The
forest was quiet—to the untrained ear. To those in tune with
nature, however, it was a veritable symphony of sound. Birds called
to each other. Wolves urinated on trees, marking their territory.
Insects carried about their duties, finding, eating, and collecting
food. And, nearby, a branch snapped under the hoof of a proud stag.
Fifteen
feet above the forest floor was a man, kneeling on a branch. He was
hard to see in the foliage—his skin was the same shade of green as
the foliage, and his hair and eyes were a dark black. His armor was
also colored in the tones of the forest.
He
was decidedly not human.
He
was killoren, a race of fey that was perhaps equally the most and
least understandable of all fey. They were humanoid in shape, but
they were tied to nature in ways that were inexplicable. They were
guardians, protectors of nature. This one, however, was not a
protector. Not anymore.
The
stag drew nearer, unaware of the being above. The killoren's
breathing was undetectable, timed perfectly to coincide with the
breezes that passed through the woods. The stag took another step,
and the killoren leaned forward, dropping blade first on to the
hapless beast. The tip passed through fur, flesh, spine, slicing
into and out of the creature's neck with almost no resistance.
The
beast was heavy, but manageable. The fey lifted the animal over his
shoulder and winced with pain, blood seeping through the bandages
wrapped around his chest, under his tunic and armor. He began to
walk through the woods, looking for a clearing. After about a half
an hour, he found one—a large meadow, with a stream running through
the opposite side. It fit his purposes quite well, other than the
group of tribal tents he could see near the stream.
“Hells,”
he rasped. He hadn't been particularly cautious, stepping out of the
trees in broad daylight. He frowned as he saw three figures near the
circle of tents take note of him, two of them pointing in his
direction. A few more joined them, and eventually raised their hands
in greeting.
The
killoren sighed and began to trudge towards the tribe. He wanted to
reach back and check that his sword was clear in it's sheath on his
back, but he refrained—it would be blatantly obvious, and wouldn't
send a particularly friendly message.
“Hail,”
one of the men said as the killoren drew close. They were humans,
and obviously a fairly primitive group of them. “I am Ezul. Do
you come in peace?”
The
killoren's eyes darted around the tribe, taking in each tent, each
scrap of clothing worn by the members. They seemed to have no
particular clan symbol, not that he could see. “I do,” he
answered eventually, his voice raspy. “I am Forsaken.”
Ezul
exchanged a glance with the man next to him. “Who was it that
abandoned you, friend killoren?”
The
killoren shook his head. “You misunderstand. My name is
Forsaken.”
“My
apologies, friend. I've never heard of one of your people using a
word in the Common tongue as a name.”
Forsaken
frowned. “It isn't common. I—” he was interrupted by a bolt
of pain as he tried to shift the stag's weight on his shoulder. He
grunted, falling to a knee, and the the stag slid off his shoulder,
falling unceremoniously to the ground. The world tilted sideways
crazily, and everything went black.
A/N--I know, this is pitifully short, especially considering how long it's been since I posted. Still, it's something, and hopefully it whets the appetite for more to come.
