A Beginning
Chapter 1
The hooting of an owl signalled the late hour. Long shadows violated the feeble light cast by a small fire. Centered in the middle of a forest glen, it did not do much to sway the darkness. The figure sitting by the fire didn't seem to mind.
His robe was cast to the side, the smell of fresh blood and the maroon of dried gore seemingly the reason. The cadavers of a pack of lizards lay piled up at the edge of the trees, having failed to protect their territory from the intruder.
The figure put some more wood on the smouldering fire. At a closer look, his actions went beyond the surface methodicalness, the rigidity of his motions suggesting that his mind was wandering somewhere else. The busy forest noises passed him by, the unclouded, star-speckled sky did not draw his attention.
He reached up and gingerly touched the scar that made its course across his right eye, stopping at the bridge of his nose. Fingers reached where there should have been blood and angry, inflamed flesh. What met their touch was scar tissue, apparent, but completely healed.
The full clunk of a bottle being lifted drew the attention of small creatures, lurking in the deep shadows of bushes and thickets, pressing themselves further down the grass. The inquisitive owl turned its head around with a clockwork motion, yellow eyes widening to see the noisy human better.
Having sniffed the contents, the man took a swig from the bottle. It was water, but the knowledge did not come from taste, but his mind. It was like trying to drink the image of a sphere-recording. Feeling a bit foolish and bewildered, he lay back to sleep, dismissing the strange sensation.
The owl lost interest. It hooted some more, shook its wings, then disappeared into the night, in search of prey.
Sleep wouldn't come to him. His body was telling him that he was tired, but his mind argued against this. And like it wasn't enough that his body wasn't listening to him, he couldn't remember anything. The memories, they were all there, somewhere, but eluding him, like small silvery fish, slipping out from between his fingers all too easily. The one thing that had not escaped him was his name. Auron. He said it aloud a couple of times, just to get the feel of it. Auron. What kind of person was he, Auron? A melancholy mood settled over him, preventing anger from enclouding his mind. Well, if he couldn't sleep, then he sure wouldn't stay here all night. He put out the fire, gathered his robe, and left the glen, walking southwards.
Attentive eyes looked after him.
Chapter 1
The hooting of an owl signalled the late hour. Long shadows violated the feeble light cast by a small fire. Centered in the middle of a forest glen, it did not do much to sway the darkness. The figure sitting by the fire didn't seem to mind.
His robe was cast to the side, the smell of fresh blood and the maroon of dried gore seemingly the reason. The cadavers of a pack of lizards lay piled up at the edge of the trees, having failed to protect their territory from the intruder.
The figure put some more wood on the smouldering fire. At a closer look, his actions went beyond the surface methodicalness, the rigidity of his motions suggesting that his mind was wandering somewhere else. The busy forest noises passed him by, the unclouded, star-speckled sky did not draw his attention.
He reached up and gingerly touched the scar that made its course across his right eye, stopping at the bridge of his nose. Fingers reached where there should have been blood and angry, inflamed flesh. What met their touch was scar tissue, apparent, but completely healed.
The full clunk of a bottle being lifted drew the attention of small creatures, lurking in the deep shadows of bushes and thickets, pressing themselves further down the grass. The inquisitive owl turned its head around with a clockwork motion, yellow eyes widening to see the noisy human better.
Having sniffed the contents, the man took a swig from the bottle. It was water, but the knowledge did not come from taste, but his mind. It was like trying to drink the image of a sphere-recording. Feeling a bit foolish and bewildered, he lay back to sleep, dismissing the strange sensation.
The owl lost interest. It hooted some more, shook its wings, then disappeared into the night, in search of prey.
Sleep wouldn't come to him. His body was telling him that he was tired, but his mind argued against this. And like it wasn't enough that his body wasn't listening to him, he couldn't remember anything. The memories, they were all there, somewhere, but eluding him, like small silvery fish, slipping out from between his fingers all too easily. The one thing that had not escaped him was his name. Auron. He said it aloud a couple of times, just to get the feel of it. Auron. What kind of person was he, Auron? A melancholy mood settled over him, preventing anger from enclouding his mind. Well, if he couldn't sleep, then he sure wouldn't stay here all night. He put out the fire, gathered his robe, and left the glen, walking southwards.
Attentive eyes looked after him.