In stark contrast to the clean and sharp folds of the captain’s uniform and tidy presentation, there huddled a hopeful passenger in the shadow of the dock’s yet-loaded cargo. Swathed in nondescript linens and an oversized, worn travel cloak, the figure nearly vanished into the atmosphere as nothing more than discarded cloth sacks. Minute stirrings could easily be explained away as the gentle kiss of the sea air encouraging some meaningless refuse to take its leave. Sad reality meant that the comparison was not so far from the truth, at least in the eyes of the average citizen.

Ayla sat with keen attention to the ship ahead; her escape, her destiny, her future. She would fly to freedom on The Silver Wing and find a life of peace with the her cousins across the sea. Living as an elf in a human-dominated world was far from easy, even if she were among the “lucky few” to have been born into a tradition of familial servitude to a noble house. 

She was privileged if impoverished, fortunate while still frowned upon, and lived comfortably though her spirit was on the verge of total collapse. The Blackthorne house had held dominion over her ancestry for many generations and prided themselves on the “cooperative partnership” their human nobility formed to the betterment of this particular elven lineage. 

Ayla saw things differently. What the Blackthornes considered to be spoiled and unnecessary attentions on their personal staff amounted to little more than above-poverty rations and a less-drafty sleeping quarter. One fateful encounter with the young master of the house marked the beginning of Ayla’s flight. This dock marked her takeoff. 

Fighting all her anxieties, she continued to sit statuesque with her hood up to conceal her pointed ears and fire auburn hair. The glimmer of her sunburst eyes occasionally illuminated a thin, pale face beneath the draped halo of the filthy, tattered cloak.

Finally noting movement from her targeted vessel, she shot up to standing posture, careful to keep the movement from casting off her identity-concealing raiments. Hiding within her oversized trappings, Ayla’s figure was amorphous at best. Material rippled around and consumed the tiny form below. She stood slightly taller than the average woman, though was built with a far less natural insulation against the cold.

“Please,” she whispered to herself as she hugged her arms around her own midsection and watched the smaller boat creeping from ship to shore. “Please be my path.”