This being the first Post of Thavron and Marillie,
in which we meet The Huntress, daughter of Forbrannon; I name it:
Of Marillie; the Corulain; and the Rifaron.

Marillie stood upright, and but for the living movement of her small-ribs with each breath, was perfectly still.
Garbed one-piece in the enchanted leathers of the Liradan she seemed -without any enchantment of the sort- to half-melt into the shadow. But so it was with the Leathers of Curins' Craft, and even more so since she had been blessed by the coming of the seelie root-golem, Corulain. The tiny creature's enchanted life-force had become bonded with hers, body and soul, and yet also with that of her leathers. Corulain seemed to have inspired the leathers with a semblance of sentient life, to have bonded with them as much as Marillie had with Corulain. Where Marillies vastly more intelligent and wakeful sentience quickened that of Corulain, so too the root-golem passed a vast inheritance of wakefulness and perception to the leathers, to the point where the leathers were now dimly aware of their own existence, even to have dreamed a name for them self: Rifaron- the Huntress'-skin.
Like the pelt of a bat, the Rifaron had grown to become impossibly fine-haired, and dark, an impossibly fine blue-roan, seemingly smoky-black, with a shifting silver beneath the stars and moon. To the touch they felt as soft and warm as if they were Marillies' own skin, and she, perhaps the loveliest example of lycanthrope, her animal hide ceasing at the throat. But though they armoured her as if with stone-skin upon her moment of need, they did not so much as crease as she moved, any more than her own skin. She felt them breathing and shifting along with her, and felt the movement of minuscule musculature, which was lifting her hunting knife from her ankle within reach of her hand -which through the Will, of Corulain was hardening with stone-skin like armour; for Marillie was hunting the Great-Lion of Salquedor, and since she did not want to spoil the priceless hide, she would strike within the fanged maw.
The sheath which the leathers grew for the knife gradually shifted higher, until the haft of the seax was pressed into her expectant hand. Marillie breathed her pleasure to the leathers, sensing their satisfaction by way of reply; the half-sentient pleasure of a living thing which has done what it is bred to do. Thusly the leathers, beside her knife, were the most perilous thing about her. Masking her scent, able to conjure straps, braces, or pockets according to her need. Many times as she scuffled with some great beast, had the garotte her leathers grown been her last hope; innumerable had been the occasion when the leathers had stitched her flesh together with strands like thick eye-lashes, binding her wounds together. Thusly their queer magic of the leathers had sunk unseen roots into her own flesh and blood. When she desired to be naked, the Rifaron instantly retracted to no more than a dark pearl ear-ring.
Marillie tensed, hearing the same sound which put her prey on guard. The sound of hoofs, of armed men on horseback. Acting before she could reconsider Marillie slipped into motion, seemingly naught but a slender shadow, whilst Corulains' vine-lashes shot out barring the escape of the prey, so that it turned on her, ears flattened, and a roar like timbers being shattered. Corulain cloned and recloned, each binding the beast, whose eyes widened with fear, as the vines closed around its throat, and stitched it to the ground as effectively as a tree is bound by its roots. Without any romanticised formality, nor a moments delay Marillie closed upon the petrified beast, and drove the knife -it's entire length- through the roof of its mouth, into the brain.
The Guards found her position a short time later, swords drawn; the horses muzzles flared, their sense of smell aflame with the scent of a Great Predator, and of fresh-spilled blood.
The young captain, to his credit, did not insult the Huntress by asking if she was safe, though his eyes lingered over every nuance of her figure,which the leathers did nothing to hide. He swallowed, seeing the dour expression, and the sea-gray glitter of her eyes as she cleaned the knife.
"You are the Daughter of Forbrannon?" he asked, his eyes meeting hers a little too deliberately.
Marillie willed the neckline of the leathers to plunge, just to taunt him with his own weakness; the leathers contriving to press her bust into a fullsome cleavage, the Captains' eyes roved down, until they fell on the knife-point. Marillie smiled, the gleam of her teeth that of the moon on the blade of a knife. "Who else were you expecting out here?" She barbed the Captain, but let him off the hook. Laughing. "Come Captain, we are both busy, put all thought but your business out of your mind, and put the formalities aside."
"Apologies Honoured Huntress. I was bid seek you, a contract, my Lord prepares a feast..." he hefted a weighty pouch of gold, which a vine-lash caught midair. Corulain, emmerged from her dormant torques stasis, her form like a miniscule otter, her whiskery root-matter hide bristling as the tiny dark beads that were her eyes considered the Guard. Her breath laced with impatience for the heavily urbanised men, in their cold dead clothing, their minds and breath overloaded with shapeless movement.
There were times when Marillie would have refused them; but then, some times had been less hard. Marillie did not resolve to hunt the Great Cats of Salquedor idly, or from sense of sport. She had dire need of coin, and could not lightly refuse the offer of honest hunting in return for heavy coin; though it always entailed unreasonable danger or else phenomenal frustration. But there it was: one did not seek out the Daughter of Forbrannon unless they required something near-impossible to hunt; nor did they send meagre pouches of gold.
"Very well Captain, will your horse abide the carcass of the Cat here?"
"Aye Lady, he'd abide a host of Orcs if that is where I led him."
Marillie looked hard into his eyes, seeing no boast, nor flippancy in the reply, and internally added a tick against his name. "I approve of men who do not exaggerate Captain." She nodded to the guard who dismounted, giving her his own reigns, before he moved wordlessly to ride tandem behind another guard. "You did not think to bring a spare mount?"
The Captain shrugged, his eyes flat,"Given the scope of your range, we hardly hoped to find you Lady."
Marillie snorted, "Very well Captain. Lead the way, and call me Marillie."

