She carried death with her.
Cina had a restless beauty. She floated in and out of her father's house with odd collections-- tangles of seaweed, a blue jay feather, a pebble, a spool of thread, delicate bells. Her hair always filled with an array of twigs and flowers, Cina resembled a forest wraith; always secrets and thoughts flitted and hid among the flecks of color in her eyes. Green of the forest, green of the sea, she frequented both to collect her treasures. She scarcely visited the village near her father's house, for his business came to him.
However, one morning, when Cina returned from one of her rambles, as she spilled shimmering sea fans and petals of daises from her apron, her father called her. "Child." He never called her Cina. This she had named herself. "I need you to find a death."
Puzzled, for her father was usually more specific, she wrinkled her brow. "Whose death?"
"A man's, a man's," her father replied, irritated; he waved his hands impatiently as he wandered into another room. Shrugging, Cina absentmindedly picked up a square piece of amber, dropped it in her pocket, and left. Though her trips were rare, she knew the path well, and the walk was not long. As she walked, she sang, sang a song the souls whispered.
"A flame, a raindrop, a breeze; move on, move on with ease; a key, a key twice turned, passage, passage earned." A simple tune, Cina trilled along the forest path, but quieted as soon as the village came into her sight. As she approached, she gathered fallen leaves her hand blindly choosing ones gold more often than not, and these went also into her pocket.
Cina gazed at the village square when she'd reached its center; to her, it appeared rather large. How could she locate the death her father required when she didn't even have a possession?
Setting her hands on her hips obstinately, Cina pointedly looked at each street leading away from the square, and with a slight nod, settled on one to her left. Three children played near the first building Cina passed, and stopped as she strode by, watching, their ball forgotten in the grass. But Cina hardly noticed them; her gaze was set toward death.
So, she didn't see one give her a hesitant smile, or see one run into a nearby shop and point. And she didn't see the man with golden hair and crimson insignia stare through the window at her retreating figure.