1
The peace and tranquility of a semi-arid forest. The birds ongoing with their never-ending song, the stream rambled lost until it found the sea. But behind the shrubbery the evil-intentioned one, the stain upon the concord. The threat to beasts everywhere could never be more unknown.
Damoros Vortigern sipped wine from a chalice and turned away from the charred attempt that was once a grouse and barked in his bass voice. "Kyloc, you imbecile!"
The weasel called Kyloc jumped behind a log dodging a hurled wooden bowl. The pine marten was the highest commander of the fifteen score horde and sparingly went into battle, but when he did, he combined his chosen weapon with an array of strategy. His lifestyle was obvious due to the untouched green robes he wore. He was the final descendent of a royalty in the north. They had claimed a kingdom and ruled the barren lands. An army- leading polecat named Malkaris exiled them from their kingdom. After many seasons, the battle-hardened royalty: he, his father and a brother set out to find a new kingdom, his brother to the north and his father to the west. Nevertheless, that was all when Vortigern was young.
He went over the battle plans he had drawn the night before. If he could travel higher north, he would not the victim of merciless and raging insects. Then he saw the map stolen from an aged and helpless mousemaid traveler.
"Ah, north, country of the abbey: a fine fortress and easy target." He smirked. After he had failed to capture the stronghold in the east, he was looking for an easy objective.
Cleavo watched the horde's leader close the door of his tent. Ravenous after smelling the wasted roast, he took off into the trees with out heed for brambles or thorns. He just charged barrel-chested through the thick, later coming back with another grouse cadaver. There were no signs of struggle on his mottled fur.
He began his own fire with the large double-bladed ax that furnished him his title: Cleavo. Cleavo did not trust anything of wood quality, it snapped too easily. With him, everything was metallic. He wore a chain mail shirt, his famed ax was chiseled entirely of iron, and the blades were as wide as his chest. Within minutes, he had his meal alone. He was as feared as the leader himself for his unforgiving and murderous atmosphere. Only one had ever escaped him: a young ferret. Cleavo killed his parents and only he remained.
Cleavo had never known what species he was. His parents had been captured and taken aboard a searat vessel before he was born. The ship overturned while moored and his parents, along with everyone else aboard, were killed. He however survived with no memory of his parents except their fates and felt no sentiment for them.
As he warily cooked his grouse, an ill-fated rat, which the horde referred to as Burntail, caught a whiff of the captain's captivating gorge.
He strolled over to the high official and sat down as to block the sight of his find from the others crowding around the fire.
He tried to sound as cheerful and casual as possible. "' Ey, you got a big roast there. You know---." Cleavo immediately knew what he had to do. Swiftly, he grabbed his ax, hewed Burntail, and threw the corpse into the bush, silently.
Rune woke with a start. He had dreamt again, this time of red stones and ramparts. Some one was speaking but he could not remember a word. The night was waning. Groggily he forced himself to continue north. Soon, the leafy blanket of Mhandalar cast intricate patterns of morning light on his meager tunic. He was ravaged by the traveler's life. His fur encrusted with mud and the dreads on his head in disarray. Mhandalar wasn't the most favorable place for goodbeasts to live. The vast expanse had an infamous history as the origin of many hordes and conflicts.
The trees were mostly oaks thanks to the temperate climate. He saw a column of smoke in the distance and soon there wafted a sour stench of an endeavored roast.
The ferret quickened his pace. If he stayed in one place the following enemy, his following enemy, would surely kill him.
Rune and Cleavo had met long ago. Rune's mother had come from a long line of pacifists. His father carelessly left to join a horde after Rune was born. Rune lived with his mother in a secluded wood. That was until Cleavo came. He and his regiment ravaged the home and speared Rune's mother. It brought him back the memory of coming home from a search for firewood to hear the sounds of tussle and of Cleavo emerging leaving behind the growing flames.
Rune had run. His only possessions his mother's medallion and the staff she had given him which for long had served importance to him as it saved her life. The medallion no bigger than his paw, was a faultless purple within and was encased in amber.
However, there was one fault. The medallion had once been part of a set. He had lost the other one. Nearby, a blueberry bush ended up Rune's lunch. He continued at a fast pace until the ferret could no longer hear the shouts and cavorting of his enemy.
Over hills and wood he trekked never looking back. When night came, it was hard to find edibles. He did not risk a fire for his enemy would see any light it shed. He found some roots and chewed them. He couldn't live like this for much longer, barely satisfying himself. He sighed; at least Cleavo wouldn't kill him. He suddenly felt a great abhorrence to the mottled beast that had taken the lives of his parents. "I will avenge them. That murderer won't see me give up. Will he?"
He awoke to a silky, blue, cloudless sky. He sat and was shocked to smell smoke in the air. He followed the smell, staff in hand, and came upon a smoldering fire. A twig snapped behind him and he turned around just as a beast burst out of the brush and pressed him to the ground and held two blades to his throat.
