"This forest is to quiet," Evelyn said, drawing her fox glove dyed cloak closer round her. Tarn did not seem to hear. He was studying the fallen leaves that proclaimed it to be the last few days of summer. "Are you even listening to me?"

Tarn shook his head, dodging the hand brought up to slap him.
"I was just looking around. I came here many years ago, when I looked young."

"You still do" Evelyn said, almost fondly.

Tarn raised a hand to his thinning hair, brushing back the silver and black wisps. The hand he let stay in his line of vision for a little longer, fearful that his hands give him away, but they looked like the rough, large hands they had been yesterday, the day before that, and 20 years ago. Tarn shook his head again, trying to clear his thoughts and turned back to Evelyn. "You where saying?"

Evelyn put a finger to his lips and mouthed for him to listen.
Standing still at the edge of the grove, with out thoughts or chatter to confuse him, Tarn was all at once aware of the stillness. No wind rustles the leaves of trees, no bird called to its mate, no woodland creature sniffed around the undergrowth. The clearing was dead.

Then Tarn saw them, rings of white pebbles set around much larger black stones that did not glitter when the light caught them. In fact they seemed to suck the very light from the air. Graves. Tarn took a step forward, feeling the iciness sink through his skin and into his bones; the nothingness of death over taking his senses, drowning him in the loneliness.

He almost fell into the open grave. Gazing down into the ground, Tarn felt his stomach lurch as he looked at whose body it was.
Though his hair grey, body flabby and old, and face covered with plague scabs, the man could be no other than Arvandor Conway.
There had been no great bond between the men, save for hatred of each other. In spite of this, Tarn shed a silent tear for the man in the grave; who had once spared his life.

Evelyn crept up besides him, leaning over to look inside the grave in morbid curiosity. Two fingers were already pressed to her forehead as she readied herself to send the man, unknown to her, off to the afterlife with a clean soul.

Tarn bent besides the grave, wanting to say something...anything... but all he could think of were the green eyes of Arvandor's girl-child. Finally, Tarn did the only thing he could think to do. He prayed, touching his hands to his forehead, for Arvandor and his daughter, whereever she may be.

"Tarn!" The sound of his name startled him. Tarn started, as if awakened from a trance, and looked up to see Evelyn standing far away from him. Her eyes were wild and staring.

"Evelyn, what is it?" he asked, concerned. The young woman beckoned him with a wave of her hand, then turned away from him. Tarn made his way quickly across the burial yard, careful not to tread upon any grave as he went.

Evelyn was standing beside another open grave, wringing her hands together. "It's a child!" she cried. "A dead child."

Tarn looked into the grave and his hope died. Laid out on a white linen cloth was the body of a young maid, no older than 16 or 17. Her long, russet hair flowed down over her scab covered face and shoulders. In her hands was clasped a doll, a treasured plaything. Whoever had left her here, had not had the heart to make her part with it. Tarn dropped to one knee, his fingers clutching at the dirt around the grave, as he tried to open the dead eyes to see their color. He had to know for certain that this was Vixen Conway.

"Get away!" The staff caught him in the ribs, knocking him on to his side and winding him. Evelyn was cowering at the foot of the grave, as the unknown attacker circled them, face covered in a black veil of mourning. "Tell me what you think you are doing in my burial yard?" the figure asked in a distinctly female voice, waving the staff around threateningly.

"A ghost!" Evelyn squeaked, her hand rising to her neck. Her voice shook as she spoke again. "Be-begone, demon!"

The 'ghost' laughed. "I do not answer to you woman." The apparition turned to Tarn, who was staggering to his feet. It knocked him back down. "Nor to your friend here, I might add."

Tarn was surprised to see that the spirit's staff was bedecked with feathers and ribbons of bright colors, quit unusual for a creature of the after life. "Tell me, spirit," he wheezed, "do you always carry such colorful objects when you vanquish trespassers?"

The ghoul made an angry noise and proceeded to hit him again, only conforming Tarns suspicions. With lighting quick speed, he lunged at the phantom, knocking the staff from its hand, and ripping the veil from its head. "Here is your ghost, Evelyn, just a..." The words caught in his throat at the sight before him. Waves of copper hair fell down over the shoulders of a wiry young girl who glared at him with smouldering green eyes. "Vixen."

The green eyes widened. "How do you know my name?" she asked, wary as Tarn placed a hand to her shoulder.

"I held you the day you where born." Tarn said, touching Vixen's face in amazement.

Vixen snorted. "My father said he was first to hold me. He said an evil monster had been hiding me from him."

Tarn rolled his eyes at Arvandor's interpretation of him. "I never said I was the first to hold you." Tarn corrected her.

"Father said it was hard tracking the monster from where it had killed my mother." Vixen continued in hushed tones. It was evident she thought anyone who knew her as a baby must be at least a very old family friend. "The beast had carried me off on a horse it meant to eat for dinner, with me for afters, But father slew the creature and dumped his body into the pond. That's why the water is all grey at the pond, from the monster's blood." She giggled at telling him this favored childhood story.

