So, I wanted to edit and rewrite the fic. But suddenly, I became too busy. So, I'm sending you a filler about Ghislaine that I wrote... I don't know why. Just because
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He jumped from one tree to another, testing each foothold before shifting his weight. The branches shuddered but held. Below him, a viscous swamp stirred, and the foul stench of rot stung his nose. He knew he couldn't afford a mistake. The next jump was farther and higher. He landed on a thick branch where he could catch his breath.
It was a young beastkin. Catlike ears perched on his head twitched, catching distant sounds. Sweat glistened on his skin, dampening his temples. He squinted and peered down. In the murky water floated human bodies stripped of their skin, the flesh sagging loosely from bone. He didn't look away—he only drew a shorter breath, trying not to inhale the stench.
A sour taste coated his mouth. He spat out a mouthful of saliva, as if he'd been chewing tobacco. With one nimble leap he sprang aside, dodging the frog's tongue that snapped into the tree bark where he had just been.
The bark cracked, splinters scattering, and a sound like a wet whip struck the air.
He slid forward along the branch, crouching and shifting his weight onto his palms. The tree groaned but didn't break. He heard something squelch nearby, as if a heavy body were dragging itself out of the mire.
The frog's tongue lashed out again, threading between the branches, but the beastkin had already slid down, catching a vine. He landed on a gnarled limb, bent low, and exhaled, his heartbeat throbbing in his temples. A bit more and it would have taken him.
A massive head emerged from the fog.
The creature's eyes rotated independently. Its mouth gaped, releasing a wet smack. It was a swamp ragga—a frog about one and a half meters long, with a wide jaw and short limbs, yellow with red streaks along its back. Its skin glistened, slick with slime and swamp water. Its eyes wandered in different directions, and its tongue, thick and fleshy, crouched between its jaws, ready to strike.
The beastkin tensed his legs, feeling the muscles beneath his skin coil with readiness.
He knew that a ragga's tongue carried paralysis. If it hit you, you dropped, and your body stopped obeying—like it wasn't yours anymore. Hunters had told him, and he remembered. But he still liked playing with them, guessing the moment they chose to shoot.
The ragga lifted itself. Its tongue whistled in its throat. Jaws opened wider, a fleshy ribbon glinting. The beastkin leapt aside before it spat, already preparing to counter.
At that same instant something crashed down from above, tearing through the fog.
With a loud, wet smack a figure dropped straight onto the creature's head. Bone cracked, the frog jerked, and the tongue it had already fired stayed clamped in its mouth, hanging limp. Thick slime oozed from its crushed jaws.
The girl's legs were soaked in yellow blood and muck that streamed down her calves and dripped onto leaves. Everything hissed where the moisture touched. Slime mixed with murky water, raising a sour smell like rotting leaves.
"Ghislaine! That was my toy! Find your own..."
He growled on the last word as she turned toward him.
"O-o-oh... sorry, Gies," the girl drawled. "You're such a weakling I thought you were about to get killed."
She stood with her head tilted, watching him. She was as dark-skinned as he was. Despite being only eleven, her sturdy body already bore many scars. They crisscrossed her legs, arms, and torso in a fine mesh. Her right eye was covered, and her left swept over him with a predator's smirk.
"I would've handled it anyway," he muttered, looking aside. "Didn't ask you to interfere."
"Of course you didn't," she snorted, flashing sharp teeth. "You're a proud hunter of frogs and other pitiful creatures just like you."
Ghislaine, though younger than her brother, always came out on top. She moved faster, struck truer, and never hesitated when it was time to kill. She'd been trained just as he had, but she treated the hunt not as a duty but as a game. That irritated Gies because he knew—it really was easy for her.
She stepped closer, wiping her hands on moss. Blood and slime left glossy streaks on her skin. Ghislaine glanced at him again, her gaze open, slightly mocking.
"Mother will be pleased anyway," she squinted, running a finger over a sticky cut on her arm. "One less ragga."
"I wanted to do it myself," he lowered his head, clenching a piece of vine in his hands. "I needed to prove it."
"To whom?" Ghislaine raised a brow, tilting her head. "Her?"
He didn't answer. He only looked into the fog, where rare insect lights flickered deep in the swamp. He wanted to say to everyone. But the words stuck.
She suddenly shoved him in the chest. Gies lost his balance and landed on his backside, cold muck soaking through his pants. Ghislaine burst out laughing.
