Note: Now, in order to continue forward in our tale, we must first go backward...
Ten years earlier, New Badari, Northern Europe.
Oakholm was a small village. Truth be told it wasn't even on any maps. But small or no, charted or no, it was still home to one of the strangest stories ever told.
She was 10 years old when her family was killed, along with two other families, out on the Spearfish Trail, near Oakholm. The only reason she survived was that her mother had thrown her from their wagon, into some nearby bushes, when they came.
They were bandits of the worst sort, interested only in their own greed, and nothing else. Not the law, not the lives of others, not even eachother.
She watched as they slaughtered her family, she watched and slowly sank into shock and unconciousness.
Some time later, a family of Ursine came along the trail and found the grisly scene. They may never had known that there had been a survivor had she not awoken and begun to cry, they may have simply passed on, and thought it all just one more tragedy among many. But they didn't.
It was the son, Uther Wulfram, who found the young Bounder, laying where she had fallen amongst the bushes. It was he who picked her up, so gentle for someone so big, and carried her back to his family. Over the years, a strong bond would form between the young Bounder girl, and her new big brother.
Several years passed before the girl would speak. The Wulframs had not given her a name, knowing she more likely already had one, but they made her feel welcome, at home. She did not speak until the Oakholm Town Watch declared a sort of impromtu war on the local bandits, nearly two years after the young Bounder's family had been killed. The father, a big gruff Ursine named Skellen, was a seargent in the Town Watch, and it was his duty to lead his sqaud against a group of rebels holding an old abbandoned windmill, atop a hill to the east. When he walked out to join his men, the young Bounder ran up to him and grabbed his hand in both her own, "Please" she begged of him, "please don't go." None of the squadies had ever seen their seargent as anything but gruff and mean, so it shocked them to see him smile warmly down at the girl. "Now, now, little one," he said, his voice coming from deep down in his chest, "you stay here and watch over Ma and Uther, he may be big, but he's got a careless streak a mile wide." With this, he smiled down at her one last time and squeezed her hands in his own, then he stood, and a hard look came over his face as he addressed his men. "Alright, you stinking carrion, quit standing around and gaping like a bunch of hooked fish, MARCH!"
one mile from the windmill, a day later.
This battle was not going how it had been planned. Of course, the fact that it hadn't actually been PLANNED at all might have had something to do with that. Typical, Skellen thought, you can never get that fool in command to give good information! It was an old gripe of his about the leader of Oakholm, an old Ursine who, though being wonderful at politics, was worthless when it came to combat. He had sent them out without proper scouts, and no time to gain any real info about the number of bandits, nor how well the windmill might've been defended. Now, they found themselves in more of a brawl than an actual battle: The bandits were up the trees with bows, taking amazingly accurate pot-shots at him and his men, kepping them pinned down in a large group of rocks atop a small rise in the ground. Occasionally, a small group of bandits, usually about five or ten, armed to the teeth with all manner of weapons, would come swooping in and engage a number of the soldiers in hand-to-hand, which would force the soldier to stand, which would make him a perfect target for the archers. It was a tough choice, or a very easy one depending on how you looked at it, you either stayed down behind your rock and got killed by one of the melee bandits, or you stood and got shot. All-in-all, it was real cluster fuck. They hadn't even been able to actually reach the windmill before falling into the ambush. Shit! he thought.
An arrow zipped through the air and shattered against the rock he was hiding behind. Some of the men looked like they were getting antsy, so he raised his voice and called out "YOU'RE GOING TO HAVE TO SHOOT BETTER THAN THAT, YOU BASTARDS!" Some of the men near him smiled, and he smiled back. Then he felt a sharp pain just beneath the left side of his collarbone, he blinked a couple of times, rapidly, then looked down at the arrow sticking out of his chest. One of the damn archers on the other side of the hill had somehow managed to get a clear shot and taken it. Skellen slumped against the rock and slowly began to slide down it, blood bubbling up from between his lips. His men began to jump up and run to him, but two fell instantly, brought down by well placed arrows, the others ducked back down in time for another one of the bandit charges, stronger this time, nearly 30 beasts, to hit them. He stayed concious just long enough to see his men begin to be massacred, then everything slowly faded, and went black.
In the top of a tree overlooking the hill, a young beast in a black hood smiled. "Was that good enough for you, old beast?" He asked to the air.
The news came several day later, when a bandit arrow flew over the town watch, the squads banner tied around it, soaked in blood. The young Bounder, whose name was Maighdlin, slipped into her room, burried her face in her pillow, and cried herself to sleep. Her weeping was a painful, beautiful sound, like a swan's song. And from that night onward, Skadi, the mother, called her Swan, and her name became Maighdlin Swan.
