Quince, 20, faerie - Exiled and alone

You stumble through the forest, cold and hungry, your clothes and wings torn and tattered. For the third year in a row, your small size and soft song failed to impress any of the females in your garden, and in a fit of frustration and anger, you picked up a stone and threw it. You weren't aiming at anyone in particular, but the stone struck the wing of the chief's daughter, bending the leading edge and knocking off a handful of the iridescent scales.

Before you even realized what you'd done, half a dozen of the chief's guards had set upon you, beating you nearly ****. You were dragged out of the safety of the faerie garden and discarded into the refuse pit. Broken and battered, you crawled out and headed off into the forest. You didn't want to give them the pleasure of watching you die.

Soon, you come to a wide, muddy dirt road cutting through the woods. You've always avoided roads before, and anything else made by humans, but walking along the edge of the road is a lot easier than fighting through the briars, brambles, and ferns.

It's almost dark when you hear the distant rumble of thunder. Great, rain--just what you need. You see a dense thicket just off the road. It won't be as comfortable as your down and spider silk bed at home, but it will keep your warmer and drier than stumbling along in the rain.

Suddenly, you stop. That's not thunder, it's the hoofbeats of horses. Horses usually mean humans.