Rays of light pierced the clouds as the sun rose on the land of Alagaesia. The cool morning air whispered through the deep green of the forest, and fallen leaves blew gently with the breeze. Sunrise slowly transformed the sky into a wash of orange and pinks, a beautiful tapestry reflected upon the nearby lake's glass-like surface, sparkling like diamonds where the sun kissed its frigid surface. Birds dipped their graceful heads to the water's surface, searching for a meager breakfast amongst the silt and mud, their legs creating small ripples that slowly edged their way to a small beach.

Resting by the lake, a humble cottage sat. A thin plume of smoke rose from its chimney and washed over its lone inhabitant. A man, with hair of silver, a close-cropped beard, and a myriad of scars from a lifetime of fighting. Archery was his trade, mastered by years of practice and many thousands of arrows, drawn and fired by his broad shoulders. The 'whizz-thunk' of arrows hitting their mark was an almost constant companion to the grizzled veteran. The sound droned out his thoughts while his hands repeated the motion that had become something of a reassurance over the years

After a few more volleys he sighed, before striding to the almost disintegrated target he practiced on. He made a mental note to build a new one soon, adding it to the never-ending list of chores that needed doing.

He pulled out his arrows, placing them in a neat pile by his foot and sighed deeply. Running his fingers through his hair he gazed towards his lake and the forest beyond it.

Looking out, he thought back to his fighting days, when he led groups of archers for the Varden. They called it a war; the empire called it a rout… To be honest it was more of an active retreat, the Varden returned to the relative safety of Surda to await the return of the Riders and the Empire pulled back to its borders. A disappointing waste of lives in his eyes. Setting his bow down he made his way to the small sandy beach that bordered the lake.


Reaching down his practiced eye picked out a smooth, rounded stone. His back tightened with hardy, whipcord strong muscles as he wound up. He skipped that stone along the water, it bounced, once, twice, three times and where it struck the surface; ripples pulsed outwards.

A few waterfowl took flight, squawking angrily, unhappy with their meal being disturbed, he exhaled softly a slight grin on his face. It disappeared just as quickly, and he made his way back to his bow.

Sweat coated his body in sheets, and his clothes stuck to him in many unpleasant ways. Lifting his arm, he took a tentative sniff. He visibly recoiled, "That's enough practice for today… and I need to make a start on dinner before it gets too much darker" he spoke aloud to himself; it was one of the things that kept him sane in his self-imposed isolation.


Entering his home, the door creaked on its hinges, the sound echoing throughout the rather spartan accommodations. The cottage was immaculately clean, not a speck of dust to be found. Taking his boots off he slowly padded through the house to his rather compact and organized kitchen. It contained the necessities, pots, pans, and various knives for butchering meat. Most importantly though was the coffee sitting in a small bag on the countertop. It was the one luxury he permitted himself and one of the only reasons he went into the small town nearby. Placing a pan on his oven, he began to boil some water before placing a small scoop of the ground coffee in it. Slowly the smooth aroma of the delectable beverage filled the house and he inhaled deeply basking in the peace of the moment. Sipping at the hot brew he moved towards the small tub set in the corner for bathing. After several trips to the lake and back he had enough water to slip into. Muttering a short phrase under his breath he slumped lower in the water as it slowly heated to a decent temperature. While such frivolous use of the small amount of magic he had was most certainly a waste, the enjoyment of a warm bath was more than worth the exhaustion that came with it. Keeping the now slightly cooler coffee nearby he sipped happily as the sun settled behind the hills to the west.

Knocking reached his ears, and the door shook slightly on its hinges. He sighed deeply; grip white-knuckled on his mug of delicious brew. Closing his eyes, he waited and hoped that maybe it was just his imagination, perhaps several birds had flown into his door consecutively. His hopeful delusion was shattered by an even louder knock accompanied by a call.

"Dorian Strongbow, I carry a missive from King Ajihad himself" a female voice rang out.

Dorian groaned, rising from the lukewarm water. He wrapped a towel around his waist before opening the door. The woman on the other side had her fist poised to knock again but slowly lowered it. Eyeing him up and down her gaze caught on his lean muscled body. Dorian coughed slowly, and her eyes shot up to his. Cheeks flushing with embarrassment she asked him a very simple question

"Dorian Strongbow?"

Giving a small nod in reply, Dorian motioned her inside.

Ruffling through her bag quickly she held out a wax sealed scroll, "For your eyes only, please read then burn it"

"Not many people to share with out here, its contents will remain in my confidence, have no worry about that… and since you clearly know who I am, I would inquire as to your name?

