Princess Ilyara

Ahead was a small clearing, with few tiny fires scattered about burning quietly. To outsiders the scene might look like some wayward traveler left several fires unattended, but this was the elves realm, and Ilyara knew this the was site of the force gathering to do battle. The wind picked up, carrying the sounds of a conversation of her kin keeping vigilant watch for intruders that might stumble upon their encampment. Clearly the chances of that were slim, enchantments and the forest would see them protected from the approaching knights, or else they might be taking their position as sentries more seriously. It mattered not, Ilyara would penetrate their defenses and be out without anyone ever knowing. She brought her lithe shadowy cloak tightly about her, and shrouded her lower face before moving off, when suddenly she halted. A hand, steady and honed with years of plucking the bow strings that brought death to so many creatures, reached up to move the cloth mask down slightly. An unfamiliar scent caught her attention, it was foreign to the forest, but not to her. After a moments time she slipped back into the forest, unheard and unfettered to find Lord Hannibal’s tent to let him know his horse gives away his presence.
The man rose from his bedroll on the floor of his tent, walking towards the flap blowing in the breeze. Looking out it was difficult to tell where the wood elves constructed their shelters for the night. If he did not know better he would assume they slept in the trees, but he knew their tents or lean-tos where out there, hidden and making his stand out like a sore thumb. His steed pawed the ground with a snort followed by a short whiny, it was familiar with the woods but that did not mean the beast liked being here. Hannibal smirked, “Don’t be so scared, the only thing out there that will get you are trees.” The mount snorted angrily, it knew all to well the double meaning. If anything would protect the forest, it was the trees of the forest itself, they would come to life and rend the flesh from man and beast that dared trespass these woods. The man looked up through the canopy of trees, the light of the moon illuminating his face and the long jagged scar that ran down his left temple diagonally down across his cheek and to his chin. His hand reached up to touch the old wound before securing the flap and turning to retire for the night.
“Sleeping alone tonight?” called a soft feminine voice from behind the man. Every muscle in Hannibal’s body tensed for a moment, the intrusion of someone into his personal tent setting him on the defensive. His hand would have finished its swift motion to grab a hidden knife but he would have been dead before it was drawn. The one that caught him off his guard would have seen to that, and there were few who could pull off such a feat. It was a second before he relaxed his body and turned to face the intruder. He knew the one that so expertly invited herself into his tent, he had asked for her personally. There was no other being that could move so stealthy without so much as disturbing the air around her.
“Ilyara,” a wry smile creased his lips as he turned slowly to face the elven waywatcher. “I see you found your way home, I even left the door open for you, “ Hannibal indicated a vacant area on his tent wall without so much as a window or crease to peek through. She was dressed in light clothes of durable elven cloth. The fabric was so fine it dulled any sound she might make and lessen the significance of her body’s movement to the naked eye. Scattered about her figure were areas of tight leathery strands and ropes from which wood or leaves could be used to help conceal her presence. Her arms and hands were dirty from extended time in the forest with no bathing, her clothes themselves were made to last and resist the elements and dirt and were much cleaner than she. Even with the small light of the candles he could tell she had a considerable build up of dirt on her face. She must just be returning from a very long hiatus in the forest. It was good his request of her presence was answered so quickly, whether or not it was well received by the warrior was something he did not yet know.
To be a way watcher is to be secluded from all other elves, kin, family. They spend their time deep within the forest, communing and protecting her majesty from harm. They consider themselves the most devoted of wood elves, practicing their art and honing their skills in solitude. Rarely do any show themselves at their celebration halls once they tred down the chosen path. They are know to lay in wait for days for the perfect time to ambush their enemy.
Ilyara stood up, reached back and loosened a tight band of cloth keeping her hair up. At first Hannibal was not sure she removed anything, because her hair didn’t move. After a quick shaking with her hand, several twigs, leaves, clumps of dirt fell to the tent floor. Hannibal pursed his lips as he noticed a small potato bug crawl away from the scene. “Life in the forest has been good, eh?” he asked, reeking of sarcasm. She gave her head a quick shake back and forth, spraying small deposits of loose dirt across his sleeping area, “very.” She pulled down the cloth bandana covering her face and despite the amount of black that covered it, her beauty shone through as stunning as Hannibal remembered.
She noticed his momentary lapse and strode slowly towards him, tossing one glove at a time onto the ground at his feet. “So, this Lady Portman, is she the new prize in Lord Hannibal’s possession?” He watched her approach, she started circling him slowly, loosening her garments as she moved. “Very recently acquired,” he said as he stood up straighter, her proximity provoking an odd feeling of anxiety that only their confused past relationship could. “You have many ladies, if I recall correctly,” the words slipped from her mouth like silken thread laced with a hint of acid. “Yes, I still do.” He added simply, continuing to eye her seductive path around him like a sailor would pay heed to a hungry shark. “Of course, you have this power over them, something they—we cannot resist.” Her fingers slipped between his shirt buttons and arms went around his back, slipping herself up against him using her nails to rake slowly down his back.
