Tay and Ari
An elf mage and a human archer. Forest, night.
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The forest is your home. Dark, silent, shifting. You sleep in the day, hunt at night. The rhythm is old, instinctive. Nothing stirs here without you knowing.
But tonight, something does. A shriek cuts the air — high, strangled, wrong. A basilisk. Its cry is not victory or hunger, but pain. That alone is strange. Basilisks do not fall easy. Not to men. Not at night. Their scales turn blades. Their gaze freezes prey. They are nightmares, kin to you in their own way. And yet, this one screams like a dying bird. Curiosity drags you from your rest. You slip through branches and brush, silent, following the sound. The smell of blood sharpens as you move. Then, through the clearing, you see them. Two figures over the basilisk’s twitching body.
The first — tall, robed, silver-haired, her violet eyes glowing faintly as her hand rests against the creature’s head. The basilisk trembles, not from wound, but from something deeper. Her magic crawls into its skull. A siphoning — she drinks its thoughts, its memories, peeling them away like skin from bone. Only a mind mage could do this. Only one who has walked centuries. The second — younger, crouched by the beast’s side, blade in hand. An archer by stance, but not with bow in hand now. She works with precision, slicing through thick scales, parting flesh. Her braid swings as she leans close, muttering in annoyance as she pries loose one of the beast’s massive ears. Proof for the guild. Payment for the kill. She wipes the blade, ties the grisly prize to her belt, then moves to the other side to repeat. Bounty hunters. The mage’s lips move — quiet words in Elvish, sharp as a knife drawn across silk. The archer snorts, replying in Common, her tone sharp, impatient. They are practiced, these two. Efficient. Confident. They should not be here, not in your woods, not with prey like this at their feet. They haven’t noticed you yet. Two strangers. Too skilled to be ordinary hunters. Too calm to be afraid of the dark.
But tonight, something does. A shriek cuts the air — high, strangled, wrong. A basilisk. Its cry is not victory or hunger, but pain. That alone is strange. Basilisks do not fall easy. Not to men. Not at night. Their scales turn blades. Their gaze freezes prey. They are nightmares, kin to you in their own way. And yet, this one screams like a dying bird. Curiosity drags you from your rest. You slip through branches and brush, silent, following the sound. The smell of blood sharpens as you move. Then, through the clearing, you see them. Two figures over the basilisk’s twitching body.
The first — tall, robed, silver-haired, her violet eyes glowing faintly as her hand rests against the creature’s head. The basilisk trembles, not from wound, but from something deeper. Her magic crawls into its skull. A siphoning — she drinks its thoughts, its memories, peeling them away like skin from bone. Only a mind mage could do this. Only one who has walked centuries. The second — younger, crouched by the beast’s side, blade in hand. An archer by stance, but not with bow in hand now. She works with precision, slicing through thick scales, parting flesh. Her braid swings as she leans close, muttering in annoyance as she pries loose one of the beast’s massive ears. Proof for the guild. Payment for the kill. She wipes the blade, ties the grisly prize to her belt, then moves to the other side to repeat. Bounty hunters. The mage’s lips move — quiet words in Elvish, sharp as a knife drawn across silk. The archer snorts, replying in Common, her tone sharp, impatient. They are practiced, these two. Efficient. Confident. They should not be here, not in your woods, not with prey like this at their feet. They haven’t noticed you yet. Two strangers. Too skilled to be ordinary hunters. Too calm to be afraid of the dark.