"You're so odd when you're angry." It had been the first sentence to slice through what had felt like hours of uncomfortable silence; as if any shred of life around them normally willing to create noise had fled the area wholeheartedly to supplement the sheer awkwardness of the situation. The perpetrator, unaware of her wrongdoings, urged her horse to match the pace of her mentor and current leader of the small guardsmen squad sent out into Salquedor. Thavron kept his attention focused forward as he rode, though the corner of his eyes followed the young woman intently to gauge her movements as acceptable or unacceptable.

"And what gave you the idea I was angry." Though a question, the brown angel's dull intonation gave his reply the appearance of a statement.
"Well, you certainly don't seem happy," the soldier pressed. The absurdity of such a notion prompted Thavron's head to slowly turn toward her, staring through her consistently upbeat expression with his own pair of golden-brown eyes.

It was times like those that Thavron had regretted taking the priestess-turned-guardsman by the name of Irene under his wing, as it was obvious that her time living in the Temple of Order had made her woefully naive and ignorant of most of the outside world's doings. This in turn, either through her sheltered life or simply as a genuine aspect of her personality, had turned her nigh-unbearably optimistic as well, a flaw the cynical Thavron was forced to contend with daily while on the job.

Yet despite Irene's childish demeanor he still kept her, even picking her specifically out of a number of possible apprentices for a variety of reasons. In battle she was a valuable asset, capable of attacking and defending with highly-trained skill and passion. She was loyal, a hard worker, and almost as dedicated to the Orderkeeper as the brown angel who guided her. Thavron himself had even heard rumors amongst the priesthood that her sudden change of surname from Doron to Rhafnbraig was due to a successful merging of spirits between the young woman and the elder Anima of the same name, a high honor amongst the followers of Order and an indication of elite or sub-elite status. However, her mentor had never seen a demonstration of such new powers, and when pressed on the issue Irene would simply deny such a privilege had been bestowed upon her.

"Irene," the brown angel sighed, choosing his words, "have you ever seen me happy?" The comment did what it was intended, turning the woman quiet as she pondered. The silence soon returned to the four-man search party, leaving only the rhythmic pounding of horse hooves to echo through the grasslands. The pause was short-lived, however, when a high-pitched whistle rang out. All soldiers, including Thavron and Irene, urged their horses to an immediate stop and turned toward the direction the noise was coming from.

The guards bestowed with the task to search for the Daughter of Forbrannon each had been divided into small groups, of which there were three. One man per party was given a bow and a single whistling arrow should they find the huntress, alerting the others that they could now cease their search. Thavron roared a Sindarin curse, slamming his fist onto the horn of his saddle.

Irene, silent for many minutes, grinned at the noise. "Oh, that's nice! They found her!" Before she could finish her last sentence, however, Thavron had dug his heels into his horse's ribs, sending it toward the successful party in a black blur of flying hooves, navy blue cloth and folded brown wings. Though puzzled for several moments, the warrior-priestess and the other two guardsmen following him did the same.

While it took many miles of travel, the party had finally sighted their ever-moving target. Thavron slowed his horse's speed to a light trot, smoothing the sleeves of his uniform in an attempt to look presentable before his superiors, though his expression remained as blunted as usual even as he drew nearer. Irene, approaching alongside her mentor, scanned the group for the huntress in question.

"She's beautiful," the priestess remarked in a low voice carrying a vague hint of stinging hostility that almost reminded Thavron of himself. Tracing the line of men to find the source of his partner's comment, the brown angel eventually found the woman that obviously was the huntress. Unremarkable, he knew, especially when compared to the beauty of his own wife.

"Good day, Thavron," the Captain, partially surprised by the appearance of the other squad, said as the brown angel moved up alongside him.
"You found the Daughter of Forbrannon, I see."
"That should have been obvious."
"I do not appreciate curtness, Ingem-edain."
"For the sake of your membership in the Guard, I hope that was not an insult to me."
"I would never do that," Thavron replied dryly, but it was not convincing enough to appease the captain.
"You are not the Colonel of this company anymore, brown-wing, and I expect you to act that way."

Meanwhile, Irene had strayed from Thavron's side toward the huntress and her steed in order to properly introduce herself. "Hello! I'm Irene Rhafnbraig," she began with a friendly smile, "and that man over there is Mr. Thavron. He's mean sometimes, but a good teacher regardless. We're from the other squad that was looking for you. Colonel Bleddyn must be a picky eater if he wanted someone like you to get-"
Thavron interrupted by tossing a glare behind him. "Leave her alone, Irene." Hesitantly the warrior-priestess obliged, ceasing in her speaking.

