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Chapter 1: The Woods of Greymoot
The rhythmic sound of axes striking wood echoed through the forest. The trees, tall and ancient, seemed to whisper amongst themselves as the Wyman siblings worked. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, dappling the ground with patches of warmth. The forest floor was littered with leaves, damp from the recent rain, their earthy smell mingling with the scent of fresh-cut wood.
Nicholas hefted his axe, his muscles aching with each swing. The weight of the tool was familiar to him now, the repetitive motions of chopping almost comforting. The thunk of the blade sinking into the tree trunk brought a sense of accomplishment, though today, something was different. He paused for a moment, glancing at his sister.
Gwen stood a few feet away, her own axe embedded in a log. She was staring off into the distance, her brow furrowed, lost in thought. It wasn't like her to be so quiet. Normally, she would be teasing him about his technique or laughing at some ridiculous joke they'd shared. But today, the usual fire in her eyes was dimmed, and her mouth was set in a tight line.
Nicholas considered saying something—maybe making a joke about how she'd forgotten how to swing an axe—but the words died in his throat. Something held him back. Instead, he returned to his work, his thoughts now focused more on his sister than the task at hand.
It had been 3 years since their father's death, and in many ways, they'd settled into a new routine. They had to. Life didn't stop for grief, especially not for commoners like them. Gwen had taken up work as a blacksmith's apprentice, and Nicholas had thrown himself into farming. But ever since their father's passing, Gwen had changed. She wasn't the same bold, laughing girl who had always charged headfirst into life. Don't get me wrong, she still enjoys life but on certain days. She'd become more guarded, quieter.
And today, she was practically silent.
Nicholas swung his axe again, the blade biting deep into the wood. He glanced over at Gwen once more. Her arms hung at her sides, her axe forgotten. She stared off into the trees, her expression unreadable. He frowned.
"Everything alright?" he asked, his voice breaking the silence between them.
Gwen blinked, as if waking from a dream. She looked at him, her lips twitching into a brief, half-hearted smile. "Yeah," she said, though her voice lacked its usual energy. "Just tired, I guess."
Nicholas nodded, though he didn't believe her. He returned to chopping, but his mind was elsewhere. Gwen was never this subdued, not even when she was tired. Something was weighing on her, and it worried him. He thought about pressing her further, but he knew better. Gwen didn't like talking about her feelings, and pushing her would only make her withdraw more.
They worked in silence for the next hour, the only sounds being the steady thunk of axes and the occasional rustle of leaves in the wind. Nicholas's mind wandered as he worked, his thoughts drifting from the task at hand to his art. He hadn't had much time for drawing lately, but it was always there in the back of his mind, a quiet yearning. He missed the feel of charcoal under his fingers, the way he could lose himself in a sketch for hours. Maybe, if they made enough from selling the wood today, he could buy some new supplies. It had been too long since he'd created something.
Gwen's axe came down with a loud crack, splintering the log in front of her. She sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. Her movements were mechanical, lacking the usual ease she had when working. Nicholas watched her, concern gnawing at him. She'd always been the strong one, the one who kept things together. Seeing her like this, so distant, unsettled him.
"You're not your usual chatty self today," Nicholas said, trying to keep his tone light.
Gwen shrugged, not meeting his eyes. "Just thinking," she murmured.
Nicholas didn't push. Instead, he focused on the work, the familiar motions of chopping wood giving him time to reflect. He wondered what was going on in Gwen's head, what had her so distracted. He didn't know that much about what she did at the blacksmith's shop—just that it was hard work, and she seemed to enjoy it. But lately, even that seemed to bring her less joy.
As the sun began to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows through the trees, Nicholas set his axe down and wiped the sweat from his brow. "We should head back soon," he said. "Get to the market before it gets too late."
Gwen nodded, though her expression remained distant. She shouldered her load of wood without a word, and together, they started the trek back to Greymoot.
--
The walk back to Greymoot was a quiet one, with only the sounds of their boots crunching on the dirt path and the occasional rustling of leaves in the trees. The recent rain had left the path muddy, and every few steps, Nicholas had to adjust the heavy load of wood on his back to keep his balance.
He glanced over at Gwen, still carrying her own bundle without complaint. Her eyes were focused ahead, her expression neutral. It was strange—this silence between them. Gwen was normally the one who filled the space with stories or complaints about the day's work. Today, though, she seemed a thousand miles away. Nicholas thought again about asking her what was bothering her, but something told him to wait. Instead, he let his thoughts drift.
