‘Liar!’ The Pixie named Imalwain stepped from the shadows to confront Malina.
Instead of being intimidated, Malina smiled sadly. ‘I seem to recall that an old Elf named Finli rescued the two of us by hiding us in his wagon on more than one occasion, and at his own peril. Another, named Birin, who now leads us, saved your life when you were set upon by gnomes.’
Imalwain’s visage took on a look of wonder, and bitterness.
‘Birin is here?’
Noting Imalwain’s reaction, Malina pointed to the lone figure, standing at the head of the line of refugees. ‘Would you like to speak with him?’
Something in Imalwain’s visage made Malina sharpen her scrutiny of her. Imalwain had once been beautiful, and somewhat proud and vain, for a Pixie. She was none of these things now. Her attire, indeed her whole appearance, was unkempt and generally unhealthy. ‘In the way a cut flower dies, cut off at the root, and is then discarded,’ thought Malina to herself.
‘No,’ Imalwain muttered in so small and quiet a voice that the others barely heard her. Then, she transformed herself into a small winged creature as Malina used to do, and fled into the forest.