R
Red Hood
A letter is a kind of promise.
She understood that, the girl who was now called Red Hood, even before the Mantle had chosen her. Perhaps it was the reason why the Mantle had chosen her and bedecked her in her crimson finery.
From the moment the ink marks the paper, the bargain is struck. The writer writes, and in so doing, the reader is sworn to read. The miles of distance between one and the other are merely the obstacle which stands in the way; which prevents fulfillment of that promise. The girl had not written many letters herself. Her family lived close, paper was expensive, and ink even more so. But, she knew her letters, she could make the marks, and on occasion, she helped others to commit their intention to paper. She helped them swear that promise.
Now, though, her role was to see it fulfilled on their behalf.
She had not read the letter, of course. Even now, she felt it close to her heart, secreted safely beneath her leather vest and the close embrace of the Mantle which gave her such strength. The envelope was a simple thing, cream, with a name on the front and an address – 121 Bellwater Street, Arcadia. It was not sealed, but then, it had been given to her – to the Red Hood. It didn’t need to be sealed.
There were miles, yet, before her journey would be done. Days of travel, perhaps even weeks. Villages to pass through which would, no doubt, add their own promises to the one she already bore. For now, though, the girl focused on what was important. Each step took her one pace closer to her destination, and to the fulfillment of the promise she carried with her.
She moved through the forest like a red-wrapped wraith. Her cloak was a garish wound in the greenery, clear as the crystal sky above against the muted shades around her. The village of Mulberry was not far now. When she got there, she would take her rest, enjoy some food and a comfortable bed before moving on again – unless the villagers needed something from her, which they invariably would do.
This far from the capital, there was usually only tenuous authority. The best she could hope for was a Mayor who genuinely cared for their people. More often, authority was petty, or cruel, or both – forced to forever hold its back to the wall for fear of the myriad dangers which might otherwise tear it down.
She stopped, suddenly, and crouched. Across the path carved into the forest, there was a distinctive, claw-shaped footprint. The Red Hood turned one way, and then the other, examining the forest to either side of the mark. In her mind’s eye, the fallen trees changed position, telling her a story of a creature strong enough to push them aside as though they were nothing; a lumbering beast out of nightmare, misshapen and horrific.
In the distance, she heard its cry.
“HROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”
Even at this distance, the sound sent a shiver down her spine. Her fingers closed around a spotted feather, which she raised to her eye, and let out a sigh.
She’d need to take care of this, before she could lay down her head to rest.
She understood that, the girl who was now called Red Hood, even before the Mantle had chosen her. Perhaps it was the reason why the Mantle had chosen her and bedecked her in her crimson finery.
From the moment the ink marks the paper, the bargain is struck. The writer writes, and in so doing, the reader is sworn to read. The miles of distance between one and the other are merely the obstacle which stands in the way; which prevents fulfillment of that promise. The girl had not written many letters herself. Her family lived close, paper was expensive, and ink even more so. But, she knew her letters, she could make the marks, and on occasion, she helped others to commit their intention to paper. She helped them swear that promise.
Now, though, her role was to see it fulfilled on their behalf.
She had not read the letter, of course. Even now, she felt it close to her heart, secreted safely beneath her leather vest and the close embrace of the Mantle which gave her such strength. The envelope was a simple thing, cream, with a name on the front and an address – 121 Bellwater Street, Arcadia. It was not sealed, but then, it had been given to her – to the Red Hood. It didn’t need to be sealed.
There were miles, yet, before her journey would be done. Days of travel, perhaps even weeks. Villages to pass through which would, no doubt, add their own promises to the one she already bore. For now, though, the girl focused on what was important. Each step took her one pace closer to her destination, and to the fulfillment of the promise she carried with her.
She moved through the forest like a red-wrapped wraith. Her cloak was a garish wound in the greenery, clear as the crystal sky above against the muted shades around her. The village of Mulberry was not far now. When she got there, she would take her rest, enjoy some food and a comfortable bed before moving on again – unless the villagers needed something from her, which they invariably would do.
This far from the capital, there was usually only tenuous authority. The best she could hope for was a Mayor who genuinely cared for their people. More often, authority was petty, or cruel, or both – forced to forever hold its back to the wall for fear of the myriad dangers which might otherwise tear it down.
She stopped, suddenly, and crouched. Across the path carved into the forest, there was a distinctive, claw-shaped footprint. The Red Hood turned one way, and then the other, examining the forest to either side of the mark. In her mind’s eye, the fallen trees changed position, telling her a story of a creature strong enough to push them aside as though they were nothing; a lumbering beast out of nightmare, misshapen and horrific.
In the distance, she heard its cry.
“HROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!”
Even at this distance, the sound sent a shiver down her spine. Her fingers closed around a spotted feather, which she raised to her eye, and let out a sigh.
She’d need to take care of this, before she could lay down her head to rest.