A Refugee of Flame and Shadow

         Hooves thunder down the trodden forest path, leaving deep tracks in the soil as brown leaves are trampled in the dirt. The centaur races forward, tears blinding him as he runs. Heavy chain armor announces his presence to the peaceful evening animals. Birds squawk and fly away. Bats hurry to their hidden spots among the branches. Squirrels scale the trunks of sturdy oak trees. Leaves and branches streak past, all in a blur of shades of green, and then a flash of blinding white light. Opening his eyes, still sprinting furiously, he glances behind him at the expansive sea of green. Long shadows are cast upon the forest floor while the day’s last light peeks in through the canopy above. Small bugs loiter around the clearings and, as the light begins to fade, start to glow off and on. He slows his pace to a trot, seemingly safe for the moment, and comes to rest against a tree, struggling for breath.

         He reaches down to the wooden medallion around his neck, and feels its warmth still. It’s carved in the likeness of an oak tree, with a hole where a hollow might be, and painted accordingly. Thick, natural cording loops the medallion and is tied off around the neck. It represents The Oakenshade, a sacred forest touched by the Feywild and it’s magics. It also represents the commitment he made to that sacred forest in becoming an Oaken Guard. A commitment that he violated when he fled from battle in the Palace.

         His grip on the medallion tightens as the tears fall once again. Men in black and purple robes must have slipped by the Guard and entered the palace, where then they began their fiery crusade. He rushed to the Palace as fast as he could, finding many of his comrades bathed in fire and light. Flames licked the walls and threatened to consume the natural architecture. A putrid stench of burning hair, flesh and wood filled the autumn air. And so there he stood, paralyzed by fear in the entryway, as his friends were engulfed in a starving inferno, ever hungry for more. The brave Oaken Guard that - he sobs loudly - that abandoned his King, his people, everything. He holds tight, feeling that warmth that comforted him for years. Holding tight to those cherished memories, to the experiences and friends he made, to everything. He feels that warmth. But then it begins to fade. Colder and colder until the medallion is nothing more than a chunk of wood, carved and painted in the likeness of what was once The Oakenshade. Giving a heavy sigh, he lifts himself back up and trudges onward, toward whatever destiny has in store for him.

* * *

         He had been traveling this forest road for quite some time, though now the path isn’t nearly as traversed. The underbrush and wildly growing ivy begin to intrude on the path’s natural layout, whipping at his legs. Darkness grows over the forest as the chatter of bats and inquisitions of owls permeate the silence. A lone wolf howls in the distance, but the small daytime animals are curled away, out of sight. His own footsteps, amplified by the clanking chain armor, echo throughout the forest. Causing sometimes an animal to scurry away, rustling the underbrush. With his head on a swivel, he follows the path further into the forest.

         The trees, and similarly the underbrush, are becoming more dense. The path is almost entirely covered with foliage, with only a couple feet of trail left undisturbed. The ivy that borders it is trimmed and well manicured, leading the centaur to believe there must be civilization close by. The Guard don’t usually come this far, unless on specific business. He stayed local to The Oakenshade, however, and didn’t do much exploring outside the city. He had overheard stories about renegade Fey communities living outside the borders. Wild animals and beasts, as well as wandering tribes of barbarians, migrating southward during the cold months, and bandits and marauders fleeing from crime all call this place home. Small villages and homesteads founded on the border of the forest encroach slowly, stealing the wood and the land as they grow.

         The constricting plant life begins to disperse as he hikes onward, leading into a small clearing. The thick, thorny foliage dissipates and is replaced by soft grass. He enters the clearing and takes a deep breath, feeling the crisp air in his lungs. Above him, the canopy opens up and displays the night sky, framed by the fiery colors of autumn oak leaves. Stars dance in the dark; some of them choreograph themselves into constellations, while some prefer to shine bright alone. The brilliant moon, which has risen just above the treeline, gazes upon the forest. Through breaks in the canopy, beams of white light penetrate the twilight darkness. In the distance, towering into the sky, are plumes of dense, black smoke that lean lazily with the breeze.

         With a tightening throat that threatened more tears, he tears his eyes away. The clearing provided more than enough room to make camp for the night. In a pack he carries on his back, he retrieves a cloth sack, which contains dried meats and fruits, as well as hard biscuits. Standard rations given to the Guard for patrol duty. He washes it down with a few gulps from his waterskin. He replaces the food cloth with a rolled-up, wool-padded leather bedroll and lays it out before him. He tosses his backpack against one of the nearby trees, removing also a painted shield from his left arm and a warhammer from a belt loop around his torso. He sets these against the tree as well. A large pannier is unhooked and tossed onto the ground. Fasteners, belts, and leather straps are loosened and removed, allowing for the half equine form to rear up and the armor to slide down his flank, landing on the ground with a clattering of chain. The armor is then kicked toward his pack and armaments against the tree.

         Armed with nothing but a cloth tunic and his medallion, he lays himself down, resting the human half against the bedding. The stars display wonderful images and patterns, and small clouds travel across the scenery. A howl pierces the silence, a song and prayer for the moon, then a chorus of howls and the entire pack sings the prayers of Selune. The breeze halts and what clouds cover the moon part, if only just slightly. The discordant voices fall off, one by one, ending their song just as suddenly as it started. The centaur’s breath became slow and rhythmic as sleep took him at last.