"Jenna milord" she informed him, emphasizing with a slight curtsey

"Well then Jenna, do you have lodging for the night? If not, you are more than welcome here… I know the rigors of the road"

"I would have to be a right fool to pass up a night under a roof for once, I do have to ask… Where shall I stable my horse?

"You can stable him in the barn, just past the copse of trees behind the house" She nodded, taking the reins and leading her horse to the barn.

Having made himself decent, Dorian began cooking a simple stew. The smell of herbs and venison filled the small cottage as he worked the stove. He hummed quietly to himself as it simmered, remembering his younger years on the road when he would cook for his men. While the stew was simple it was amazing what a good hot meal did for morale. Shaking himself from his reverie he heard muffled footsteps in the hallway. Jenna slowly walked into the kitchen, freshly bathed and looking positively radiant.

"I can't believe you have a bath; it's been ages since I've had a nice soak"

"I'm glad you enjoyed it; nothing else like it to get the road off you"

The smell of stew grew stronger as Dorian took the pot off the stove and set it on the table. Placing a steaming bowl in front of her she dug in. Her face crossed with a deep smile, as the flavor coated her tongue. Swallowing hastily, she shoveled another bite down. Smiling, Dorian ate slowly, taking enjoyment from a person so clearly savoring his cooking.

A short while later the entire pot was scraped clean. Jenna leaned back and placed a hand on her stomach, a contented sigh escaping her mouth. Dorian wiped his mouth before grabbing both plates and associated cutlery, placing them on the kitchen bench.

Eyes already drooping Jenna made to stand before settling back into the chair and promptly passed out, a large smile on her face. Dorian allowed himself a smile, gazing at the young woman in front of him, thinking back to his life on the road. Shaking himself from those bittersweet memories, he scooped Jenna into his arms. Following a short walk to his bedroom he gently set her on the mattress, carefully laying the blanket on top of her. Mumbling slightly in her sleep she curled the blanket closer, snuggling deeper into a cocoon of comfort. Stepping back he blew out the small candle on the nightstand before making his way to what would be his bed for the night. Settling into the armchair in his living room, it groaned as his weight settled in. Looking to his bow on the mantle of the fireplace, he slowly faded into a dreamless sleep.

After what seemed like seconds his eyes opened, his mind fully alert. He didn't move but his eyes darted around gathering as much information as possible. A very familiar creaking filled the house as the front door swung closed. The fire was barely smoldering, providing just enough light for Dorian to pick out a man shaped shadow moving towards him slowly. Without moving his head his eyes looked to the hallway where he noticed another shadow. Keeping his breath deep and even he waited silently for his opportunity. The shape from the front door cursed under his breath as his foot struck the dining table, by reflex looking down. Dorian lept into action, grabbing a half empty cup of coffee, he slung it at the man approaching from the hallway. The man swore loudly and swiped at his face, trying to remove the offending fluid. Before the other man could react Dorian dived for his bow, stringing one of the three arrows he displayed next to it. The reflexes from thousands of hours of practice kicked in, and he nocked an arrow, drew it back and fired within the span of a second. It sunk deep into the man's throat, his mouth worked but all that came out was a strangled gasp as he suffocated on his own blood. The second man managed to clear his vision just in time to see Dorains second arrow hanging in front of him, the smoldering embers illuminated the sharpened steel broadhead.

"Who sent you?" The simple three-word question was spoken barely above a whisper, with no hint if nervousness or anxiety from the attempted target of an assassination. The assassin's eyes bored deep into his own, not a word passing from his lips. Seeing the man move almost imperceptibly to the right, shifting his weight to his back foot.

The assassin exploded into action, swinging his leg in a short controlled kick to the side of Dorian's knee. Before it could make contact, Dorian shifted his leg back so the kick missed by a hair's breadth. Dorain leaned back, relieving the tension on his bowstring, before giving a short push forwards with both arms, slamming his bow into the assassin's face.

Dorain brought the bow back to full draw "Last chance… speak"

Regaining some composure the assassin spoke a name, "Galbatorix"

Dorain let him finish before releasing his arrow, it punched clean through the soft flesh of his throat, embedding into the wall behind him. His eyes held no surprise as he collapsed to the floor, lifeless eyes staring at nothing.

