Prologue
The cloaked figure stood alone on the forest track, surrounded by the bodies of his fallen friends, as the trees remained motionless around him. His leather armour was slick with blood, and an arrow protruded from his limp left arm. The six bandits who has ambushed his caravan stood in a loose circle around the wreckage of what has been his home and family for the past three years. Their swords were held loosely in their hands, and they were visibly pleased with the nights loot, and felt confident in their victory. As he stared at the men, with their filthy, tattered clothes and rusty blades, he felt his anger rising. How dare these pathetic men take from him the only people with who he felt happy? The only place he had felt safe? They had taken all that mattered to him, and now the bastards would pay.
As he rose slowly to his feet, his wounded arm dragging him down, the bandits pointed and jeered. Did this half-dead idiot really think he could do anything against them? They closed in for the kill, like a pack of wolves contemplating the last straggler from a herd of dear, and as they did they saw the glimmer in his eye, of hatred, rage and vengeance. Suddenly he rose to his full height and drew his sword from its scabbard. As one the bandits rushed forward, only to discover their quarry had moved; now he stood behind them. He stabbed one of the bandits through the back of the throat in one swift movement, and then twitched his weapon to block an attack from the first of the others to react. The cloaked warrior dodged the next blow and skewered another of the wretches, and used the limp corpse to absorb a third swing.
The remaining four bandits were wary now; evidently this last one wouldn't be as easy to kill as the others. Two of them charged at once, only for the lone survivor to sidestep them both and bring the flat of his sword down against one of their heads. He used the momentum built up from turning to keep the swing going straight into the other opponents side. The last two bandits took this opportunity to attempt a final blow, but their target ducked under the blows, and brought his palm up against the left-hand bandit's wrist. Quickly he moved his hand to catch the falling sword and kicked the man away. The blade was rusted and chipped, but it would serve his purposes. He blocked another swing from the only one of the scum still holding a weapon, sweeping it out of the way and slicing through its owner. As the last of the original raiders lay on the ground, the cloaked figure walked slowly towards him, raising the sword above his head, the lowly rogue on the floor begged for mercy, but his cries fell on deaf ears, as the blade came down and pierced his heart.
With all of his rage and hate expended, the lone survivor fell against a nearby Oak, and wept. He wept from the pain; the pain of his wounds, the pain of his loss, and the pain of what he had just done. And as he wept rain began to fall, as though the world wept with him. Slowly at first, but quickly increasing in speed until all that could be heard was the sound of it drumming on the ground, the rain washed away the blood and gore of the night, whilst the cloaked man slowly stood, and began his long trek to the nearest village, alone yet again.