--Sintija---
Dark clouds loomed heavily beyond the canopied veil of pine needles and skeletal branches of the forest path as the Laumina paused. The growing threat of a blizzard bitterly howled as the wind whirled around Sintija, scattering a dusting of powdery snow and whipping at her ermine cloak. The sky was lightening but dawn would not break for hours. The faint illumination of the Meneo's hunting moon was enough for her.
She closed her eyes as the pulse of the Word rose up around her, whispering at the back of her mind. "We're following a leyline," she thought. When she opened her eyes again, her attention was pulled downward to the underbrush. It was something easily overlooked, but that particular piece of brush was absent the powdery snow that covered the rest of the surrounding brush. She moved closer to the oddity as the whispering grew louder.
Sintija observed the gnawed and broken bush as she knelt down. The ice beneath her crackled and groaned in protest. Her breath fogged in the air as she dusted away stray snow to find ice hardened horseshoe impressions. Her eyes darted upwards as she tried to remember how long it had been since the snowfall had stopped. "They aren't buried too deeply, maybe a few hours then?"
She mused. She didn't need magic to track quarry and actually preferred to use the practical methods she had honed over the years but the Word was not willing to be denied today. It also helped that the templar made no effort to conceal his path through the snow. Not many men of the Holy Sword held such worries. It was rare that a tatya hinya, or anyone really, was sent directly after the templars. No one really dared to contest the authority of the Church of the Holy Sword so boldly in the midlands. But she was not normal. It was her life's calling to denounce the authority of the Church and thwart its agents. Her bow clunked against the side of its quiver on her back as she rose again, dusting ice crystals from her lightly gloved fingertips.
She mused to herself that even as a Laumina, she was an abnormality. She had crossed paths with this particular Knight of the Holy Sword twice before and the thought of him persisted in her thoughts. The memory of the day that started the dreams burned vividly although the seasons between then and now should have dimmed it. Even as she hurried through the forest she could feel each remembered sensation. The waking dream started as it always did, with the weight of Sir Markos Louvel's head against her lap as he laid dying; the feel of his hot skin against the palm of her hands; the intensity of the pain and rage in his eyes as he stared at her; the weakening pulse of energy as the Word drained from him; and the tug at the edge of her consciousness as the Word cried out for her to save the templar. It whispered to her the method of saving Markos's life and the cost.
Her feverish dreams in the immediate nights that followed the incident were full of Markos as he resumed his duties after her disappearance. The elven mage found the templar's task of hunting runaway Embers- grim, barbaric and ignorant. In the quieter moments when she thought she could touch his dreams, she found his life lonely. She thought that once the initial shock of the magic faded that he would fade from her thoughts. But he didn't, seasons later, she was still haunted by images of him.
Sintija tried to ask Lady Daina for clarity on this phenomena but her concerns had been dismissed as a young woman's infatuation with her first love. Even Turpin had dismissed her concerns when she attempt to broach the topic with him. It was confusing. Markos was supposed to be her enemy. The ancient scrolls mentioned such things could happen when bringing someone back from death but it was incredibly rare. Time and distance from the subject were supposed to weaken such a link but it didn't.
Worse still, the images always came when she least expected it. He had infected her thoughts so thoroughly that the image of him contaminated her reality. She had gotten caught at the wrong end of a sword several seasons ago because her templar had suddenly been lying lifeless on the ground in place of the golden eyed stranger. To add insult to injury, the night of the spring festival she had chosen Turpin but discovered Markos there in the blacksmith's place. It was so powerful of a need that she didn't question it. Her regret was how she had hurt Turpin by saying Marko's name, breaking the spell and revealing the truth.
She could no longer deny Laima, the Gods so desperately wanted her to go to the templar that they filled her to bursting with an insatiable longing and called her finally, from the village. She wanted to be angry that Turpin tried to stop her, that he hit her but she could not fault him. Her turbulent emotions put her into a precarious position. There was no telling what would happen when she saw the real Markos Louvel again.
The crackling of ice and snow laden branches in the forest canopy Sintija returned her thoughts to the present. In the distance, smoke wafted towards her as the wind shifted, pushing her hood down as it told her that someone had made camp upwind. This region was absent the normal signs of life that nestled in other areas along the Northern reach, no one lived at the foot of this mountain and she saw no signs of hunters. Unbidden at the edge of her consciousness she knew it was Sir Markos Louvel, the knowledge was as certain as her heartbeat that he was ahead of her. She pulled the hood of her cloak back up over her blonde hair and continued quickly and silently forward after her prey.
She had considered using a horse to get ahead of Markos but horses were loud, stinky, and obvious in a winter forest. Sintija knew that the templar was wearing heavy Maraium plate, riding a horse and travelling with a large mastiff. Winter storms and forests were dangerous at night. If she was quick, she'd be on him before he started moving again. The mastiff was able to sense her when she used magic but he was still just a dog so it was best to stay downwind of them for as long and quietly as she could.