As they neared the town, the familiar sights of Greymoot came into view. It was a small place, nestled between the forest and the hills, with cobblestone streets and low, thatched-roof houses. The market square, the heart of the town, was already bustling with people despite the late hour. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the smell of freshly baked bread mingled with the earthy scent of damp wood and livestock.
Greymoot wasn't much, but it was home. For all its rough edges and the hard life it offered, there was a comfort in its routine. Nicholas had lived here all his life, and though he often dreamed of something greater, of exploring the world or honing his art somewhere far away, he knew this place was where he belonged—for now, at least.
As they approached the market, they caught snippets of conversation from the townsfolk. People spoke of the weather, the crops, and the latest rumors. Lately, there had been strange talk—of giant beasts seen in the distance, of mysterious figures who wore bright, strange armor. Nicholas had heard the rumors too, but like most, he chalked it up to stories, nothing more.
Still, he had to admit, the idea of giant creatures roaming the lands intrigued him. He'd seen nothing like it, but sometimes, late at night, when his imagination got the best of him, he wondered what such creatures would look like. As they passed by a group of older men, he overheard one of them speaking.
"...saw it with me own eyes, I tell ya," the man was saying. "A beast as tall as the trees, with scales like iron and eyes that glowed like fire!"
"Bah, you've been drinking too much ale again," another man laughed, shaking his head.
"I swear it!" the first man insisted. "And I'm not the only one. They say these beasts are tied to those warriors—those... what did they call them? Rangers, or some such. They ride the beasts into battle, like something out of the old tales."
Nicholas frowned, his curiosity piqued. Rangers. He'd heard that word before, whispered in the taverns or by travelers passing through town. Supposedly, these rangers were warriors of great power, though none had been seen in years—if they ever truly existed. Just old legends, he thought.
"Think it's true?" he asked Gwen, more out of habit than anything, expecting her usual quip in return.
She glanced at him, her face still unreadable, and shrugged. "Maybe," she said softly, her voice carrying none of the excitement or disbelief he might have expected.
Nicholas didn't press further. They made their way through the market square, stopping by the wood merchant to sell their haul. The merchant, a grizzled old man with a missing tooth and a permanent scowl, handed over a few silver coins in exchange for their load, muttering something about the poor quality of the wood this season. Nicholas pocketed his share, mentally calculating how much he could set aside for art supplies.
"Think I'll buy some new charcoal," he said, half to himself, as they turned to leave. "I've been wanting to try something new with shading."
He remembered a girl, Lyra if he remembers correctly at the market had teased him about liking arts before dismissing his passion as unmanly.
"Art is not unmanly, it should be enjoyed by everyone if they want to" he reminded himself, baffled by her moronic comment.
Gwen didn't respond. She was scanning the crowd, her eyes distant again.
As they left the market, heading toward home, the air grew tense. A crowd had gathered near the center of the square, their voices low and murmuring. Nicholas frowned, noticing the familiar sight of the town guard forming a perimeter around a raised platform.
An execution.
He didn't need to ask who it was. The rumors had been spreading all day. Old Man Wyl, a harmless wanderer who had lived on the outskirts of town for years, had been accused of treason. Most people didn't believe it. He was more likely to have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, caught up in some plot he didn't understand. But in Greymoot, justice was swift and unforgiving.
The siblings slowed as they passed the crowd. The platform was already set, with Wyl standing in the center, his hands bound and his head bowed. The executioner, a hulking figure in a black hood, stood nearby with a massive axe. The crowd was quiet, a mix of pity and indifference on their faces. This wasn't the first execution they'd seen, and it wouldn't be the last.
Nicholas's stomach twisted as he looked at Wyl. The man looked broken, defeated. His clothes were ragged, and he swayed slightly on his feet, as if the weight of the chains was too much for him to bear. Nicholas knew he should feel something—anger, sorrow, something—but all he could manage was a strange sense of detachment. He glanced at Gwen, expecting to see the same look on her face.
But her expression was different.
She was staring at Wyl, her jaw tight, her eyes burning with a quiet intensity. It wasn't anger exactly, but there was something there—something fierce and raw, hidden behind her otherwise neutral demeanor.
Nicholas raised an eyebrow. "Doesn't seem fair, does it?" he said, his voice casual, though the weight of the moment wasn't lost on him.
Gwen didn't reply. She simply watched as the executioner stepped forward, raising his axe. The crowd held its breath, and in one swift motion, the axe came down. There was a sickening thud, and Old Man Wyl crumpled to the ground.