Although appreciative of a mount, Marillie soon longed to be on foot again. Stranded atop of her mount, she could discern none of the tremors in the earth, nor sense nearly as well the breath nor soul of the surrounding wilderness. Her horse was a brave enough soul, with as close to a sense-of-humour as a horse is capable of possessing. He was enjoying carrying the much lighter and more responsive Marillie, quickening into an almost curious and fun-loving side in himself. Skipping and dancing, and looking back up at her with the lenses in his great eyes swirling. His name for himself, a shifting breath-thought-image, of standing amongst the rapids of a wide river, with whitewater splashing about his hoofs. Marillie shook her head, smiling down at the swimming eyes, and gave Foam-foot a rough slap on his shoulder.
The Huntress had already looked up, the root-golem Corulain bristling, and priming herself to conjure stone-skin armour in an instant if needed, when the horses first heard the rattle of hoofs, and a party of guards broke out of obscurity.
Marillie found herself lifting her chin, almost wolf-like -though she had not the sense of smell to catch anything of them yet.
The Guards deferred to the rash-seeming fore-runner, an angel by the looks of him -though with the curiosity of brown somewhat harrier-like wings pinioned behind him in the speed of his gallop. Marillie could almost see the lines of union that passed between the female guard, if that is indeed what she merely was. On a gust of wind Marillie caught the scent of something, which was more powerful, and yet somehow more distant in the angel than in the young woman, who reigned in beside what Marillie deemed to be her mentor, and remarked under her breath:"She's beautiful," Marillie smothered a smile, the grin of a ferret before it closes on a nest of eggs; she was entirely accustomed to the jealousies and feigned-disinterest of men and women, when faced with her beauty. The Angels' breath was spiced for an instant with the visage of his wife -in her flawless celestial beauty -but Marillie still shook her head, deeming the memory to be a talisman, a defence mechanism the angel employed having been faced with another beauty. She openly eyed the Angel, whose mind -Marillie felt- lay buried beneath layers and layers of frustration, and something else. As if he had consciously frozen a part of himself. Or compartmentalised an entire part of his mind or heart, locked it in a dark room, into which he never went. As she gazed at the Angel intently, the fullness of her attention bent upon the Breath-Sense, that primordial blend of imagination, dream-scape, memory, and emotion; she realised she'd been staring.
At the arrival of the Angel, the Captain seemed to square up, as one wolf will at the arrival of another, Marillie marked this immediately, even as she struggled with her positively frisky stallion, allowing a measure of his mischief while she focused on reading the situation. The Captains good-grace and ease tightened into what Marillie imagined was a struggle for status. "Good day, Thavron," the Captain said with a hardening of eyes -the drop of his previously more musical voice into a contrived chesty confidence.
The Angel said,"You found the Daughter of Forbrannon, I see." though Marillie sat astride her energetic stallion right before him. She did not appreciate being referred to as if she was not there. Corulain, instinctively, cultivated a horned gauntlet on the hand nearest to the Angel, as she considered slapping the reality of her presence into him.
"That should have been obvious." The Captain thrummed, catching the Angels failure to properly recognise Marillies' presence. He edged his mount back, and nodded to the Huntress.
"I do not appreciate curtness, Ingem-edain." The Angel stated, and Marillies' curiosity blazed. She thrust the fullness of her Breath-Sense into the air between them; catching blurred breath-memory of the Angel in a much more exulted place in life. She deemed the Angels perception of himself was in a social status well above that which he acquiesced to be in at that time. She sensed what she deemed was golden ambition tarnished to dull bronze with cynacism. She caught the Angels impertinent use of elvish: in his exact choice of the word Ingem -which was to suffer from old age, as if it was an affliction below the Angel himself.
"For the sake of your membership in the Guard, I hope that was not an insult to me." The Captain -clearly with no elvish- was able to guess shrewdly enough the Angels barb, but had to let it slide.
A cold-hearted humour reared its head then, as the Angel turned his attention -almost dismissively Marillie thought- to the Captain."I would never do that," he smiled straight-faced into the glowering Captains face..
"You are not the Colonel of this company anymore, brown-wing, and I expect you to act that way." Marillie grinned seeing the Captain weild his trump-card over the Angel, her warmthless smile a beautiful and terrible sight, like a torture-weapon wrought of mithril and diamonds.

Marillie leant a part of her attention to the Young Apprentice of the angel, who edged her mount close. The Huntress perceived a smothering breath-memory of incredible pain, linked with a sense of self-disappointment, and a consciously upheld ideal of optimism. The effect was girlish, almost immature. "Hello! I'm Irene Rhafnbraig," said the apprentice with a friendly smile, and Marillie let some of the menace of her predator-smile pass to the girl, recalling the hostility in the warrior-priestesses voice when she'd first laid eyes on Marillie. "and that man over there is Mr. Thavron." Marillie looked wordlessly at the girl, deigning not to speak to her until she girl spoke with her true voice and from her true character, not this contrived coping device of a character Marillie perceived speaking at her. "He's mean sometimes, but a good teacher regardless. We're from the other squad that was looking for you. Colonel Bleddyn must be a picky eater if he wanted someone like you to get-"
Thavron interrupted by tossing a glare behind him. "Leave her alone, Irene." Hesitantly the warrior-priestess obliged, ceasing in her speaking.