Nocking the last arrow, Dorain began searching every room in the house. His heartbeat was steady, this being far from the first attempt on his life. However it was the first in many years, compounded by the fact that the empire now knew where he lived did worry him a little. Just enough for him to miss the sound of muffled feet closing behind him. He felt the small flow of air as someone moved suddenly behind him. Before he could turn a thin wire wrapped around his neck. He managed to wedge his right hand between the wire and his throat. He knew immediately that he was now living on borrowed time, he had maybe 30 seconds till he passed out. Feeling the wire cutting into the meat of his hand he mind analyzed his choices. The seconds slowed to minutes as he felt it begin to grind into his bones. Using his free hand he swung his bow around his assailant's neck and pulled hard to the left, hearing a splintering and feeling the pressure in his throat evaporate. Spinning he grabbed his last arrow and slammed it into the assassins eye. The other eye spun until it focused on his face, Dorian scowled before twisting the arrow and plunging deeper in one stroke. The man's face went slack and all the strength left his corpse.

Breathing deeply, Dorian groped along his throat, feeling a little blood and nothing more he sighed in relief. Glancing down at the ruined remains of his bow his mouth set into a hard line. Leaving the shattered wood on the ground he drew his hunting knife and slowly edged towards his bedroom.

The door slowly crept open, silent in its passage. Dorian smelt it before he even entered the room. The distinct and cloying smell of death. After checking the corners of the room for intruders he stood slowly. Sheathing his knife he made his way to his bed, seeing the almost peaceful face of the courier. She was definitely dead, the paleness of her face combined with the blankets almost black with blood confirmed it. The blanket was still mostly in place, with small and concise slashes. She didn't struggle which meant a quick death, the smallest of mercies. Anger briefly crossed his face, followed quickly by a deep shame. He thought distance alone would be enough to keep the empire from him. Now a young girl was dead, brutally murdered while under his protection. Slowly and carefully he scooped her now lifeless body into his arms, she felt much heavier this time.

The night was peaceful as Dorain gazed down at the empty hole in the ground, his eyes held nothing in them. He felt nothing as he slowly and mechanically lowered her now cleanly shrouded body into the fresh grave. It was shallow, but Dorian was quickly running out of time for much else, the Empire was sure to send more agents after him once they learned the fate of the original assassins. The topsoil was patted down and a small marker erected, he leaned on his shovel panting slightly from his exertions. His task complete, he finally allowed himself to feel once more, there was nothing but an immense and quiet anger. Slamming the shovel into the soil he left it standing, sharply turning as he headed towards the house.

Most of his things were packed, a small bag with his leathers and hauberk, plus additional provisions, his bedroll neatly tied to the top. He set the bag by the door and made his way to the living room. His eyes narrowed and he searched amongst the floorboards. He stamped his feet until the dull thuds turned to a slight echo. Pulling his knife from its sheath he pried the edge of a specific board and exposed a small hidden cavity. He pulled a large canvas wrapped bundle out of the hole, setting it carefully on the floor next to him. He reached out slowly, almost hesitantly, before setting his shoulders square and pulling sharply on the sting ties holding the package closed. It only took a small tug before the canvas slipped free, as if sliding against glass it continued to move until completely unwound. A faint light crossed Dorian's face as he beheld a beautifully crafted bow, its surface lined with small, barely illuminated script. It was not written in the language of his people, the humans, but that of the elves. The ancient almost alien writing seemed to ebb and flow as if the bow itself was alive, passing through the wood like a breeze through leaves. A small green gem laid near the grip, appearing to be the source of the light.

Dorian laid a calloused hand on the limbs of the bow and the gem pulsed slightly upon contact, reacting to his touch. He let out a small breath as a trickle of energy entered his palm. Quickly pulling his hand back he wrapped the bow up once more. Slinging it across his back he picked up his pack. Turning around he looked back at what was his home. He sighed wistfully before crouching near a pile of tinder he had prepared earlier. Striking a spark it caught easily and began to spread. Taking a moment he centered himself, preparing for the long journey ahead.

His stable had both stalls filled, the courier's horse and of course his own. Looking at both mounts he could easily tell his own horse was inferior to the couriers. It was bred for sprints, short bursts of high speed that were perfect during pitched battles, he needs stamina and endurance however. Making up his mind he opened his horses stall, and removed the saddle and tack. Giving her an affectionate pat on the muzzle he gave her a sharp smack and sent her running. Watching the last piece of his retired life run off into the rapidly rising sun gave him a sharp reminder of how much time he had burned.

Running back to the stable he quickly swapped Jenna's tack for his own, tightening straps and setting belts with practiced ease. Swinging his leg up and over he settled in the saddle and started a slow gallop, a pace this beast could maintain for hours. Riding past the still burning house he rode east, heading towards safety, in the Beor mountains.