Re: OT: Looking for a fic

["smellthegloveuk" <jcys06347@xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx>]

Hi the fic is below.

I don't know if there's more anywhere or if this is the complete fic.

Thanks

Jo

Dragonkind AUTHOR: Marie-Claude Danis

For the first time since she was a child, the Slayer is scared. She 
can hear her own heartbeat in her chest, in her throat, in her ears. 
She is panting, her breath condensing as it comes out of her mouth, 
freezing her cracked lips. The thick foliage overhead shields her 
from the much-needed moonlight. Now that the storm is over, the full 
moon rises high above, casting a silvery light upon the trees and 
across the plain ahead. Rain is dripping from the leaves. With an 
involuntary shudder, the Slayer curses the unseasonal cold. She can 
feel it slither down the bare skin of her arms, crawl up her neck, 
creep down her legs. Her leather-clad feet leave deep impressions in 
the mud with each step. At times she has to sidestep large roots 
emerging from the soggy ground, at times standing as high as her. 
This forest has never before felt uninviting. The Slayer doesn't like 
it.

Ignoring the deep chills coursing down her neck, she plows through 
the dense underbrush. She stops to change her grip on the limp form 
in her arms, the resumes her laboured way. If it weren't for the 
constant, reassuring warmth against her chest, the Slayer would have 
stopped long ago and climbed a tree to spent the night. But the smell 
of blood - not her own, and not demon - drives her forward, unable to 
rest until she reaches her village.

She finally reaches the edge of the forest, where she can see the 
small group of stone houses from across the glowing field. It is 
easier to walk now, and the feeling that she is only moments away 
from home makes the Slayer finally breathe out her relief. She 
hesitantly peers down at the young woman in her arms. She's never 
seen a dragonkind from this close before, let alone touched one.

The female dragonkind has her face nestled against the Slayer's 
tunic, her breath raspy on the worn fabric. Most of her delicate face 
is hidden by the wild elfish bob of fiery red hair, the awkwardly cut 
strands clinging to her damp skin. She is unconscious; her leathery 
wings are wrapped around her body, instinctively protecting her from 
the humid cold. One of the wings rests awkwardly on her, broken. The 
gash across her stomach still bleeds profusely, and her skin feels 
too warm. The Slayer doesn't know the creature, but she is deadly 
afraid of losing her. Never had patrolling gone so wrong.




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                     'Choices'

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