Marillie allowed the squad to form up around her, marking their trajectory for the city. She opened the bag of gold, and allowed Corulain to swallow the pieces one by one. There was no more effective, nor perilous purse in all the land."Captain, your companion?" She tossed her head in the direction of the Angel-of-sorts. "What can you tell me of his fall from grace?"
The Captain looked at her, a touch of alarm showing in the hooding of his eyes. "That would be nothing, honoured Huntress. Only he has paid great prices for our City many times over, and is doing so even now. I honour him, though I must be the weight that keeps him grounded -as it were. Do not so quickly make your assumptions about him: though he is fey, and often fell; he is a true hero, and will rise again, mark my words."
Marillie had the good-nature to blush, and allowed the Captain to see it. "I hear your wisdom and recognise it Captain. I will earn your forgiveness for my indiscretion, I will not beg your pardon."
The Captain nodded, with a tightening of his lips, but a glitter in his eyes, as when the earliest bonds of comradery are forged. His eyes followed her as she urged the stallion ahead, drawing beside the Angel, and through Corulains eyes, whose sight could be shared in a dim fashion through the Breath-Sense she kept a part of her attention on the Captain. Nodding seriously she addressed him in effortlessly spoken Elvish "Have you heard of the Breath-Sense Dust-Wing?" She asked the brown-winged Angel.

Choosing not to speak further on the matter, Thavron took his lifeless gaze away from the Captain, loosely focused on the ground ahead. Mind buried in his own thoughts, it was easy for the brown angel to lose full alertness of the low conversations of those around him.

Irene wrinkled her nose slightly as the huntress wordlessly urged her horse further toward the forefront of the group, closer to Thavron. Such a cold, almost hostile reaction seemed to puzzle the girl more than anger her, thoughts stumbling upon one another as though struggling to make amends for what she perceived as an error on her part (though nothing audible came of her efforts). Really, the priestess had expected Curin's beloved to be generally much warmer than the behavior she just witnessed; Irene quickly disregarded that assumption after her eyes fell upon Thavron once more. Her mentor was stuffy and difficult to understand, with mannerisms and beliefs much different than what she would have normally expected from a former Chosen, though no less devoted. If he was an exception to the rule, surely there were those in other categories, as well.

Thavron's own mind wandered through a variety of areas in a short amount of time, focused on intently enough that his ears barely registered the praise of the Captain. Irene, on the other hand, silently witnessed the guardsman's small speech firsthand. "That would be nothing, honoured Huntress. Only he has paid great prices for our City many times over, and is doing so even now. I honour him, though I must be the weight that keeps him grounded -as it were. Do not so quickly make your assumptions about him: though he is fey, and often fell; he is a true hero, and will rise again, mark my words."

Such positive words genuinely surprised Irene, not simply because of the past behavior of the Captain. Since she had met him, Thavron had consistently disappointed her; when she agreed to go under him as an apprentice, Irene expected to be taught and led by a benevolent, well-respected champion of Threnody. The Captain's indirect reassurance appeared to rekindle her optimism and respect for the brown angel, though she still wondered what had caused such a drastic change in persona in the first place. Irene remained reserved about that aspect, however; after all, it was hypocritical to inquire about such sensitive information when the inquirer herself carried secrets she was unwilling and unprepared to reveal.

Thavron's thoughts drifted through shallow subjects; what he would be eating that night, foremost, which triggered his own characteristic bitterness. He was more accustomed to finer food than the slop offered by the Guard. Which directed him to his next thought, that of the feast to be held by Colonel Bleddyn and its preparations. Marillie, Daughter of Forbrannon, had been tasked with taking down what would become one of the most delectable dishes in the entire event, the White Hare of Salquedor. Thavron himself never would have had the coin to try it for himself, even if he was still at the height of his career.

Abruptly his thoughts were interrupted by the huntress' words, peculiar in the fact they were spoken in a tongue standing in stark contrast to the Adunaic he normally heard. He perceived the Sindarin clearly, though the question itself partially surprised him. "Have you heard of the Breath-Sense Dust-Wing?"
"Breath-Sense?" Thavron repeated in the tongue he was addressed by, slightly taken aback by the peculiarity of the phrase. He almost thought he had wrongly translated it. The slight confusion in his reply was quickly replaced by his normal, harder-sounding voice. "I have never heard of such a thing. What significance does this even have to your mission?"