Nicholas felt a pang of discomfort, but he quickly buried it. He'd seen death before. This was just the way things were. Still, as they walked away from the scene, he couldn't shake the image of Gwen's face, the way she had looked at Wyl with that strange, silent intensity. It wasn't like her to be so affected by something like this.
He made a light joke, trying to break the tension. "Well, that was cheerful. Just what we needed to brighten the day."
Gwen glanced at him, but her usual spark of humor wasn't there. Instead, she gave a faint smile—more of a grimace, really—and looked away again.
Nicholas sighed. Something was definitely wrong. But Gwen wasn't going to talk about it, not now. So he let it go, for the moment.
--
The rain started to fall as they neared home, cold droplets soaking through their clothes. Nicholas cursed under his breath, tugging his cloak tighter around him. His boots were already soaked from the mud, and now the rain was only making things worse.
Nicholas groaned, looking down at his soaked clothes. "Great. Just what I needed. My boots are soaked again!"
"Could've told you to wear a proper coat," Gwen said softly, her voice barely audible over the rain.
Nicholas glanced at her, surprised by the comment. It was the first time she'd spoken more than a few words all day. He shrugged, biting back a retort. Normally, he'd have some sarcastic comeback, but something about Gwen's tone—so mellow, so uncharacteristically quiet—made him pause. Instead, he simply nodded.
"Maybe you're right," he muttered.
They continued in silence, the rain falling steadily around them. By the time they reached their home—a modest cottage near the edge of town—they were both drenched. The wooden beams of the house creaked under the weight of the storm, and the fire in the hearth had nearly gone out.
Their mother, a woman who had once been vibrant and full of life, sat by the hearth, tending to the flames. She looked up as they entered, her face softening in recognition, though the smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
"You're late," she said, her voice quiet but warm. "I was starting to worry."
"Just the rain," Nicholas replied, shaking the water from his cloak. "Had to sell the wood, and it took longer than we thought."
Their younger sister, Esmond, barely four years old, sat on the floor playing with a wooden toy. She looked up, grinning as her siblings entered. "Nicky! Gwen!"
Esmond ,rushed to greet them, her small hands clutching a drawing made from charcoal "Look what i made" she exclaimed eyes shinning.
It was an actual good drawing, well as good as a 4 year old can get, it was a cat lounging at the window.
Nicholas smiled, his mood lifting slightly at the sight of his little sister. Kneeling to admire her work "It's beutiful Esmond! You've got talent!" he said feeling a swell of pride at her work.
"Maybe one day i can sell my drawings," Esmond replied, her face lit with hope.
He ruffled her hair as he passed, setting the rest of the wood by the fire to dry.
Gwen was quieter, offering only a small nod in Esmond's direction before disappearing into the back room to change out of her wet clothes.
Their mother glanced at Nicholas, her brow furrowing slightly. "She alright?"
Nicholas shrugged, unsure of what to say. "Just tired, I think."
Their mother didn't press the issue. She never did. Since their father's death, she had grown more distant, though her love for them was still clear in the little things she did—making sure there was food on the table, keeping the fire going, watching over Esmond. But the spark she'd once had was gone, and Nicholas wasn't sure if it would ever come back.
They ate in relative silence, the sound of rain pattering against the roof filling the quiet moments. Gwen barely touched her food, her mind seeming to be elsewhere, as it had been for most of the day. Nicholas ate quickly, the meal simple but filling—stew with bits of meat and vegetables, bread that was slightly stale but still good. His mind drifted to the coins in his pocket, and the thought of buying new charcoal pencils and paint stirred a rare flicker of excitement in him.
As we were eating stew, i broke the heavy silence that had settled over the table. "Well, at least now we know why Old Man Wyl was always telling us to be careful around sharp objects," he said, attempting to lighten the mood with a joke.
Gwen's lips twitched slightly, but her expression remained mostly neutral. "That's not funny," she replied.
Nicholas shrugged, he forced a small smile to creep onto my face. "It's better than crying over it. Besides, if we can't laugh at a time like this, when can we?"
The only response, Nicholas got was the sounds of utensils scraping the plates just a little bit harder.
--
When they finished eating, the siblings cleaned up the table, working in practiced silence. Their mother had already retreated to her chair by the hearth, eyes distant, watching the flames dance as if in a trance. Esmond had fallen asleep on the floor, her toy still clutched in her small hand. Nicholas smiled at the sight and gently picked her up, carrying her to her bed in the corner of the room. She stirred briefly, muttering something in her sleep, but settled quickly.
