Blackfeather Woods the story of a ship

Once the girl had settled herself and allowed her periphery to dapple into view, she saw it — all of it. Somehow the macabre scene had, at first, gone unnoticed by the girl in her withdrawn egress. But the smell hit her sensitive nares and her vision darted around the spectral woods, torn every which way, from dismembered limb to skull to the grass, stained red with ancient blood. Bile rose in her slender throat and she backpedaled in immediate disgust, stumbling over her tangled legs but catching herself and continuing to reel until she was many yards away.  It was the first time the oujo had laid witness to a dead body; nonetheless many, and certainly not in such a grisly manner. The spread was fear inducing, as nearly every part of her mind rang out in alarm, shouting danger! danger! danger! until it made her dizzy.

Oh, but she had heard stories of this! Her old wet nurse, on nights where the nascent princess fussed incessantly and refused to sleep, would regale her with tales of great battles against their foes; fields littered with bodies of those who wished them harm. These stories, horrific in the way the old woman told them but disturbing in their own right, had always fascinated the girl. These wolves must truly be powerful! Without intention, the pearl found herself taking small, flighty steps back towards the odorous border and — just as her coal-dusted nose made to press into one of the corpses and feel the bloated flesh against her bare skin — a man appeared.

Kitsch’s head shot up and she whisked away from the cadaver in a birdlike flutter. Once she had flitted far enough away that she might be able to feign revulsion [rather than reluctant interest], the pearl dropped herself into a genteel curtsy — both out of a well practiced sense of politesse and a beseeching sense of self preservation. Perhaps this stranger, the envoy the pack within the woods, had murdered these souls all himself. Perhaps he had liked it. Either way, she needed to play it safe. If wolves who provided far fewer warning signs had done her harm, then there was nothing stopping the specter in front of her. 

The dark stranger did not move to harm her, instead choosing to speak plainly.  It seemed the bodies were for sale. ”Wha—?” she stammered. Her owl-like, watchet gaze peered up at him. ”Really?" she gasped, her beguiled tonality attesting to the fascination of moments prior.  She was less questioning of his words than she was his blasé attitude towards his own blood-soaked borders; it seemed almost as if he was bored with it, his constant exposure making it trite. She was fascinated and within mind she fought a battle between staying and fleeing. Safety was not a certainty in either choice, so she forgot the danger that loomed — in both the man in front of her and invisible boy in the bushes— forgot to introduce herself and forgot to state her raison d’être. Instead, she gave utterance to an airy ”Wow…” as the girl looked around. It was nan’s nightmarish tales, come to life!