Astride her prancing mount, who nipped and breathed at the Angels halter, the Untress widened her perceptions as far-spread as she was capable. In response to her need the root-golem, Corulain, stirred and quickened, near-instantly cloning and recloning herself, to lend her ears and eyes to her Mistress. In a blur the four root-golem had positioned themselves, one winding itself -a barely perceptible tendril, between the two mounts, attaching herself to the rear of the Angels saddle, where she could catch every nuance of his breath.
Marillie caught the breathed image from the Angel of his hunger; perceived images and remembered fragrances, and textures of such food as he desired -perhaps- and images of another soldier, this one regaled with the badges and ribbons of a colonel. Marillie baulked at the violence and frustration attached to the thought of the man, sensing what Marillie assumed must be the Angels barely contained ambition. The Colonel -whom Marillie assumed could be the only one with the coin to spend for her services, came attached to the image of the White Hare of Salquedor -and thus she knew instantly what her game was to be. At the thought of the Hares another powerful wave of anger and disapproval, a sharp smell, as of garlic, or brimstone: perhaps the Angel despised that the coin was being spent at all, let alone by anyone but himself.
Marillie pondered all of this even as she spoke, seeing the Angels reaction to her easy use of Elvish. She sympathised heavily with the man; who had seemingly come plummeting from a great height, and who was stranded upon the ground -in a manner of speaking- in spite of his wings.
"Breath-Sense?" The Angel replied in natural use of Elvish; with more music and elegance than Marillie could hope to lend to the language even after then thousand years of speaking it. The Angel may only have had brown wings, but he still had the golden voice of an angel -if a fallow-gold, as if eagles-feathers, or late autumn hay. She felt she liked his voice, in spite of the shortness of his speech; she felt as if the wonder of it was not so keen, nor lofty as that of Elves, or even of the white, or black-winged celestials. Somehow she felt as if it was nearer to mortal hearts. Nearer to the stuff of the earth which Marillie loved above all things.
A mind like the wheels of siege-engines considered her strange use of words, and Marillie found herself smiling at him, at how terribly seriously he took the lightly given question. Her smile was like the earliest shaft of morning light -upon pale frosted fields- as it crests the dark line of mountains. Her eyes wild and bright, green gray as the seas. The Angels voice -Marillie assumed- hardened with the impatience of being spoken to in gibberish."I have never heard of such a thing. What significance does this even have to your mission?"
Marillie laughed, and the sound was like clear water running gladly from the high places. Her laughter, if the Angel had possessed the Breath-Sense to perceive it, was a sound of wooded pine-halls where hemlocks grew feathery-fragrant; where foxgloves nodded in the sun-lit motes of dusty forest air; of the sudden thrill of a rare bird upon the wing; of leaving four-leaf clovers where they grew. "Why everything Estroval, and nothing!" Marillie laughed again, a sound of wolves running across a wide open mountainside for the sheer pleasure of being healthy and free. "Only through the Breath-Sense, I saw a thing, as you thought of it. I am not a mind-reader, I can not see the thoughts of others. Rather I hear and smell, and taste what you think -for all things appear as a shadow, or a scent upon our breath. If the eyes are the window to the soul; our Breath is the fabric. I saw your Colonel, and I felt how you feel about him..." Marillie fell into the Old Mode of Sindarin -as when the Elven-Kings of Old resided in the Dark when it was Fearless, before the Dark One came from Outside. She chose this Mode of Elvish for their were very few who knew it, nor who could wield its subtleties nor its power; and because when spoken, it revealed exactly how one felt. Through it Marillie hoped to offer a genuine hand of Kin-ship and Respect, as between Free Beings who wander the Mortal Realm, buffeted by the queer winds and tides of Fate. She looked openly at the Brown Angel, and though he did not possess the enchanting and primordial power of the Breath-Sense, she leant its' power against him, knowing that all living things once communed in this way, at the beginning of all things. Before Elves made up Speech. Marillie knew what it was to be alone, and to have powers that were seemingly of little use at times. She knew the bitter taste of injustice. "One can not hunt the White Hares without the Breath-sense, but neither can it be done alone. Would you aid me?"

Irene, while attempting to politely ignore the foreign conversation in front of her, abruptly flicked her attention back to the pair despite her efforts. From the corner of her eyes she witnessed a sight that her mentor failed to pick up; a blur moving between the saddles of Thavron and the huntress. Her muscles tensed with the assumption it was an attack, but she restrained herself at the last moment before peering away in relative shame. Even if it had been some kind of strike and not a mere figment of her imagination, it was not Irene's job to protect Thavron during her learning; quite the contrary, in fact.

Marillie's laugh failed to give life to Thavron's own dull gaze. He saw no humor in the subject they discussed, nor with the nature of his question. "Why everything Estroval, and nothing!" Another laugh followed, though the brown angel waited in puzzled silence for the Daughter of Forbrannon to elaborate. "Only through the Breath-Sense, I saw a thing, as you thought of it. I am not a mind-reader, I can not see the thoughts of others. Rather I hear and smell, and taste what you think -for all things appear as a shadow, or a scent upon our breath. If the eyes are the window to the soul; our Breath is the fabric. I saw your Colonel, and I felt how you feel about him..."

He listened closely to her explanation, however far-fetched it appeared to be upon first impressions. Thavron assumed her mad at first, his facial expression reflecting that with the raising of an eyebrow. Impossible, he knew, though colorfully described; he gave the girl some credit for that. But his skepticism slowly lifted as she progressed, the dialect changing into a form he did not speak, read or understand nearly as fluently as common Elvish. An ancient, seemingly magic-laden tongue that, through his primitive understanding of her words, radiated and inexplicable sense of emotion in them. Spiderweb-cracks formed on Thavron's hardened shell of near-depersonalization; Irene watched curiously as his expression softened momentarily, then returned to normal. The brown angel's glare flicked briefly to the Captain, then back to Marillie.

