Find out who you are, and then do it on purpose -- Weirdlet
[AN: Hats off and respect to Dolly Parton, who lived by those words and is an example to us all]
There's no record of the first Halfbred. None know who they were, what their ancestry was, or how well they may have lived. Common conjecture posits that it was how Drakkonbred became a species, but some people will theorise anything.
In certain centuries, Halfbred folk were rare. It was easy for each and every one of them to feel like they were the only one on all of Alfarell. Zaneya could easily believe she was alone, were it not for her multitude of siblings. Dad was a Harukh, Mam was an Elf, and they were annoyingly goopy about being in love. Every two years[1], there was a new baby sibling filling out the household.
Seven younger, and one older. Each taught Elven magic and Harukh'ai rituals by each relevant parent. Each taught everything they needed to know to survive on their own because the Harukh'ai were largely Unwelcome in many places and its culture insisted on possessing such knowledge.
"My folk have had years of being hunted and chased from our settlements," said Dad whenever any of them whined. "We can never know when one of us will be the sole survivor of their violence."
"Dad, the whole village knows us. Who's going to attack?"
"Adventurers," said Mam. "They're a regular menace. A mixed lot of misfits and want-to-be heroes ready to swing swords first and ask questions later. Some will see any creature not like themselves and believe it's evil."
The scars on her body were testimony to such Adventurers. So were some of the scars Dad had. Zaneya could believe it. They all could.
So much so that when Adventurers were heralded in the region[2], it was the job of the older ones to grab the younger ones. From there to go bolting for the most convenient shelter and protect the tinies with anything they had.
Zaneya had a gift for Druidry, which helped immensely for most of the field work and animal handling. It also helped feed all her siblings when nature was not in their favour. And a large portion of the village, if she was honest about it. She was really good at growing the good berries from sheer practice. She had a knack for convincing horses to stay still for the village smith.
Neither of these were any good against a pack of misfit rogues in strange company.
A fact Zaneya was painfully aware of when four such Adventurers squirmed out of a pile of rocks that could have been a badger hole while she and Little Krathas, age three, were picking herbs. Krathas had a habit of chasing butterflies instead of getting the right leaves. Or bringing back things that were not the herbs they were after.
If he did bring her the right herbs, he insisted on doing so one leaf at a time.
Thus, he was too far out of her range when the Adventurers clambered out into daylight.
A Drakkonbred, a full-blood Elf, someone short and robust, and some incredibly hairy thing with five fingers and round ears. All startled by Krathas' jumping up from a thick stand of burdock. Triumphantly holding a startled frog aloft.
"Goggie, goggie," cheered Krathas.
The Adventurers, to a being, drew their weapons.
Zaneya dropped her basket and started running for her baby brother, calling his name. Panic slowed time for her. It fueled her motion as she saw the Elf change her aim to Zaneya. The nocked arrow had a tip designed to bleed its victim.
She could feel the Leyflow around her. The thousands of living things in these woods. Including lots of creepy-crawlies and a lot of climbing plants. She reached out for them with a single thought. Protect the baby.
The Elf got a face full of gliding squirrel. Knocking off her aim and sending the arrow far over Zaneya's head.
Vines snarled themselves into tangles around the Adventurer's legs.
A large hawk swooped and lifted Krathas away from the danger and towards Zaneya. The poor thing couldn't carry Krathas far, but it was further than his little legs could run. She scooped up the little boy and went scrambling away.
To the village. To safety. To anywhere these Adventurers were not.
Behind her, the woods went mad. Raising alarm, attacking the Adventurers, blocking their path to her or the village.
Zaneya's heart was still racing when she stowed her baby brother under a crate with, "Hide away, shoosh."
"What's the matter?" asked Goodwife Nilya.
"Adventurers," Zaneya warned. "I have to protect my family." The one problem with that was that she had no idea where the rest of her family was. Which left only one solution.
Protect the entire village.
She was still riding high on the leyflow as she summoned thorns to become a thick wall around the entire place. Every field of grain. Every paddock of livestock. Safe inside a tangle of sharp, pointy branches.
Hardy brambles. Wild roses. Firethorn, Hawthorn, and blackberry. Twisted and snarled into an impassable wall.
Zaneya had enough time to breathe a sigh of relief before the effort pulled her down in a faint.
She woke in the village inn, with Mam patting a cool compress onto her brow. Zaneya felt weaker than she had when sweat-fever had stolen all her strength from her. She could barely turn her head.
"You pushed yourself too far, lovey," cooed Mam. "You just rest. We've got you."
"...sibs?" Zaneya managed. Her tongue felt thick and stubborn.
"All safe. We found Krathas. The Adventurers gave up on trying to hack through your wall by sunset. They're off terrorising somewhere else. Hopefully somewhere that deserves them."
"Good," Zaneya breathed. She let Mam help her sit up and feed her soup. Fortifying stuff from Dad's Harukh'ai recipes. Things to put strength into a warrior's muscles.
She'd done it.
She'd protected the whole village. Not just from hunger or a minor inconvenience, but from the biggest threat she knew. And now she knew that she could do it again if need be.
The next time any Adventurers came close, they would face Zaneya, Protector of Fallow Hills.
[1] Elven gestation takes eighteen months. The joke amongst other people is that Elves take twice as long to do anything at all.
[2] Usually by large clouds of smoke and dust. If not those, magical pyrotechnics.
[Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash]
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