The man jumped slightly, the familiar scratching bringing back some very pleasant memories of him and the elven warrior, ones that would truly complicate this meeting and his life. The fingernails dug in and he could only do his best to resist by thinking how dirty they might be, though that did little to ally the feelings growing inside him. He would have to play her game, “Some are strong enough to,” he added coyly as he looked down at her entwining around him. Her eyes narrowed slightly and she dug those nails in where they were, enough to break the skin. “One was sent away to a life she did not choose, because she was not strong enough.” her voice was a low growl, one from a creature who was not relinquishing her grip. “Imagine my surprise, the very same thing—or should I say man, who was the reason I was sent off to the depths of the forest, is the same reason I am called back from the forest.”
Hannibal did not wince under the pain, he had felt worse but also knew she could do much worse. Her words took him back several years to a time when he met her, and their romance that blossomed. Of course he was a man, and not a very particular man when it came to entertaining women, elf or human. Her father, accepted Hannibal for who he was, a guardian chosen by the forest. This was undisputed for no denizen of the deep trees would approach or attempt to harm the man that walked through the wood. No enchantment could lead him astray from the path he sought. Eventually the elven elders divined that the man was a being who the forest thought of as a protector or chosen. Regardless of that, the elf king did not want his daughter seeing the womanizing man, nor could he simply slay the man and be rid of him due to the respect he was given by the tribes and beings of the wood. No, instead his daughter would “choose” the life of solitude and that would be the last they would be allowed to see each other, with all “physical” contact strictly forbidden with the elven Princess Ilyara.
“Whats wrong?” she asked, her voice almost turning pouty as she started to poke out her lower lip. The knight looked down at her, into those eyes that had not changed one ounce over the years. While he had aged over a decade and was well into his late thirties, she had also aged into her sixties. Where he was reaching late middle age she barely scraped the human equivalent of teenage years. He could still see the crush of the young woman in those dark blue orbs. The tough exterior and banter about other woman to show her disinterest were but a façade. Her father forbid them from ever coming together and threatened Hannibal himself on pain of death despite his good favor among the forest spirits, what was worse he threatened the same fate to Ilyara, but only Hannibal knew of it. It fell to him to keep himself as far from her as possible, the fate of their lives depended on it.
For a moment she thought she might have swayed the man in her arms, his eyes softening as he finally met hers again after so many years. Could there still be an inkling of longing he might possess for her? She felt the happiness welling up inside her, a familiar twinkle coming to her eyes. All of it was suddenly smashed as the mans face hardened and his eyes turned cold, stealing the warmth that she held in a breath.
Lord Hannibal reached inside his shirt, grabbed her now shaking arms by the wrists and held her up before him. It was impressive, sometimes it was simple for her to forget that the object of her affection was a veteran warrior, a knight toughened by years of hardship and battle. His strength was incredible, and her feelings dulled her senses enough for him to catch her off guard. She was not willing to fight against him, too wounded to care.
Hannibal lifted her arms above her head, her feet slightly rising from the floor as he brought her level to his face. She was scared, but not of anything he would do to her, he knew his words would bite into her easier than a blade would tear flesh. “Listen to me, Ilyara,” his voice starting as a low shout as he tried to raise his ire to increase his performance. “I shall not entertain your childish, pathetic games, nor your attempts to seduce me!” he spat the words that hit with the force of a warhammer. “Just do your damn job as general tomorrow, I have a real woman to return to, and you have your dirty little woodland playground to roll around in.” With those hateful words driving home like daggers through her heart he threw her to the ground, storming out of the tent as one of the elven glade guard came rushing through the flap.
“Lord Han—,” he stammered. “Out of the way!” Hannibal threw the man aside with such force the tent wall almost buckled. “Tend to your general.” The man left the tent, walked to his horse and rode off from the area. His hand reached up wiping his hand across his scarred cheek, the tear mixing with the dirt from her skin and leaving a dirty smear there. He let a long sigh as he rode, the nights events weighing heavily on his heart.
“Princess Ilyara!” The elven man stood up quickly and moved over to her, unsure of how to react to the sight of the princess almost exposed through her loosed clothing. She lay quietly on the ground, her features expressionless. Inside her soul was in turmoil, her arms slowly pushed herself up and she got to her feet. “Kalir,” she said plainly as she adjusted her clothing, replacing straps about her clothing and kneeling down to pick up her gloves. “How do you expect us to defeat the forces marshaled against us when a raging orc could detect your babbling sentries!” She flew into a rage quickly, forcing Kalir down to a knee. “Your highness, I apologize for their lack of duty.” She eyed him venomously, a glare that was meant for another but the Lord’s Bowman would wear the brunt of her anger this moment. “I don’t care for your excuses! If I sneak past them one more time tonight you and your men will be facing my father in his hall! I swear it!” She stormed past the elf who did not flinch or look at her as she pasted. She was a noble, he was a lowly footman in her service and would obey the proper rules of such a station.
“Get up, Kalir! Those sentries will not improve by themselves!” she shouted back towards the tent. Kalir stood slowly and brushed himself off. “Yes m’lady,” was his reply, more for himself because she was far from the tent by now. He stood there a moment, looking around the misshapen tent. What had he gotten himself into?