"One can not hunt the White Hares without the Breath-sense, but neither can it be done alone. Would you aid me?" The brown angel's eyes widened, obviously taken aback.
"How can you trust me so suddenly?" Thavron replied, his Sindarin tinged with the absurdity of her request. He sighed and continued. "I am not a hunter. My experience in the wild is basic, at best. I am tailored to enforce Order, not chase down rabbits." Basic experience indeed; the longest he had ever been exposed to the wilderness was his several-month 'excursion' in Calaring the Everlight; he had only survived the endeavor through sheer luck. Nothing substantial enough to accompany a master huntress. "But if you feel I would be of aid, I will join you." Better to do something new and interesting rather than the same routine of keeping watch on Lomedor's West Gate.

Turning back behind him, Thavron delivered a piercing glare to his apprentice that efficiently got her full attention. "Irene, you will stay in the barracks once we reach Lomedor. Marillie has invited me to accompany her in hunting her quarry," he barked in clear Adunaic. The priestess was almost surprised she wasn't going to get scolded for something or other, based on her mentor's initial forcefulness.

"Why can't I come with? I don't have any jobs to do for the rest of the week, at least, beyond gate duty," she protested. "And since when did you become a hunter?"
"You are even less of a hunter than I am," Thavron fired back.
"Then why the hell are you encroaching on a professional's territory? You have better things to do."
"Better than kissing the boots of that goddamn..." he trailed off, immediately aware of the other guardsmen that had their attention directed toward his conversation. Irene scowled in defiant reply; the first he had ever seen of her normally happy expressions. It almost made him guilty of his decision.

The brown angel twisted forward again, stare focused on the horizon. "The city gates near. I will retrieve my weapons in the barracks, and we will set out."

The brown angel's eyes widened, obviously taken aback."How can you trust me so suddenly?" Thavrons' voice brimmed with disbelief -and Marillie laughed: a sound alike to the earliest swallows of Spring -wheeling and careening through the air upon crescent-moon wings. Marillie shook her head philosophically at her own thoughts: so it was with Beings, even Free Beings as they resided in the Mortal realm: that often even their own strength is concealed from them. Marillie sensed Corulains sense-of-humour reflected back at her, which was a wonder in itself. From the humble root-stock of a Hawthorn tree, the root-golem was quickening into a creature of remarkable intelligence and intuition, hence Marillies decision to consider the creature female. Again Marillie marvelled that if only the Brown Angel possessed the Breath-Sense, she could relate to him precisely why she had asked him to join the hunt. Upon his breath she deemed much, her soul mingling with the fabric of his own -through the primordial enchantment of the Breath-sense. Thavron sighed and continued. "I am not a hunter. My experience in the wild is basic, at best. I am tailored to enforce Order, not chase down rabbits." Through Corulain Marillie perceived a pale shadow of doubt and pained memory, and she did not press Thavron further -curbing her laughter lest she cause offence to his moment of inflection and personal honesty. Slowly his posture reflected what Marillie assumed must be a conscious effort to put the shadow behind him, and its trace evaporated from his breath."But if you feel I would be of aid, I will join you." Thavrons decision hardened near instantly into what Amrillie guessed was true resolve. The determination of a consummate soldier.

The brown angel twisted forward again, stare focused on the horizon. "The city gates near. I will retrieve my weapons in the barracks, and we will set out."
Marillie nodded and explained she would draw to the bank of the river, "Within sight of the western bridge. There is a fertile spot there, where I should sew Corulain for a time to rest and regenerate. I will await you there." This done Marillie whistled, a charming bright sound of the green places and nameless paths of the wild, and the root-golem clone which had surreptitiously positioned itself behind Thavron now openly crept from behind the brown angel, clambering over his hands and reigns, and making a graceful leap from between the two horses.
If Thavron was alarmed or surprised at all by the phantom appearance the root-golem, Marillie did not linger long enough to see. She nudged her mount into a quick canter and cut a bee-line for the Westgate of the city, and its wide riverbanks.
There she gently dug a small place to plant Corulain, and carefully watered her familiar with her hands; that done her Liradan Leathers appeared to magically vanish so that she could wade into the river and scrub herself to a rosy pink, and until the water ran clear from her hair.
Much of this time she thought of nothing; but of the goodness of clean water and clear sunlight on the skin; she foraged for freshwater crayfish amongst the cresses at the riverbank, and stewed them in a small fire of the invaluable store of char-coals she always kept. These she ate with relish, cracking the heads off hand flipping the pale white flesh out of the shells with a practised motion of skilled hands. The soldiers horse she had been leant ambled a short distance away, had grazed a little, and stood now with held held low, sleeping as a horse is wont, ears still active and muzzle shifting with the intake of great slow breaths.
At length Marillies thoughts turned again to the Brown Angel, Thavron. If he was a horse, or a hound of some sort, she would have assumed t have known he had suffered some extent of war-trauma. For in animals there are fewer darknesses and evils inclined to take root in their hearts. In men -and likely Angels Marillie could only assume- such darknesses could even come from within oneself. Tides of depression and anxiety which had no source other than from within the afflicted heart itself. Marillie had seen this in men and woman before; and she knew of only one cure -to keep active, and to keep interested.
Of course the Angel might have endured some atrocity of battle, and was still metabolising the queer slow poison of witnessing such. Marillie felt for him; and for his wife. It could not be easy for either of them, for Marillie was certain of this much: the Brown Angel had fallen far, and had been too humble to insist on taking back what had been squandered in his absence. That had to be bitter hard.
But if Marillie saw one hope: to take him into the wild, and show him a few roots that even he had there -might be just the tonic he needed to feel reinvigorated. The same way she planted Corulain into the ground, carefully tending her.
The angel would likely surprise himself out hunting, of this much Marillie suspected she was intuitively right. She eagerly anticipated the chance there was to see his eyes bright, his face suffused with the thrill-colour of the hunt; top hear his voice lifted up with the whoop of success. Such was the currency of her happiness, and she hoped it had some value for Thavron.
Thinking she heard the delicate hoof-sounds of Thavron's excellent horse, Marillie summoned the Liradan Leathers to re-clothe her, standing fresh-faced, flicking her hair behind a shoulder.

