A Hunt of Green and Orange

A low, resonant humming intensified, becoming so pronounced that Jianna could feel it as a visceral thrum that resonated in the hollow of her stomach. It was a deeply unsettling vibration, compounding the wooziness that already swam in her head from the oppressive heat, gnawing hunger, and most potently, the icy grip of dread.

Crouched beside her, Malakor was the very picture of a coiled spring, his entire frame racked with a fine, violent tremor. His knife, already drawn from its sheath, was held in a ready clench at his side, its polished edge catching the light with a cold, sinister gleam. A low, guttural growl rumbled from deep within his chest, and Jianna understood with a jolt that his reaction was not merely a fear of the Fey. It felt deeper, more ingrained and personal, as if born from something far more intimate than the long-standing animosity between their peoples. She had no more time to ponder the thought. They had arrived.

From the concealing density of the tall grass, three figures emerged. One moved with impossible speed, a blur that darted past them to take cover behind a startled Blynn, while the other two ascended into the air, hovering effortlessly just above the undulating sea of green.

The two airborne figures were women, tall and slender with an ethereal, dreamlike beauty. Their skin was like polished alabaster, possessing a faint, internal luminescence, and their ears tapered to elegantly fine points. Their attire was deceptively simple: form-fitting shorts and a larger swathe of vibrant fabric artfully knotted at their waists, reminiscent of a colorful scarf. The taller of the pair possessed hair and eyes that blazed with the hues of a dying sun, and from her back fanned two enormous, butterfly-like wings of the same molten gold and fiery orange. Her companion was her physical twin in every way, save for her colors; her wings, eyes, and hair were the tranquil, cloudless cerulean of a perfect summer sky.

The figure hiding behind Blynn was male, though his features were so fine and symmetrical they bordered on the androgynous. A long, single braid of viridian hair cascaded down his back, terminating in a large, intricately carved metallic weight. He wore a similar scarf-like wrap and loose-fitting trousers. His wings, thin and translucent like those of a dragonfly, shimmered with the same brilliant emerald as his hair and eyes. All three appeared to be in their early to mid-twenties. Gazing at their painstakingly styled hair, which remained immaculate despite their acrobatic flight, Jianna felt a sudden, sharp pang of self-consciousness about her own grimy, tangled mane, which had not known the touch of a brush for two days.

The male Feyan seemed, for the moment, to be ignoring Jianna and Malakor, who were using the perceived inattention to begin a silent, cautious retreat deeper into the grass. Instead, he directed his attention to the two women, shouting something at them in a language Jianna had never encountered. The melody of his language was a stark contrast to the sharp irritation in his tone. { "Iiffa! Ifish na oph iiffa!" }

The blue-haired Feya replied, her voice a silken purr laced with an unmistakable flirtatiousness. { "Na... Haf ino Satyri psh mene fo?" } She drifted a step closer to Blynn, her gaze appraising. The male Feyan instantly took a protective step back, dragging the bewildered satyr with him as he narrowed his eyes.

With a faint sneer gracing his lips, the male shot back angrily, {"Heek, oph tashi fa ke."}

"Now, Jianna! While they’re distracted, let's move!" Malakor’s breath was a harsh, hot rasp in her ear.

"What about Blynn?" Jianna protested, her voice rising louder than she intended. The words were barely out of her mouth before she regretted them. Three pairs of luminous eyes snapped in their direction.

The orange-haired Feya’s eyes widened as they landed on Malakor, and a sharp gasp escaped her lips. "Demon!" The word was a cry of pure shock. It was only then, as the Feya’s hands drifted toward their sides, that Jianna noticed all three were armed with wicked-looking, sharp-edged blades in ornate holsters. Seeing the two women momentarily transfixed on Malakor, the male seized his opportunity. With a triumphant cry of {"Tana!"}, he launched himself skyward. Cursing, the two Feya abandoned their focus on the demon and renewed their frantic pursuit.

