http://DragonFire01.deviantart.com/art/Filladan-74218007

Even with no leaves on the trees around him, there was little sun, as the clouds in the gray sky hid the warm rays. In the distance was a faint rumbling , indicating an oncoming storm. The fawn-haired Ariarthi winced, holding back a cry of pain as he made his way slowly through the more dead than living woods, limping on all but one of his furred legs, the limps all slashed up and bleeding, hoping his brown colorings helped camouflage him. Filladan had managed to get away from the hunters, but not without sustaining injuries. There had been many of them this time, unfortunately. There seemed to be increasing numbers of the groups lately. Men and other beings that found profit in killing or capturing certain species for money. Slavery was the more popular trade, and it was catching on. He had certainly picked the wrong time to go on a walk today.

The taur’s legs had seemed to be the group’s most popular target, wanting to cripple him so he couldn't get away it seemed. What they hadn't counted on was that the fair creature knew how to fight back, and fight well for that matter. Filladan didn't like fighting, but it had been necessary in this case. He had to defend himself, or else let them kill him. The Ari’s wounds burned something terrible, but he wouldn't stop, not yet. He wasn't completely safe yet. Had to get further away.

The being’s legs trembled under each step, and he was leaving a blood trail, and he hoped the hunters wouldn't come after him by tracking it. The taur had enough to deal with on his own now. Finally though, after another mile or so, Filladan just couldn't continue, too tired and hurting to go on, and ended up collapsing in a thicket just outside the woods, hoping the tall grass would aid in hiding him for now while he rested. Maybe if he could get just some of his energy back, he could make it the rest of the way back home…

Kirada and her brother, Jorje, raced from the woods. They bound on long, sturdy legs through the tall grass and thicket. For being such large creatures, their speed and grace would astound someone from the "norm." Kirada, the black one, stood at seven-foot-four inches. Her brother even higher. The two wound around, making an endless trail and winded grass in their wake.

Jorje froze, scenting the air. Kirada, about twenty feet ahead, stopped and looked back at him. Jorje's nose was on the ground, almost in a Beagle-fashion sniff. He looked to his little sister, his ears peaked and alert, his posture strong and assertive. "Blood," he drawled in a Scottish sing-song accent. He was quick to turn heel and run in the direction of the smell -- a metallic scent he oh, so loved. Kirada stayed behind a moment, as if unbelieving, and sniffed the same area. Her posture, too, changed, as she lurked after her brother.

It wasn't long until they uncovered the creature -- Jorje stood over it, thinking it was dead -- it hadn't moved yet. Kirada soon approached, sniffing it. "He's still alive," she murmured in a equal Scottish drawl. The only difference was, unlike Jorje's chilled, uncaring tone, hers was soft and angelic.

Jorje scowled, his slate eyes scouring the area, and then the animal's wounds. "He's going to die anyway," he grumbled. "Let me kill it."

Kirada, slightly infuriated, stood over the creature. "We won't. We'll protect it, won't we brother?" Jorje's only response was to lie down on the earth about five feet away with a THUD, the wafting dirt swarming in protest.

Kirada, on the other hand, layed near the creature's shoulders. She licked his wounds, hoping that -- again -- she could use her Shaman abilities and heal his ailments. Untrained, this didn't work all the time -- well, not all the time on others. She looked to her brother, silently praying that this creature would be fine, loathing the deaths that had plagued her for so many years. "Live, you," she said under her breath -- barely audible. "Live."