"Pathetic," she stepped forward, swaying slightly. "That's why Father doesn't love you."
"Not true!" He looked up, jumped to his feet, fists clenched. "It's not true!"
Ghislaine only laughed louder and skipped back.
"It is," she tossed over her shoulder, already turning away. "In the Great Forest there's no place for weaklings. That's what Father says. And you're weak. Always will be."
Gies growled, low and muffled, frustration tearing through his chest.
"Take it back!" he breathed, stepping forward.
Ghislaine didn't budge. She only tilted her head, a smirk flickering at the corners of her mouth.
"Make me," she said quietly, baring her teeth. "Well? Come on!"
He stopped. For a moment all his bravado drained away and the anger thinned.
Ghislaine was younger, but stronger. Even adult hunters sometimes struggled with her. Father liked to say she had the right kind of fury, and that was exactly what infuriated Gies.
She stepped toward him, squinting, waiting for his lunge. He clenched his fists but didn't move. He wanted to hit her, prove he wasn't weak, but deep down he already knew—he'd lose. He exhaled, lowered his gaze, and stepped aside, circling past her. Branches creaked beneath him as he jumped to a neighboring limb.
"Tsk! Coward!"
She lunged after him.
"Kh!"
Ghislaine struck his leg, knocking him off balance. Pain flared behind his knee, he cried out and dropped to one knee. She was already bringing her hand down, but Gies managed to duck under the blow and rolled aside.
"Ha-ha-ha!" she chased him, kicking lightly, quickly, almost playfully.
He sprang up and at the last moment threw up a block near his face. Her foot slammed into his palms, his hands mashed against his nose, and he was thrown backward. He slid along the branch, struggling to keep balance, his palms burning from the hit.
He leapt aside, and her foot smashed into the spot where he'd been, cracking the bark.
She swung again, and splinters flew at him. Rot—fine, sticky—hit his eyes, making him squeeze them shut and lose sight of her. A shadow flickered on the right. He raised his arms on instinct, blocking—but no strike came.
Through the blur he caught a glimpse of it—just a rotten log. The real blow came from the left, strong and sharp, driving him down. A leg pressed onto his back.
"I win!"
He tried to rise, but her foot pressed harder. Ghislaine leaned down, balancing easily, pinning him to the branch. He felt her weight, her breath, and the faint smell of blood mixed with ragga slime. He tried to twist free, but she bore down even more.
"Don't squirm," she said quietly. "Lost means lie still."
He exhaled, trying not to show anger. His chest boiled, but his body wouldn't obey. For her, this truly was effortless.
Ghislaine laughed. The laugh was short, chesty, ending in a mocking growl.
"Look at you," she leaned closer. "Twitching like a triell under her master."
He froze.
The words struck harder than her heel. Among beastkin it was the filthiest thing to say—an admission of weakness, submission, losing your place in the pack.
Ghislaine looked down at him calmly, with a small smirk, not moving her foot. She knew he wouldn't answer. Knew he felt worthless. And she liked that.
He felt nausea rise in his throat. Teeth clenched, he growled softly, gaze lowered. His throat tightened, his breath turned ragged. The foot still pressed him down, and every inhale felt like humiliation.
If he struck now, she'd break his arm. He knew that. And still something in him burned to do anything. Scratch her. Make her flinch.
But he stayed where he was.
"Knew it," she said. "Weakling!"
She smirked wider, lifted her foot, and as she straightened, looked down at him. She offered her hand. He looked at it, then up into her single open eye. There was no pity, no warmth, but some animal fear made him reach out.
He knew he couldn't trust her, yet he reached anyway. Some dull hope stirred that maybe this time she'd stop. That the taunting was over, and nothing worse would follow.
He took her hand, and for a moment it felt like she was helping.
But Ghislaine jerked sharply, hauled him up, and without letting go slammed her forehead into his. Their foreheads collided with a dull crack. Pain shot through his teeth and ears, the world flashing white. He didn't even manage to breathe—his body just sagged, something in his head settling with a low drone like swamp flies buzzing.
His vision blurred, and everything seemed to melt away. The last thing he heard was her nasty laugh fading into the distance, leaving him alone.
Tears welled up—tears he had been holding back all this time. He just lay there, pain pulsing in his temples, mixed with hurt, knowing that next time she'd do the same, and he still wouldn't be able to answer.