The Crowned Captive

Rowan hated humans. That was a fact. He detested the fae that lived with them, talked with them, and even fornicated with them. The offspring of the match were worse than the feral beasts he hunted around the fae wilds of Navyria. Yet here he was, south of the border against his better interests, catching one to bring back home with him. He would much rather kill it, but his orders had been clear: “Catch the halfling, no matter the circumstances. Interrogate it for any useful information and bring it back, alive, at all costs”. The look in the king's eye was not one that allowed for error. Whatever intel his little spies had given him must be important. Yet the king had been secretive enough to not even give him a description.

So Rowan sat on his dappled grey mare in the struggling light of dawn. She led him through the forest to whatever point his king had elected, ignoring everything but her task. Her feathered hooves were silent on the leaf litter, leaving only the calls of the forest itself to find his ears. Despite having no need to navigate, he still scanned the landscape for any vantage points, any escapes, and any potential traps. The Rebellion had been active in the past few months, and he did not fancy walking into their trap.

The wind changed, and Rowan scowled. What he hated most about the humans was the stench. Even miles away, the sweat and musk pervaded the air like poison invading his lungs. The thick mask covering his mouth and nose did little to block it out as his mare moved through the forest. He tried to focus on everything else but the stink, but it clung to his nose like weeds to a cliff face.

His mare came to a stop. Rowan relaxed somewhat as she pawed the ground, signalling that she would take him no further. His prey was within reach. He dismounted, giving her an affectionate pat on the neck and murmuring his thanks as he undid the saddlebags and removed her tack. The frost-covered earth crunched beneath his feet as he hurriedly erected the crude hide tent and placed his belongings inside. As the murky twilight lightened with the first rays of the dawn sun, he warded the area. Nobody would follow him back once he found his quarry. Once the gentle thrum of magic dissipated from beneath his skin, he nodded and set on his way.

Trying to block out the stench that grew ever stronger, Rowan pondered why he was chosen for this mission. Many less important fae could have retrieved a halfling. Most would be more successful in caring enough to keep it alive. Too many already considered him a mindless brute at the king’s beck and call; this task only solidified their opinions. Was this a signal from the king that he did not consider him a potential heir anymore? The thought only darkened his mood further as he trudged through the woods, trying to find whatever nearby trail his king wanted him to follow.

Rowan wandered the forest for a handful of minutes, scowling at the ground, before he saw the first signs of his prey. Small footprints meandered through a worn path that deer had likely once travelled. A woman or a child, then. The lack of an attempt to cover them made Rowan ponder whether it was a trap or whether the mutt had no sense to protect itself. The former may explain why the king had deemed his hand necessary, the latter was no more than an offence. With a sigh, Rowan continued to follow the footprints.

The trail meandered through the ghostly trunks before arriving at a poorly made snare. The mechanism, a crude noose fastened to a nearby stake, would struggle to capture anything bigger than a squirrel. Rowan turned up his nose at it, scrutinising it, then studied the surrounding area. The area was untouched, the only intelligent creature that had passed through it recently the mutt. Rowan snorted to himself, amused at the thought he could even refer to it as such.

The pale tree trunks were coloured only by the thick moss that clung to them. The halfling had muddied the trail to the point that little else was visible. But there, just off to the left, a strand of silver hair flowed like spun silver in the sunlight. Unless it was far more cunning than the sloppy trail let on, the hair was from the mutt. He lifted it, trying to find the scent under the human stink. It was a female with half fae blood or more. His eyebrows rose with the realisation that it may even be the child of a halfling and a faerie - maybe the child of some rebellion fanatic. That may explain why the king was so interested in them. They may even be a magic wielder - at least slightly better than a beast. That would be a less offensive reason he was here. Maybe he would get to use his skills today after all. The thought had his heart quickening.

He followed the trail, as quiet and quick as an adder. His eyes were sharp now he thought his prey may be a shade more competent than a human. Their scent was stronger now, floral and unhidden. Their trail was still sloppy through the undergrowth - a fighting member of the Rebellion was unlikely then. Maybe someone close to them? A potential hostage for his king? Rowan continued to piece together the puzzle as he prowled through the woods.

He slowed only when their scent was as strong as that of the nearby village, scanning for potential vantage points. Through the thinning trees, he could see an ancient oak with branches spread like fingers reaching for the skies. Many easy vantage points were in that tree, as long as his prey did not look up. Judging by their sloppy path, it was likely. He could watch them, learn who they were, with no need for lies or violence. If they spotted him, then it would be easy to pounce.

The tree neared, and he caught his first sight of the woman. She crouched under the tree with a basket in her hand. She inspected mushrooms where she stooped, scrutinising them with care. At least she is smart enough to have some idea of the forest and its dangers, he thought. It was admittedly surprising, given so many humans succumbed to the poisons they inadvertently gathered. Eyes still on her, he edged around the small clearing, chose a nearby tree, and began climbing. He watched her even as the bark bit into his fingertips, so lost in identifying which mushrooms she would take. He noted her clothes, if one could call them that. They were barely more than rags and patched in many places. She was likely poor then, or in a disguise to look so. Intuition told him the former was far more likely given the dirt that smeared her skin; those in disguise still had the dignity to bathe. His nose crinkled in distaste.

As he neared the top of the tree, he glanced around for which branch of the oak he would take. There, just to his right, one reached out to him. In a leap that many humans would think defied the laws of the land, he sprung from the tree, turned and caught the bow with his hands. The rebound and resulting rustle of the branch from which he lept made the woman look up, her surprise marked on the large round eyes that rested upon high cheekbones. The woman paused for a moment, eyes glazing over where he had been instead of where he had landed. Her nostrils flared then, and she hurriedly packed her things.

Can she smell me? How peculiar, he thought, a smirk on his face. Such a strong sense of smell was rare amongst mutts. What other gifts did the little fawn have? His eyes narrowed for a second at the thought, scanning her silhouette. The woman had her messy silver-blonde hair down, the waist-length tresses now covering her face. But as she stood up - there, just there, he could see a point peek out from the side of her head. Such ears were rare in half-breeds of any sort. This one was an interesting specimen. He would take his time interrogating her, he decided, purely from curiosity. And ensure he didn’t break her too thoroughly, of course, or his king may break him.

The woman finished packing her things and hurried away. Rowan decided that her silhouette beneath the rags was thin enough to confirm poverty. Her lack of covering her path, despite knowing she was being watched, was daft enough for him to decide she could not be associated with the Rebellion. In that case, who was she? How did such an individual creature end up here? Why did his king want her so badly?

Rowan watched from his vantage point as she hurried through the forest, unbothered by her leaving. The trail was clear, and there was nowhere she could run that would stop him from finding her. No, if she was going to be easy to catch, he could at least give her a head start for some fun. If that did not sate his curiosity, uncovering her story undoubtedly would, no matter how he had to get it from her.