Passing through the city gates of Lomedor, Thavron motioned his horse to weave through relatively slow-moving crowds. Irene, not far behind, tried her best to keep pace with the brown angel. "I can't believe it!" the warrior-priestess barked through a food cart that temporarily separated them. "You only met the girl a few minutes ago, and yet you already insist on abandoning your duties to go out hunting rabbits for a day? Have you suddenly forgotten who and what you are?"

Despite her words, Thavron's pace remained steady and his stare focused on the Guard barracks he approached. His apprentice struggled to catch up with him as he swiftly dismounted, tied up his steed's reigns, and stormed inside without a single word; her countenance continued to reflect the immense agitation she struggled to reach the guardsman with. He plowed through a small set of rooms with little inhibiting him, soon reaching the long lined sets of bunks that consisted of his entire company's sleeping quarters.

Like the voice of morality on the shoulder of a killer, Irene persisted. "You always demand I follow you to the ends of the realm. You have forced me to risk my goddamn life at your side, and yet you will not even allow me to come slaughter harmless creatures with you? What, are you planning to commit adultery or something?"

Her last jab, which struck Thavron as the desperate last slashes of a cornered cat, stung nonetheless. He stopped abruptly; the suddenness of it made Irene almost walk right into his folded wings. The brown angel took a deep breath, the exhalation shaking with suppressed rage. "Do not let your jealousy cloud your sense of reason, Rhafnbraig. It is not positively reflective of Threnody's priesthood." Irene's bewildered stare swiftly dissolved into a scowl as the guardsman continued on his way, turning into one of the bunk areas to retrieve his weapons and scattered pieces of armor.

After properly suiting up (though leaving out unneeded parts of armor, such as the helmet), Thavron turned, almost surprised to see that his apprentice hadn't yet stormed away. Instead she sat on the bed facing the opposite way, quietly grumbling. The brown angel got her attention by tapping the end of his scimitar's handle twice against the frame of the upper bunk, shooting her a stoic stare once she turned. "As for your prior accusation that I will commit adultery," he rumbled in a low voice, "you already know how I feel. Someday, Irene, you will suffer for what you said. Be it from my hand, your own, or those of others, it will come in one way or another." With that, he slowly strode away.

Striding atop the muscular black frame of his horse, Thavron quickly recalled the directions given by the huntress; the bank of the river within sight of the western bridge. As promised, there Marillie stood, surprisingly cleaner and more fresh-looking than their prior engagement. The brown angel urged his steed to a full stop before her and curtly saluted as a form of greeting. Then, assuming the woman would follow, he nudged his mount to a gentle trot toward the west, where the open grasslands and White Hares (he assumed) resided. "Please lead the way, Daughter of Forbrannon," Thavron said. "Now, these white hares. How shall we hunt them?"

