As the sun began to rise after a long sleepless night, painting the sky of Bree with a violet brush, Xanderian saw to her gear with swift, sure precision. Shafts prepared, quiver loaded. A small collection of scrolls and healing draughts tucked into her side pouch in careful order, Lovelorn strapped securely to her left hip, a family dagger of ancient lineage to her right. Finally she drew Heartbreaker over her shoulder, the ancient bow seeming to croon happily over it's mistress's intent. It had been kept from the hunt for too long.
Xanderian had finally decided as she lay upon the course sheets of the pony that she had faced enough doubt and concern over those she loved. To think of her younger brother Xanir menaced by shadow, or her dear Fille in fear of a monster from her past, while she did little to help either had finally caused her blood to rebel. It was time for action, one way or another.
She accepted again as she saddled her horse that she simply knew too little of Fille's true predicament to be of much aid as of now...but if in her dream Xanir had faced Goblins then the Goblin's must have news of his fate. She simply had to seek them out and find what clues existed to know more. Nothing moves without leaving some trace. If the Goblin's held stupid Xanir, she would know soon enough. Her sister Xandilif was already upon the road as promised to see if he could be found in the foothills of Angmar, so it made sense to eliminate the more obvious possibility...the Goblins of the North Downs.
Moving like a shadow over the misty countryside, the soft hoofbeats against cobblestones brought forth a new outlook as Xanderian rode through the rising dawn into the North Downs, seeking Goblins and her brother. Each mile hardened her heart and her resolve. She dispelled Fille's dear face and trusting eyes, and the haunted aura that surrounded poor Cilyniton, replacing the friend and counselor with the huntress of renown, the lover with the slayer.
As she sought physical landmarks of the Goblin encampment she saw in her dreams, the land of the North Downs grew drier, giving way to stone and scrubland. Finally she saw an outcropping that she could still picture vividly when reaching back into the madness of that nightmare. Xanir surrounded and overwhelmed by filthy Goblins? No...it would not be, it could not be. She knew he lived, but where was he? Was he being held captive here? She must find out, without risking his safely.
Concentrating, she moved slowly and carefully past the skirmishers and into the sleepy encampment, the stench alone near overwhelming. Her native gifts allowed her to blur the Goblin's perceptions of her as long as she stayed focused and avoided their direct gaze. Step by step she moved through the Goblin warriors and archers. The camp had grown much larger then it had been when last she was in this region, and therefore it seemed much hungrier. As with all animals, the growing horde of Goblins had long ago exhausted their pray. In addition, the ongoing war meant there were fewer helpless travelers to waylay and the Rangers of Esteldin were more motivated to harry their rapidly breeding numbers. In short, the Goblins were under pressure and unpredictable. That meant more danger for communities such as Trestlebridge, or for foolish wanderers such as Xanir who would be too stupid not to underestimate their almost comical warcries.
Moving into the heart of the encampment, she saw a pile of broken crates, many with the word BREE or T-BRIDGE clearly stamped upon them. The Goblins had resorted to petty thievery from those nearly as hungry as themselves to survive. Around the crates were scattered bones and smashed vegetables, rotting tomatoes adding to the stench of the camp....but something more as well amidst the offal.
A pile of crude weapons, blunted and discarded, their wielders perhaps dead, gleamed viciously in the strengthening morning light. Across several, a dark stain...slowly the huntress touched one, sticky under her gloved fingertips. She touched it her lips slowly, feeling a sensation as close to fear as she could in her present state. The flavor was unmistakable as she spit it out again.
Blood.
Elven blood.
Xanir's blood.
HER blood.
Nerveless hands dropped the rough blade as her vision seemed to fade for a moment as the morning was wiped away by a vision of Xanir, in sharper relief than in the dream, howling his war song into the night. A knife in his hand, the sister to blades both she and Lif bore, biting a Goblin that strayed too close. She saw the elf grimmace in triumph then stagger, a short, crude arrow sunk deep into the meat of his thigh...she saw him scramble back...the Goblin chieftain stepping forth from his tent.
An arrow, dripping poison...but not in the vision, right before her. DAMN. Her focus had been lost, she was seen, an arrow now raced towards her as the Goblins began to howl, the skirmisher still hummed his bowchant, sensing the easy kill.
Xanderian stepped around the flying arrow, avoiding its path as time seemed to freeze. Sweeping Heartbreaker from her shoulder, nocking a slender elven shaft and letting fly in one motion, she neatly bisected the skirmisher's throat. The slain goblin began to fall as already the next shaft was nocked, the huntress pivoting, firing and nocking another, the song of Heartbreaker pulsed in her mind. Again and again. One arrow, one kill. Again and again....until the quiver was empty and no more used shafts were in reach. Howling Goblins sensed victory, crowding in around Xanderian as she rolled backwards out of their reach, sweeping Lovelorn from her hip as the curved elvish blade began to cut through the onrushing foes like blood through snow. With a cry of dismay the Goblins redoubled their rush.
It seemed to go for hours, or but a few seconds, she would never know which. When the haze cleared from her mind, Xanderian stood alone, soaked in blood, shuddering, her armor caked in gore, blades gripped so tightly her knuckles ached, Heartbreaker discarded at her feet. The encampment was no more..the last head to strike the sand had been that of the hulking chieftain, his expression of shock forever frozen on his porcine features.
Xanderian began to weep.....then to scream...and finally to weep again, falling to her knees in the carnage. She wept for Xanir, for Fille, for Cilyniton and for all of Bree. She wept for what she had become, and for what she once had been. In time, she simply wept...until she heard a sound that broke her from her grief.
One goblin, an arrow through it's hip, was trying to crawl away, weeping and babbling to itself. Xanderian shook her head clear and slid Lovelorn back into her belt. Gathering one of the discarded sacks of onions from the stolen provisions, she dumped the wasted produce out and put the sack quickly over the struggling goblin, scooping him up like a field-mouse. As the Goblin squawked she reclaimed her bow and whistled for her horse, hefting the bagged goblin onto the back of the saddle.
"Come with me, little monster..." the huntress hissed ominously as she mounted the steed...."We need to have a talk about my brother."
