[center]Skye drew a sharp gasp of air. She had her knees wrapped up in her arms and her head downward. Curled up against a tree, her quiet sobs came to a rest as a soft, warm lick touched the front of her right hand. She panned her head in a slight upwards position to see familiar black orbs looking down at her. Benvolio whimpered, pawing at the ground softly, putting his head on her shoulder. [i][b]"Master, fare ye mal?"[/b][/i]

The girl took a shaky breath, [b]"I-I'm fine, Benny,"[/b] that was a lie. How could a girl, only sixteen years old, being pursued by a presumed madman, nearly killing her family, be OKAY? She knew that it wasn't entirely Benvolio's fault -- [i]entirely[/i]. It caused the girl to go soft on him far too often. [b]"Just a little shaken up. I still haven't gotten used to the combat. . ."[/b], that was if, you could even consider a few lousy kicks and punches as "combat". The girl had no specialized training with weapons, no swords, lances, axes, bows. Nothing. All she had were some crude, hideous gauntlets that covered her fist and a slight majority of her forearm.

[i][b]"Ah, Master. I offer my deepest sorrows,"[/b][/i] the dog wagged his tail, [i][b]"But 'lest, you're alive! I should help ye up, we are burning the daylight, no? Come on then, let us go then, let us flee before someone finds us."[/b][/i] The girl nodded in response.

He was right. They had to get going. And now. Before more soldiers would find them . . . 

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