He glanced over at Gwen, who had remained unusually quiet through it all. Her face was neutral, expressionless in a way that didn't suit her usual lively demeanor. She hadn't said much all day, and Nicholas couldn't help but notice the shift. Normally, Gwen would be the one filling the room with her voice, laughing or grumbling about the day's work. Now, she seemed... distant.
After cleaning up, Gwen rose to leave, probably to head to the smithy, where she worked most afternoons. She stopped by the door, looking out into the rain that hadn't let up.
She had learned the craft from the town's blacksmith, a grizzled man named Master Hargrove, who recognized her talents early on. Under his watchful eye, Gwen honed her skill learning to shapw iron and steel into useful tools and decorative pieces.
She once gifted our mother a small pendant with intricate desing etched along the surface, for her birthday, mother was happy even if it was short while...
"So... You heading back to the smithy?" Nicholas asked, hoping to spark some conversation, though he already knew the answer.
Gwen nodded but didn't say anything. Her eyes flickered briefly toward him, and he caught a glimpse of something in her expression—a shadow of worry, maybe, or something deeper. But as soon as it appeared, it vanished, replaced by that same neutral mask.
"Don't forget your coat this time," Nicholas added with a faint smirk, trying to lighten the mood. "Wouldn't want you getting soaked again."
Gwen gave him a small, tired smile—barely more than a twitch of her lips—before slipping out the door without a word. Nicholas watched her go, a tight feeling settling in his chest. Something was definitely wrong, but Gwen wasn't the type to talk about it unless she wanted to. Pushing her wouldn't help.
Instead, he focused on his own tasks. There was still work to be done in the fields, and he'd promised to pick up some supplies in town afterward. As much as he hated the constant labor, the thought of stopping by the market for art supplies gave him a small sense of purpose. His drawings were one of the few things that gave him real satisfaction, a way to escape the endless grind of daily life.
--
The fields were drenched, the rain having turned the dirt into thick mud that clung to Nicholas's boots as he worked. Despite the miserable conditions, he moved through the motions of farming with practiced ease. The repetitive tasks gave him time to think, and today, his thoughts kept circling back to Gwen.
Something was off with her. He'd noticed it before, of course, but today it had been more pronounced. She was quieter than usual, her energy subdued, and the way she had stared at Old Man Wyl during the execution—it had unsettled him. Not because of the execution itself, but because of how much it seemed to affect her. It wasn't like Gwen to brood over things. She faced problems head-on, usually with more fire than anyone else. But now, it was like she was hiding something.
Nicholas wiped the rain from his face, glancing up at the dark clouds overhead. He'd heard the rumors about the rangers, just like everyone else. The mysterious warriors who supposedly rode giant beasts into battle. He didn't believe it, of course. That kind of thing belonged in fairy tales, not the harsh reality of their world. But still, the idea of it intrigued him. What would it be like to fight alongside such creatures? To have that kind of power, that kind of responsibility?
He shook the thought away. It was just a fantasy.
By the time he finished his work, the sky had darkened even more, though it was still early in the day. Nicholas gathered his things and began the trek back to town, his boots squelching in the mud. As he neared the market, he saw a commotion up ahead. People were gathered in small groups, whispering and pointing toward the outskirts of town.
Nicholas frowned, slowing his pace. He caught snippets of conversation as he passed by.
"...strange beasts..."
"...warriors in armor, fighting like demons..."
"They say one of them had the strength of ten men..."
Nicholas's pulse quickened. Could it be? Were the rumors true? He pushed his way through the crowd, his curiosity getting the better of him, and then he saw it.
At the far edge of town, just beyond the fields, a battle was taking place. Two figures clad in strange, colorful armor were fighting off a group of creatures Nicholas had never seen before—horrifying, misshapen things that seemed to be made of stone and mud, their bodies twisted and malformed. The creatures moved with an unnatural speed, lunging at the armored figures with sharp, clawed hands.
One of the figures, dressed in bright yellow armor, wielded a strange weapon—a curved blade that spun through the air like a boomerang, cutting through the creatures with deadly precision. The other, clad in black, wielded a massive war hammer, its head shaped like the tail of a beast. The two fought together in perfect sync, but they were clearly outnumbered, the creatures closing in from all sides.
