For the Hopeless

Chapter 2: Tainted

Bailey stood like a statue in front of the door, arms folded and dark eyes unblinking. The grayish light of the wintery world outside made her sickly pallor glow, leaving the woman looking like a holy shrine of some sort. But she was far from holy, and even the elfin woman watching from the dark blue armchair behind her could tell. It was vague, but something wicked hung about her. The woman had fallen silent the moment she'd been seated by the holy relic by the door, comforted by the knowledge that she was in the company of a Guardian. Possibly more than one. Dameon was outside in the blizzard-like weather, noisily kicking the bloodied snow deeper into the whiteness to keep human and Novie passerby alike from becoming suspicious and approaching the house. Almost everyone within the Novie safe haven was in hiding, so human and Traitor company was far from welcome.

A scream echoed down from the attic, a shriek of torture that could only have been caused by Talon, and the elfin woman shifted nervously in her seat. She did not feel as safe as she had only a moment ago.

"What...?" She trailed off as Bailey glanced over her shoulder coolly, no longer a holy statue but instead a modern-day Virgin Mary. Or, perhaps, the ghost of the long-dead Virgin Mary...

"There's a sympath living in our attic," the woman informed her as she turned her gaze back to the brightness of the world outside her home. "I saved a woman from a human earlier, and the human had to be dealt with." The elf shivered at the thought. Death by sympath...Well, it would be easy to make it look like a suicide...

She reached up to finger an ear, the left one, hidden by a strand of the blood-matted, flaxen hair that hung around her slim shoulders. She felt dried blood beneath her fingers, then the odd straightness of the place where the pointed tip had been sliced off. It had happened barely half an hour ago, but with her elfin blood came rapid healing abilities; thus, the wound was no more. It was merely scarred-over flesh, a strangely smooth, straight edge. The deep gash that had been on her arm was in the same shape. All that was left to tell of the wound, of her struggle with a group of human men, was a bit of dried blood along her forearm and a couple of small red stains on the blue fabric of the chair. The carpet, chosen by the wise Dameon, was black. Any blood that had made it that far was no longer visible, lost in the black abyss that made up each fiber of the carpeting.

Finally, Bailey turned from the door, and the elfin woman almost physically felt the tension of the room shatter and fall to the floor all around them. "I'm Bailey." Her voice held much less tightness than before, as if hearing the woman's voice, even for just that one soft word, had calmed her. For some reason, the moment she'd seen the damage done to the elf's ear, she'd become very tense, angry, almost hostile. Her hatred of the humans and all of the things that they destroyed was clear. It had given away her standing as a Guardian in a way that meant more than words.

"I'm Aven," the elf answered, frowning up at the woman towering over her. Standing, she would've been the same height, but from her seated position, she found Bailey's height vaguely intimidating. That strange darkness she carried with her didn't really help, either, and that was something that she couldn't match. Even a dark elf wouldn't have felt so heavy. "Aven Brawley."

"Nice to meet you." But there was no mirth to her tone, no pleasure to shift her grim visage. Aven took no offense, however, as she was aware of the burden that a Guardian carried. Here sat a Novie, covered in dried blood, recently attacked by a human, maybe more than one, maybe no humans at all. It was the Guardian's duty to care for the Novie, maybe even go after the humans or Traitors that had caused her to end up here in such a bloody, frightened state. Aven herself was no Guardian, at least not yet, but she'd seen them before. A less than pleased expression was common among them.

The elf's head tilted to one side when she noticed something curious, her blonde hair sliding back to reveal her bloody ear. "Why are you so...pale?" Her eyes, golden-brown and flecked with the forest green that had first alerted Bailey to her species, slid down Bailey's emaciated frame. They took in the sickly pallor, the baggy clothing, the bony appendages. "And...skinny?" In other words, "Why do you look so sickly?"