Arrow in Fireflight
The gloom of the cloud-filled sky weighed down on the forest like lead sinking to the bottom of a bucket of water. An ominous haze lingered at the treetops, waiting to pounce on the first beams of moonlight. The night was silence.
A lone figure trudged slowly, unevenly through the woods toward the luminescent beams which marked the spot where some hardy soul had built a fire. The figure wore what appeared to have been a gaudy purple cloak with gold trim at one time, long ago. The cloak was battered and torn now, and little of its splendor shone through. The figure was, unfortunately, in almost the same condition.
As the figure staggered through underbrush and over fallen branches, an elf, tall and stocky compared to the other thin, delicate members of his race, unpacked his bags in the clearing next to the fire. After doing so, he reclined aside the flame, bow and quiver near at hand, just in case. The feel of the night was already uncomfortable; the quiet of the nocturnal predators was unearthly.
A grunt and a moan both dashed into the forest as the figure tried to catch its breath while sprawled over a large root protruding from the ground at an odd angle. Falling down was one thing; falling down in this condition could very well be fatal. The figure clawed its way back to its feet, using the bark of a once-noble elm for support. Move forward. Go toward the light. The figure staggered and its vision blurred.
The elf looked up from his place of rest where he tended the fire. Someone was coming through the woods. Someone injured. He could tell from the inconsistency in the sound of the steps. The sound got closer, closer, approached slowly. The elf drew his bow and notched an arrow, battle-ready. Better safe than dead, he thought.
The figure collapsed through the brush line of the clearing and landed in the fire. The elf, without thinking, cast down his bow and rolled the poor unfortunate out of the flame. He then tore off the remains of the figure’s flaming cloak and stomped it out. He felt something stick his foot and bend under the pressure. The elf lifted the now-extinguished cloak and found the sharp object. He recognized the object immediately. He possessed an identical pin.
The figure groaned. The elf retrieved a healing drought from his pack and rolled the figure over. He sloshed the liquid into the figure’s throat before he looked at the face. The man had been beaten severely; nevertheless, the elf recognized that face. The pin was further proof of the man’s identity.
The pin was a crescent moon and harp.
The man was a Harper.