tall father. He seemed taller. She looked over at the shaman, who also seemed to be growing taller. Then she realized they weren’t getting taller; she was shrinking.

“Little Prunhiline,” her father, a giant towering over her, said, “You are too small to be here. Go back to the village.”

“No, Daddy, I can hunt!” She cried out.

“Ah, little Prunejuice,” the shaman teased. “Go back and let the real hunters do their job.” Prunhiline hated the nickname Prunejuice. She glared at the elder shaman.

Her father and the shaman reached down and took her spear, knives, and, to her horror, her favorite war hammer, the one given to her by Britina.

“These are dangerous for you,“ her father said.

The shaman handed her a stuffed unicorn doll. It was fluffy and white, with a golden, dulled horn so she wouldn’t hurt herself. Its dull, lifeless eyes, rainbow-colored tail, and unsettling grin stared back at her.

Prunhiline looked at the toy in her hands.

The unicorn turned its dead eyes toward Prunhiline and moaned. She screamed herself awake.