Grabbing a twig from the ground, Marillie twisted her damp hair with a practised motion, and skewered it in place high upon the back of her head, so she could enjoy the light of the day on her neck. Perhaps already lending himself to Marillies Breath-sense, the soldiers stallion pawed at the ground, perhaps having perceived that they were going to be headed out in search of excitement. Marillie put her instantly blossoming concerns for the Brown Angel aside, to breathe her alignment and approval to the stallion, who stepped up from behind her, and put his vast muzzle under her hand. The vast breath within his proud chest wrapped around her, carrying with it the primordial sense of memory and imagination. A kind of soul-finger-print which Marillie readily hearkened. The Horses name for himself, if it could be articulated that way, was Friend from Within. Or Beloved-descendant. Marillie allowed the horses memory to work upon her senses, until out of the spiced melange came a name in human words, Holdinan. In return-courtesy Marillie projected her significant feelings, thoughts, and memories of herself. The glitter of early-light upon frost; the wavering patterns within diligently welded steel; she was the Steel-sheen. Rilangren.
Still smiling from the communion of souls Marillie looked up from the pool-deep eyes of the Stallion, her fingers unconsciously seeking out the itch behind his active ear, he whuffed in gratitude.
Thavron had an expression that could frighten the sun back beneath the horizon. Grim-set and coolly professional; but he could not conceal the deep pain that had been newly cut within him. The sadness of it bled into his breath, which Marillie could perceive, as a condor smells blood from a horizon away. But so too she perceived the masterful Will that bound such a gentle heart, and fiery spirit into as sharp a weapon as the two grades of steel are welded into a longsword. His heart -if soft- was so flexible it could never be broken, this was welded into the perilous sense of determination, the more brittle side of Thavrons character.
Marillie felt a kin-ship with the Brown Angel, for was she not the Steel-sheen, daughter of kings? Had she not also sacrificed all that she loved for the higher purpose? Had she not put herself last in every instance of fate? Indeed she had, and if fate worked thusly, it had repaid her for her nobility, as bitter and hard as it was to carry out.
They moved out, at first without speech. Marillie allowed her stallion the reigns. He was attentive and willing -if spirited- and sensed merely in the smallest inflection of turning her head the shift of her weight, and he would wheel steadily to that side as a wave rolls towards the coast. He was extremely heavy, his hooves drumming upon the grasslands like the rumour of approaching thunder, but his gait was long and easy, his head held proudly upon an extremely muscular and erect neck. Marillie settled into the easy roll of a horse at gallop, and breathed the free air, allowing Thavron his time and peace.
At length the horses picked their own pace, nipping and goading each other in the easy comradery of horses who are content and hale, needing no more than a gust of wind to stir them into an aimless canter -for the sheer pleasure of running at will and in freedom.
Perhaps something of this sense of ease slowly appeased the Brown Angels nerves, for the brooding storm eased from hie eyes, "Please lead the way, Daughter of Forbrannon... these white hares. How shall we hunt them?"
Marillie grinned at him, for she was keenly feeling the freedom and vivacity of the wide undisturbed grasslands, and the joy of riding beasts as dignified and mighty as their respective mounts. "We are the perfect bait, Master Astroval. We will do little enough of the hunting ourselves." She said cryptically, realising that perhaps Thavron thought the White Hares were indeed little more than glorified rabbits. But then, few who had ever seen the beasts named the Huidh-harne, the sudden-harm, had ever lived to tell the tale. But the ancient elvish in which the beasts had been named was long forgotten to all but a few, and Thavron would realise what had been lost in the translation all to soon. She laughed, and drew out the twig that held her hair bound, so that she could shake it in the free air.

[OOC: My apologies for the wait. It's the end of the school year, and things are really hectic.]

"We are the perfect bait, Master Astroval. We will do little enough of the hunting ourselves," the huntress stated in reply, to which Thavron immediately raised an eyebrow. Had she not phrased the cryptic little comment in a form that implied these simple rabbits were imposing beasts (an exaggeration, Thavron assumed), his mind would have targeted the name that Marillie had seemingly dreamt up for him on the fly; Astroval, a word he later deduced to mean something like "dust wing." He would ignore it --- it was much more tolerable than "Mr. Thavron," to say the least --- until time permitted.

As horses and riders steadily made their way into the grasslands, the silent Thavron briefly considered making casual conversation with the woman. Not necessarily due to any level of tension in the air (to the brown angel, there was no such thing as awkward silence), but out of genuine curiosity, however easy to suppress it was. The Daughter of Forbrannon struck him as significantly more mature and knowing of the world around her than most other girls of her visible age, to the point that it appeared almost eerie at times. Thavron would not be surprised if the Daughter of Forbrannon was heavily blessed by the God of Nature, or otherwise had a strong bond with him. A girl whom the gods always seem to walk with, and an old man that was partially or wholly abandoned by his own; he smirked at the irony of the newfound pair.

"So," he spoke, pausing for longer than was common, hoping that the huntress would interject with a topic better worth discussing. When there was none, he sighed and continued. "Thus far, I only know you as the Daughter of Forbrannon. Surely you have a more convenient name I may refer to you as. As you could have deduced earlier, I am Thavron Rama of the Lomedor Guard's Third Compa- whoah!" The brown angel's grip on the reigns tightened abruptly as his horse unleashed a frightened neigh, pushing itself from a trot into a sprint that the brown angel himself did not order.

Several meters later Thavron had successfully controlled his horse to the point that she no longer ran. However, the mare continued to struggle in her panic, making frenzied half-rotations around a central point, taking steps backward and forward, raising her head and pressing her ears against the back of her skull. At points it showed intent to rear up, though the brown angel was lucky that did not happen. After firmly restoring the black horse to its prior calmness, Thavron's attention turned to what had possibly spooked her in such an empty grassland. Peregrine was not one to scare easily. His eyes scanned the immediate area and the horizon. Nothing.

Perplexed, he turned to the huntress. "What the hell just happened?!" he barked, more in genuine confusion and surprise than anger. His horse remained jumpy, though calmed slightly in the presence of the other. Thavron stared intently into the eyes of the Daughter of Forbrannon, hoping she (who seemed quite connected to the natural world and the animals therein) could explain satisfactorily.