Wounds were annoying but at the very least, they came from learning. The old satyr would not spar with her and there was not much else for ways to learn to defend herself. She wondered at why but could not settle on a reason. He may have been scared of her, but it seemed unlikely. Maybe he wanted to keep from needing to be scared of her. Or perhaps he had simply lost interest in a plaything that had outlived its novelty. She would tell herself the reasons did not matter and force the thoughts from her brain only to have them circle around again whenever she had spare moments.
Still, a real fight was something of great value and the lack of it made Óraithe wary. Causing trouble with the others in the yard would likely bring repercussions and even if they did not, she had no way of knowing what sort of fight she would find if she went spoiling. There was a dangerous edge on either side of the problem. Without fighting she would be useless, find herself flailing at the best of times. If she picked the wrong fight too soon, she would be dead. Then there were the guards. She had no way of knowing how many there were, but faces rotated regularly. She felt there was something odd about their constant changing, but the keep was large and she knew precious little about the place. She knew, at least, that making assumptions was unwise.
The satyr had not stirred from his place when the fire began. He’d looked at the smoke, sniffed at the air, then sat and closed his eyes. He had not moved since except to smell the air from time to time and so Óraithe had taken her cue from him. If there was nothing to be done, he would do nothing, she figured. At the very least, there was no threat she could see or hear aside from the fire and the yard was large enough that keeping away from it would not prove a concern if it spread.
There was increased movement at the far side of the yard. She did her best to ignore it until the satyr beside her stood suddenly. A second later she heard the crunch of dirt behind her. Not a hoof, but a boot, and from the wrong side at that. Óraithe spun and stood holding the rock out in front of her.
“You…” She barely whispered the words. It was the Drow from what seemed like a lifetime ago. It took Óraithe a moment to realize she was not alone. A satyr stood beside the Drow. Young, it seemed, and female. The Drow looked at her for half a second before looking to the old satyr. She did not remember her.
Óraithe felt a pain inside. Something like jealousy or bitterness. She almost laughed at herself. It was pathetic, she knew, wanting to be remembered for some childish self-indulgence.
“This the one?” The Drow lazily waved her hand at the old satyr.
The young female satyr ignored the question and immediately went to one knee. She spoke a language that Óraithe did not know. The old satyr replied in kind, though his way seemed terse compared to the female. He pulled her up. She wriggled free of him and bowed again immediately.
“They have come for you?” Óraithe tried to hide the concern in her voice.
The old satyr turned to her, his voice grating as ever. “They have. This young thing has plans for me, she thinks.”
The Drow had wandered to their camp and kicked at some of Óraithe’s bedding. She was covered in blood, though it was hard to see.
“This talk is needless and the locals are becoming curious.”
“You were in Fásachbaile.”
“Goddess, now the elfling wants to talk.” The Drow threw up her hands and turned to walk away.
“I only want your name.” Óraithe’s voice cracked when she said it.
The satyr woman was talking to the old man again, she seemed insistent. The Drow turned and paced back to Óraithe, looking her over with a curious expression.
“What would you do with it? Knit it into cloth and use it to wipe your tears?”
“We are ready.” The satyr woman interjected, turning the Drow’s attention away. The two of them walked away, making for the main door to the yard.
“They have killed the guards.” The satyr knelt in front of her and put a hand to her shoulder. “We are, neither of us, free, but we can leave this place.” He paused, looking around the yard. “I doubt if we should cross again. But should we, I pray you grant me a swift death.” He clapped his hand on her shoulder and honked a coarse laugh before standing and walking away.
Óraithe stood where she had been left, not sure of what to do. The rest of the yard would become curious soon enough, but what would that mean? Would they riot? Barricade themselves in their prison? Would they flee? The only horses she had ever heard were those that came with supplies or changes of guard, and those were ridden back out again.
A shout at the far side of the yard snapped her back to the world and Óraithe ran for the doors that led back to the keep. They were standing wide open and so she ran through, taking the time to push them closed and bar them. There were enough men to break the doors and she would need time to gather supplies. Fighting for them would waste energy and she knew there was little outside the walls of the prison to sustain her.
There was the sound of doors to her right when she entered the room that let out into the yard. Óraithe did not know the prison well, but it