The peace and tranquility of a semi-arid forest. The birds ongoing with their never-ending song, the stream rambled lost until it found the sea. But behind the shrubbery the evil-intentioned one, the stain upon the concord. The threat to beasts everywhere could never be more unknown.
Damoros Vortigern sipped wine from a chalice and turned away from the charred attempt that was once a grouse and barked in his bass voice. "Kyloc, you imbecile!"
The weasel called Kyloc jumped behind a log dodging a hurled wooden bowl. The pine marten was the highest commander of the fifteen score horde and sparingly went into battle, but when he did, he combined his chosen weapon with an array of strategy. His lifestyle was obvious due to the untouched green robes he wore. He was the final descendent of a royalty in the north. They had claimed a kingdom and ruled the barren lands. An army- leading polecat named Malkaris exiled them from their kingdom. After many seasons, the battle-hardened royalty: he, his father and a brother set out to find a new kingdom, his brother to the north and his father to the west. Nevertheless, that was all when Vortigern was young.
He went over the battle plans he had drawn the night before. If he could travel higher north, he would not the victim of merciless and raging insects. Then he saw the map stolen from an aged and helpless mousemaid traveler.
"Ah, north, country of the abbey: a fine fortress and easy target." He smirked. After he had failed to capture the stronghold in the east, he was looking for an easy objective.
Cleavo watched the horde's leader close the door of his tent. Ravenous after smelling the wasted roast, he took off into the trees with out heed for brambles or thorns. He just charged barrel-chested through the thick, later coming back with another grouse cadaver. There were no signs of struggle on his mottled fur.
He began his own fire with the large double-bladed ax that furnished him his title: Cleavo. Cleavo did not trust anything of wood quality, it snapped too easily. With him, everything was metallic. He wore a chain mail shirt, his famed ax was chiseled entirely of iron, and the blades were as wide as his chest. Within minutes, he had his meal alone. He was as feared as the leader himself for his unforgiving and murderous atmosphere. Only one had ever escaped him: a young ferret. Cleavo killed his parents and only he remained.
Cleavo had never known what species he was. His parents had been captured and taken aboard a searat vessel before he was born. The ship overturned while moored and his parents, along with everyone else aboard, were killed. He however survived with no memory of his parents except their fates and felt no sentiment for them.
As he warily cooked his grouse, an ill-fated rat, which the horde referred to as Burntail, caught a whiff of the captain's captivating gorge.
He strolled over to the high official and sat down as to block the sight of his find from the others crowding around the fire.
He tried to sound as cheerful and casual as possible. "' Ey, you got a big roast there. You know---." Cleavo immediately knew what he had to do. Swiftly, he grabbed his ax, hewed Burntail, and threw the corpse into the bush, silently.
Rune woke with a start. He had dreamt again, this time of red stones and ramparts. Some one was speaking but he could not remember a word. The night was waning. Groggily he forced himself to continue north. Soon, the leafy blanket of Mhandalar cast intricate patterns of morning light on his meager tunic. He was ravaged by the traveler's life. His fur encrusted with mud and the dreads on his head in disarray. Mhandalar wasn't the most favorable place for goodbeasts to live. The vast expanse had an infamous history as the origin of many hordes and conflicts.
The trees were mostly oaks thanks to the temperate climate. He saw a column of smoke in the distance and soon there wafted a sour stench of an endeavored roast.
The ferret quickened his pace. If he stayed in one place the following enemy, his following enemy, would surely kill him.
Rune and Cleavo had met long ago. Rune's mother had come from a long line of pacifists. His father carelessly left to join a horde after Rune was born. Rune lived with his mother in a secluded wood. That was until Cleavo came. He and his regiment ravaged the home and speared Rune's mother. It brought him back the memory of coming home from a search for firewood to hear the sounds of tussle and of Cleavo emerging leaving behind the growing flames.
Rune had run. His only possessions his mother's medallion and the staff she had given him which for long had served importance to him as it saved her life. The medallion no bigger than his paw, was a faultless purple within and was encased in amber.
However, there was one fault. The medallion had once been part of a set. He had lost the other one. Nearby, a blueberry bush ended up Rune's lunch. He continued at a fast pace until the ferret could no longer hear the shouts and cavorting of his enemy.
Over hills and wood he trekked never looking back. When night came, it was hard to find edibles. He did not risk a fire for his enemy would see any light it shed. He found some roots and chewed them. He couldn't live like this for much longer, barely satisfying himself. He sighed; at least Cleavo wouldn't kill him. He suddenly felt a great abhorrence to the mottled beast that had taken the lives of his parents. "I will avenge them. That murderer won't see me give up. Will he?"
He awoke to a silky, blue, cloudless sky. He sat and was shocked to smell smoke in the air. He followed the smell, staff in hand, and came upon a smoldering fire. A twig snapped behind him and he turned around just as a beast burst out of the brush and pressed him to the ground and held two blades to his throat.