Tarn forgot to be surprised, or indeed worried, that Arvandor had been inside that room all the time, watching him, waiting for him to leave so Arvandor could snatch back the new born child from the incompetent guards. It must have horrified the rebel leader to watch Tarn take away his only child. No wonder Arvandor had made up the story, far safer than trying to explain the complicated truth of the matter to his babe.

"Oh," was all he finally managed to say on the subject.

Vixen smiled, then looked up at him from under lowered lashes.
"Would you like to come home with me?" she asked, "for some tea?"

Vixen scampered on ahead, jumping over fallen logs and dodging low branches; every once in a while turning back to call out, "Not far now," or "Mind the poison ivy!"

Tarn walked with Evelyn, helping to support her steps over fallen logs, or brush low branches out of her way. He longed to run after Vixen, and chase her through the trees, but instead his honor condemned him to help Evelyn avoid the poison ivy.

Vixen stopped before a huge oak tree coved in ivy vines. She turned to the wait for them to catch up with her. "This is my home," she said proudly.

"The tree?" Evelyn asked, doubtfully.

Vixen rolled her eyes and shook her head slowly. "No, inside the tree is my home."
"But how?" Evelyn asked. She studied the bark, which looked stable enough.

"The tree opens." Vixen giggled again, as if she was telling them a big secret, which in turn, she supposed she was.

Striding forward, Tarn placed his hands to the bark and began to pull, waiting for the secret passage to open, swearing under his
breath. Vixen pushed him aside and pressed her hands to the
bark. "Assa," she whispered. The tree began to twist under her touch,
the ivy writhing and falling in dead coils around them. The tree bark
cracked, splitting open to revel a staircase carved from the earth,
which spiralled down into the darkness. Vixen held her hand out,
drawing runes in the air. Further down, flames sprang to life,
jumping and flickering on candles that dripped no wax. "My home is
this way," Vixen said, indicating the stairs.

Tarn looked at Evelyn, whose complexion had ashened. He took her hand
and led her down the stairs, allowing Vixen to close up the tree. As
the natural light died, Tarn felt Evelyn's grip tighten and heard,
soft as the wind, her breathless voice whispering prayers. A warm
body brushed against his and Tarn dropped Evelyn's hand as if it was
on fire. Vixen was pressed against him in the small space, easing
herself past him. She lifted her head up and looked at him, grinning
nervously. "My home is just down here. These used to be the tunnels
of the resistance. Father decided we should live down here, because
it's safer than up there." Tarn made an understanding noise. He
stiffened as he felt Vixen's warm breath against his neck. "You smell
of cinnamon," she told him, burying her face into the crook of his
neck, "cinnamon and smoke."

Tarn bowed his head and sniffed at her hair. "You smell of dead
flowers," he teased.

She lifted her head and leant closer. Her whole body was pressed
against him now. "Really?" she asked, disappointed.

Tarn shook his head and pressed his nose into her hair, breathing in
her smell. "Truthfully, you smell of earth and wood chip smoke." And
death, he thought.

Vixen smiled and turned her head towards Evelyn. "Your friend smells
of flowers, but I don.t know what kind." Vixen hopped up a step and
pressed herself against Evelyn. She hid her nose in the layers of
white-blond hair and inhaled. "Jasmine and lavender!" Vixen examined.

Evelyn spluttered indignantly and pushed the youth away. "Young lady!
Where I come from its not polite to smell people!" she barked.

Vixen flattened herself against the wall and bowed her head, as if
hoping to deflect Evelyn.s words. When she lifted her face again, her
expression was remorseful and distressed. "I'm sorry." Her words
shook. She was still pressed back against the wall like she was
hoping it would swallow her. "I've not had much contact with others,
only the dead and my father."

Tarn saw this as the moment to step in and did. He grabbed Vixen's
hand and pulled her down in front of him, shielding her from Evelyn.

"It's quite alright, Miss," he said softly. "If you would like, I am
sure we could educate you in proper conduct. Couldn't we Evelyn?" He
elbowed the cleric, who nodded half-heartedly.

Vixen looked at him, eyes shining. "Then I could go with you?" she
asked, "and meet people to behave proper with?"

Evelyn opened her mouth to correct her, but Tarn interrupted. "Yes,
you'll come with us, and we,ll show you the world."

Vixen embraced him and he clasped at her. "Thank you." He felt the
soft brush of lips on his ear and the words formed upon them. It sent
shivers down his spine.

Setting the girl back on her step, Tarn smiled. "Lead on, milady."
Vixen, only too happy, scampered off down the stairs, jumping two at
a time. Tarn ran to keep up with her. Evelyn followed more sedately
behind them, wondering what strange magic had been cast upon her
escort by this witch child.