She pointed to herself, her face illuminated in a yellow, candlelight, as she mouthed the word.

"Saralin." She repeated it, slowly forming each syllable.

Damian, in turn, read her lips, as best he could; he mimicked their movements, before attempting the actual words. It must have sounded somewhat botched or ill pronounced if the twitch in her face could be interpreted, so he gave it another try.

"Saralin." She nodded. And the night went on quietly. She sat beside the door in a wooden chair, right beside a boarded window, with segments to see outside. The moon painted the hill palely, and nothing moved within the grass. Saralin clutched her walking stick, as the fire licked in the chimney like the night before.

It went by, anxiously, as they waited for something, that became more obvious the longer they had. She had given him the fur from earlier in the day. The wind had a habit of coming in through the battened-up windows, bringing a cold and moist draft when it did. He had sat on the fur at first, but unintentionally, had fallen asleep. He rolled into a fur covering.

Saralin waited longer than she would have liked. While, she may not have stayed in bed for long durations, during her sleep, she knew at her age, she needed whatever sleep she could get. Maybe she'd be embarrassed, as she fell asleep right there within the wooden chair, right besides the cracked window.

Damian woke up as the candlelight mimicked the sun peeking out on the horizon. He blew out a couple, that had burned throughout the night and had nearly turned to stubs, despite, still feeling the lingering cold in his skin. He looked around, dazedly. He had a habit of waking up early in the morning, to catch the school bus. It seemed, in the short term, to be unbreakable. Whatever they had waited on, hadn't arrived last night. He saw that the old lady had fallen asleep beside the window, the coal stick laying still in her lap. 

He sighed, conflicted. As to if he should help his captor. But, she was also his savior. Unsurprisingly, he had convinced himself. He took the fur covering off of the floor-boards and threw it over the lady.

They made their way into the forest to investigate what had gone wrong. The forest was quieter than the day before. He had thought this might have been because it was the morning, much earlier than their foray the day before. But that thought was soon discarded. If this ancient forest didn't have a day-night cycle, of creatures, it would be odd. They should have been more lively.

The grip tightened around the ax's handle as the old lady walked calmly before him. They were making the way back to where they had been, much quicker as she did not stop to pick mushrooms or wolves. 

His thoughts weren't as leisurely. He noticed the wind swinging between tree branches, perhaps on the right day this would be a sappy kind of noise, today he found it unsettling. Even more unsettling than the complete silence of the frog. 

The old woman stopped, and deviated to the left; to pick some leaves.

She made her hand holding the leaves seem like it had gripped a handle, beginning to tilt/tip it.

"Tea?" They both said, differently.

He mimicked her movements. Placing a cup beneath his teapot, and drinking its make-believe content. She nodded. They began towards their original direction. Then it became quiet.

There was something to there right, behind a tree. Half of it stuck out. A light yellow glow, then it became the sun.

This made them shut their eyes. 

Damian felt a pressure on his chest, so much force that resistance seemed a joke. He flew between trees. Dropping his ax along the flight path, and finally hitting some tree branches before falling.

Saralin leaned back, placing her stick behind her, for support. A line of white fell onto her face, made of powder. To her left, a hole, the size of a forefinger, was punched through a pine tree.

The white powder lead to her assassin. He wore white robes, that were opened at the front. Showing chest hairs that were white. Gold rings ornamented his robes; so many that would ring on anyone that hadn't earned them.

He drew his white bone bow on a tree branch. She swung her coal staff, which lengthened, its arch was interrupted by a tree up ahead before it ever got to him. It behaved oddly. Like an anchor had been stuck to the tip of a taut rope being swung, before it returned to rigid, like a stick. This process was repeated upon multiple trees

Her move had ended just as the archer released his second shot, and a black coal spear pierced behind his skull and exited amidst his nose-bone. Mixing showers blood into his white hair.

She, half lunged half fell, to her left, dodging the arrow between her brows. Her stick had been dropped and reverted to its original form of firewood. 

Rapidly she fell into a fever. She became unable to move. And felt her throat burning with thirst.

A white demon stood above her. The hole punched through his head didn't seem to be a bother. He said somethings; the spit flying as spoke made him seem mad. He pulled a dagger from the sash around his waist. 

It was sharp, long, thick enough to remove limbs. He held it up. He would aim for her heart like she would his; given the chance. Maybe, that had been his weak spot. His head certainly wasn't it. Saralin didn't feel an inch of fear for her life. Someone younger would, she'd done a good job, in her time. It was simply her day to leave.

An axe bisected the man in white, down into his chest cavity.

Blood covered her as she said the word for tea.