Almarra - Aofie

Short story (is it really a short story if it's over several hundred words?) for a fantasy setting. Uploading it here for public critique.

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That morning, as the clouds over the forest lightened and melted away to reveal the clear light sky, a small girl dressed in drab burlap cloth shifted behind a thatch-roof dwelling. As she pats away the straw in her hair, the smell of rotted fruit and moldy bread rises into her nostrils. Opening her rawhide sack she dumps the last of the inedible rations onto the dew-covered grass, grimacing the entire time.

The sounds of the town begin to rise, as people begin going about their days, working and living their lives. The pitter-patter of laborers walking across the unpaved roads mixed in with the clanking steps of the town guards as they patrolled the outskirts of the town. Into this crowd ran several small children of varying races – human, dwarf, elf – shouting and playing, dancing under the legs of deliverymen and craftsmen.

From behind the straw-layered building, a young woman, unwashed and covered in various fluids, stood watching with a sour look on her face. She could not help but take in all the various smells – the dried fish, the warm pies, the odorous cheeses – and feel a little bit hungry. She strode forward, staying close to the minuscule shade offered by the small roofs of the nearby buildings, and walked near the open window of a bakery that had just opened for the day.

On the windowsill sat four large pies, baked to perfection and held there to cool, giving off long trails of steam. Behind them, the baker sat, carefully measuring the fillings for his next creation, his back towards the windowsill.

A hand, moving quickly and quietly, rose from under the windowsill and felt the pans for each pie before darting back below. The girl acted calm as a guard made his rounds before entering the nearby apothecary's hut. She shot her hand back up and grabbed one of the pans, muffling her cries as the hot tin threatened to peel her skin off. With a breath, she darted away from the bakery, staying as low to the ground as possible.

She made it behind a building, out of sight, and removed her filthy brown cloak as soon as possible, wrapping it around the tin to shield her hands. She placed the tin on the ground and began caressing her hands, rubbing them gently to soothe the burns. Once she no longer felt the burning on her palms, she reached into a hidden satchel she kept underneath her ripped skirt and pulled out a small fork and knife, both rough but relatively clean. She sat down onto the ground, next to the dried mud wall, and cut into the pie, watching as steaming and spiced mince slowly emerged, the mixing scents entering her nostrils and triggering her stomach to growl fiercely.

With a piece on her fork, she popped the mince into her mouth and began crying, both at the intense flavor she tasted and at the intense heat that began burning her. It had been a week since she had eaten anything not salted to oblivion, and to finally eat something so warm and freshly prepared brought her back, emotionally, to her days playing alongside the maids of the manor.

For the first time in almost a year, Aofie, the estranged heiress of the Yuisi family, felt homesick and dearly missed her father and brother. She wiped the tear from her eye, trying not to cry, and turned her attention back to the mince pie at her feet – which was attracting the attention of a stray dog, which began growling at her, trying to scare her away from the pie. Aofie, with what little pride she still held, growled back, trying to deepen her voice in order to drive away the dog. It lunged at her, attempting to intimidate her, and started leaning to take the pie tin.

Within a second, the dog cried, as several tendrils of warped energy that streamed from Aofie's hand crushed it's body. With a flick of her wrist, the dog's corpse was tossed far away from the building, landing beside a nearby fence post with a loud and wet splat. The tendrils retreated and subsided back into a black sheath that vanished from around her hand, which had been marked with countless scars and wounds. She felt the energy through her veins, burning like needles, and shook her head, trying to make the feeling disappear.

A loud yell to her left brought her back to her senses: “Thief! Witch!” She looked and saw a young man, just out of adolescence, in a baker's apron, pointing directly at her as he cried to an nearby person. Within seconds, a guard appeared behind the man, investigating what he pointed at.

Aofie removed her cloak from the tin, dropping the mince pie onto the ground in a scattered heap, and scrambled to her feet. As the guard rounded the building, she turned to her right and started running.

She tore through the cobblestone streets, moving past shocked kids and frozen adults, as she ran from the now-four man strong entourage of guards that pursued her, brandishing short steel swords. She turned right, passing behind a pair of homes, before stopping, as she realized the dead-end she unintentionally trapped herself in. She drew a dull stone blade that she kept in her pouch, before turning back to the alleyway opening. There, the guards stood, in formation, blades front and ready, slowly approaching her. The man in front, a man as young as her, had a look of fear and nervousness painted on his face, and his steps became more and more uneven as he approached her.

With a slight pitch, he started: “H-halt, thief!” He lowered his blade slightly. “You have stolen from a citizen of Danesorrow. Surrender now, and accept the punishment.” The men behind him, all clearly more experienced than him, gave Aofie a deathly glare.

Breathing heavily and sweating profusely, Aofie cried back. “I-I was hungry! I-I didn't even get to--”

“Enough!”, went the older man behind the young guard. “Surrender quietly and accept the consequences, young lady!” He moved closer, even passing the lead guard.

Aofie stepped back, knife forward, and felt her back coming up against a clay wall. Her mind started swirling, her stomach in pain, and her veins started burning. Almost without thinking, she spoke an arcane chant and directed her other hand at the guard coming near...

She forgot exactly how long that moment lasted, but she still remembers the scream of the old guard as his arms were torn from his body. The guards around him stared, frozen in panic, as the old man fell to the ground, letting out his dying scream as the tendrils returned to Aofie. Before the burning in her veins stopped, she felt a sharp and piercing pain in her stomach, as the young man drove his knee into her in order to keep her from chanting. The tendrils disappeared and Aofie dropped to her knees clutching her stomach, gasping for breath.

The guard grabbed her by her blouse and pulled her up to eye level, yelling. “Witch! What the hell did you do to Lars?!” She looked past him and saw Lars on the floor, in a pool of his own blood, being hovered by one of the other guards. The fourth had run out of the alley, screaming for backup against the witch. The young man shook her, regaining her attention. “Why didn't you surrender?!” He kept screaming at her, with tears in his eyes for his comrade, as tears formed in hers in response.

She couldn't speak, both for the pain and for the scene. The burning in her veins had subsided, and all she felt was the heat of her tears and the breath of the guard pinning her to the wall. All that she could hear was screams and crying.