With the trio now flying high above the grass, Jianna pushed herself to her feet to watch them go, her vantage point now clear. The male led his pursuers on a breathtaking ballet of pursuit across the plains, weaving and banking with dizzying speed before suddenly plunging earthward. All three vanished into the tall grass without a sound.

Jianna collapsed back to the ground, the last dregs of adrenaline and fear hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Malakor was still trembling slightly, while Blynn seemed to be slowly emerging from the daze of having been used as a living shield.

"That was too close," Malakor breathed, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow with an unsteady hand.

"Those were Fey?" Jianna asked, her mind struggling to reconcile the reality of what she’d seen with a lifetime of stories. She had anticipated their delicate, otherworldly features, but had pictured diminutive, pixie-like beings. The shortest of the three had stood at least half a foot taller than her. She certainly hadn't anticipated the weaponry. A chilling realization began to dawn on her: not everything she had been taught back home in the Out-Realm was true.

Malakor gave a grim, somber nod. "Aye. One Feyan and two Feya. We should go, before they decide to come back." Jianna had to agree. The two women—the Feya, she corrected herself—had looked ready to attack Malakor the moment they laid eyes on him. Only the male’s abrupt escape had saved them from a confrontation. She had to help poor Blynn to his feet; he still seemed to be lost in a fog from the ordeal.

After several minutes of tense walking, with every member of the party scanning the horizon for any sign of the winged beings, a question that had been nesting in the back of Jianna’s mind finally demanded to be asked. "Malakor? Do you have any idea what that was all about? They didn't exactly seem to be getting along."

Malakor shrugged his good shoulder. "Don't know for certain. The usual, I suppose. What the Feya always want from a Feyan."

"And what is that?" Jianna pressed.

"To share his bed," Malakor stated simply, his gaze never ceasing its sweep of the plains.

"What?" Jianna gasped, stopping dead in her tracks.

"It's a shadow that stretches back to the very dawn of their race," Malakor explained, his tone flat and weary. "When the Fey were first shaped, there was a flaw in the design. For every few hundred Feya born, there wasn't a single male. So, the goddess who made them spent the last of her power creating a dozen or so males. They became the two castes: the female Feya and the male Feyan. Every village and city the Feya founded, they took one Feyan with them. His duty is to… well, to ensure the continuation of their people, if you take my meaning. Every twenty or thirty years, a new Feyan is born. Once he comes of age, he takes over his father's duties."

"Good thing they aren't affected by incest," Blynn returned in a hollow murmur.

"I think they are," Malakor snarled. "They're all mad."

A flicker of emerald and bronze at the edge of her vision made Malakor react instantly. He shoved Jianna to the ground, spinning to place himself over her in a defensive crouch, his knife once more filling his hand. It was the same Feyan from before. He landed as lightly as a falling leaf in the small clearing between them, his dragonfly wings whirring to a silent stop.

"You know," the Feyan remarked, his gaze flicking between them, though it lingered warily on Malakor, "if you keep heading in that direction, you’ll walk right into a marsh. Unless that's where you're aiming to go." His head tilted, a gesture of listening to some distant, inaudible sound. "I'd love to stay and chat, but duty calls." With another whir of his translucent wings, he was airborne again. A moment later, the two Feya shot past in hot pursuit, their renewed chase marked by the distinct furrows they cut through the grass.

Jianna pushed herself up, brushing dirt from her clothes. "Um… should we listen to him?" she asked as Malakor slowly straightened, watching the trails the three Fey blazed across the plains.

Malakor considered it for a long moment, his jaw tightening, his expression hardening into a familiar mask of grim resolve. "No," he said finally, shaking his head. "Never trust a Feyan. There's nothing they enjoy more than ruining the lives of others."

"So… you shouldn't ever trust a Feyan, huh, Malakor?" Jianna inquired, her voice dripping with sarcasm a short while later.

"Just shut up," Malakor snarled, tugging uselessly at a leg trapped in the greedy suction of thick, viscous muck, "and let me think of a way out of this."