Phantom was standing out in the open, golden grass up to her knees as the dark horse watched her rider creep off into the dappled darkness of the thicket. It was beyond her ken to imagine what he was doing, but she would wait for him as long as there was plenty of grass to eat. The breeze tossed her glossy mane.

The armoured Swordmaster let the quietude of the tangled woods fall over him, protected from the wind that always seemed to be blowing across the prairie. He heard the voice again, scared and helpless, and he wanted to rush to the speaker's aid, but put his caution first. The urge to protect, to help, had been burned into coals a long time ago. 

His stormy-gray eyes darted around, looking for the voice that had sounded far away at first, but now sounded impossibly small instead. He had heard that there were birds in the jungles to the west that could learn to mimic human speech and wondered if this was the prank of some beast, until a shaft of sunlight fell on a beautiful sparkle of blue in the leaves at his feet a short distance away.

The narrow twine of the net moved with the motion of the creature trapped under it, and Asher closed the distance in a few steps, dropping swiftly to a one-kneed crouch, reaching back to his belt to put his hand on the hilt of his own knife. He reached down with a callused hand and gently brushed some of the dead leaves aside. His dark brows, knitted with curiosity, lifted towards his dark tousled hair with surprise.

[color=707070]"I don't plan to hurt you,"[/color] Asher avowed in a voice that was as solemn as the scars on his face, his command of the Common language decent though his accent was obvious. He was a Screamer. [color=707070]"But you'll have to promise me the same for when I let you out. You're no Kvaren. You're not wearing the armour of an Ebon Knight, but I have no doubt you're from their lands. And you've a knife on your hip, small as it might be."[/color]

He drew his knife and held it up to let her see it. The steel blade was about as long as she was and he'd have no trouble spearing her with it like a butterfly on a pin. A set of iron manacles jingled on his hip as he pulled the knife.

[color=707070]"What's your name, fairy?"[/color] He tore his eyes from the tiny, pretty creature and surveyed the weighted net, deciding that it would be best to cut it rather than lift it off of her, tangled as she was. 

[color=707070]"Try to not move. I don't want to cut your wings,"[/color] was there a not of tenderness under the command?