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Day grows sick of walking the paths.

She's witnessed Fox's death at least a half dozen times now, a small part of her dying with each execution. Those paths often follow the death of the big blond, or the devastation wrought by the crimson dragon on those light beings. Or the fire, the one which engulfs miles of forest, flames roaring with delight as clouds spew smoke into the sky.

It's any wonder she has the strength left to smile. Yet she walks them every night in the hopes that something may change.

So far everything remains status quo.

This path is as familiar to her as the ones where people die. In a way, someone does die here, on the inside. Skye lives as a ghost of her former self, seeking revenge on real and imagined enemies. She slinks through the shadows, her every decision fuelled by anger and hate. The current Skye, as the paths cross through time in a non-linear fashion, has a full complement of facial tattoos and her shortened hair styled into a Mohawk.

Day learned from her morning conversations with Lyrissa that a fairy's hair doesn't grow continuously, or at all, as in other species. If you cut your hair you'd better love the results, because there's no going back.

Skye stalks the guards in blue armor below. She tenses, ready to make her move. The entire vision flickers. Day thinks nothing of it, attributing it to an oddly placed blink.

It happens again, flashing twice before fading into darkness. Odd, nothing happened. Day's confusion heightens when the vision refocuses on Skye once more.

A hood hides the warrior's features. The forest green shirt does its best to blend its bearer into the heavily planted background. Skye's part of a small party escorting a wagon pulled by a large millipede-like creature with a myriad of wiggling legs. They all wear the same garb, some of the clothing's artfully patched with various shades of grey and brown, camouflage enough in a forest this size.

The wagon contains a second group of fairies. Their features aren't visible from where Day perches in the tree, yet the armor's unmistakeable. Greythorn soldiers in pale green and brown colors, their hands tied behind their backs. They jolt and bump into each other whenever the wagon hits a rut in the path. What's going on here? Why does Skye hold her own men hostage?

The warrior searches the tree tops. Her unmarked face comes into view. A long, dark braid rests on Skye's shoulder. The dream mist envelops the procession, swallowing the caravan in a cloud, saving the warrior's fierce eyes for last.

Her consciousness tingles to life. The path leaves behind more questions than answers. The odd scene re-plays in her head. Nothing significant happens. Well, except Skye isn't alone or in armor. Oh yeah, the markings on her face are missing and her hair is back to its original length. Her brief view of Skye's face spoke volumes for her mental stability. Yet she holds her people hostage. The warrior's path somehow shifted.

But why? What turns Skye against her people?

The dim light of early dawn paints her room in various shades of grey. Day searches for an answer in the blurring shadows.

She's settled into a routine of sorts in the past three weeks, beginning her mornings with Fox in a companionable run, sometimes followed by a soak in the pools. Her breakfasts with Lyrissa continue, the pair of them discussing fairy culture and anything else which comes to mind. Afterwards, Skye hangs out with her until Chancen's available for training.

She continues to spend time with the trainees, the original group of younglings growing to over two dozen. Their trainer, Senerten, enjoyed the drills Day brings to the table so much he invited others to participate.

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