Nicholas froze, his heart pounding in his chest. He had never seen anything like this. The creatures—he could only assume these were the "putties" he'd heard rumors about—were terrifying, their misshapen faces twisted into grotesque snarls. They moved with a jerky, unnatural gait, like puppets on invisible strings, their eyes glowing with an eerie, otherworldly light.
For a moment, Nicholas considered running. These creatures were like nothing he'd ever faced. They were fast, deadly, and there were so many of them. But then he thought of the yellow ranger, fighting valiantly but slowly being overwhelmed. She couldn't hold them off forever.
What would Gwen do?
He clenched his fists, wrestling with the question. Gwen wouldn't jump in without a plan. She wasn't reckless, despite her fire. She would assess the situation, figure out the best course of action.
But Nicholas couldn't let these people die.Just like old wyl.
And like the brave fool, he ran to help.
The air was thick with smoke and the acrid of burning wood. As he rounded the corner, the sight that met his eyes sent a chill down his spine.
A nearby farm was ablaze, flames licking at the thatched roof, sending embers dancing into the darkening sky. The cries of terrified villagers pierced the air, mingling with the crackle of fire. He dropped the sack of grain he had been carrying, his heart racing. This was no ordinary fire; something was terribly wrong.
From his vantage point, he could see the one of the figures, dressed in bright yellow armor, wielded a strange weapon—a curved blade that spun through the air like a boomerang, cutting through the creatures with deadly precisio in the thick of it, valiantly defending the civilians from the onslaught of the putties, with their terrifying, featureless faces and dark, imposing forms, swarmed around her like a pack of wolves, their movements erratic and menacing. Each time she swung her weapon—a curved boomerang that gleamed even amidst the chaos—it struck true, but there were too many. They closed in on her, relentless in their assault.
"Get back! Run!" the Yellow Ranger shouted, her voice steady despite the chaos, urging the villagers to escape as she fought off the creatures. She moved with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, her strikes precise and powerful. She ducked under a putty's attack, rolling to the side and quickly getting back on her feet.
Nicholas watched, his heart pounding in his chest as she swung her boomerang in a wide arc, catching three putties in one fluid motion, decapitating and sending them crashing to the ground. The helmet she wore obscured her features, but he could see the determination in her posture. She was clearly skilled, but fatigue was creeping into her movements.
Nicholas stood frozen, horror creeping into his thoughts. These weren't just tales spun by the villagers; this was real. He had heard whispers of strange beasts and mysterious protectors, but seeing it unfold before him was something entirely different and with everything burning. A part of him wanted to run, to flee from the terror, but another part felt a tug at his conscience. What would Gwen do? She wouldn't stand back and let someone get hurt without a plan.
He ran here to save people!, he wasn't here to back down like a coward!
He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to stay hidden. He had to do something.
As the chaos continued to unfold, Nicholas realized he needed to escape plan to save people. He took a step back, instinctively looking for a way out, but the sight of the putties closing in on the civilians rooted him to the spot. They were blocking his path, their dark forms swirling like shadows, and the shouts of frightened villagers echoed around him. He turned to run in the opposite direction, but more putties emerged, forcing him to stay put.
Just then, the Yellow Ranger dodged a putty's swing and retaliated with a fierce kick, sending the creature sprawling. She followed up with a series of quick jabs from her boomerang, each impact resonating with a satisfying thud as another putty fell to the ground. But despite her skill, Nicholas could see the strain on her face. She was wearing thin, and the tide of putties showed no signs of slowing down.
Nicholas's heart raced as he realized he was witnessing a battle of desperation. The Yellow Knight was giving it her all, but she was outnumbered. The smoke from the burning farm choked the air, and each scream from the villagers twisted like a knife in his gut. He felt the panic rising in his chest as he tried to find a way to help.
Suddenly, he heard a rustle behind him. He spun around just in time to see a putty lunging toward him, its dark, featureless face twisted into an expression of malice. Nicholas froze, a scream caught in his throat. Before he could react, he felt a heavy force slam into the putty, sending it sprawling to the ground.
Nicholas blinked in disbelief. The Black Ranger stood over him, his war hammer—a massive weapon that looked like it was forged from the very essence of the earth—still crackling with energy from the impact. The helmet hid his face, but the urgency in his stance was clear.
"Get out of here!" the Black Ranger shouted, his voice powerful and commanding. "Now!"
Nicholas hesitated, still reeling from the shock of the encounter. "But the—"
"Go!" The Black Ranger swung his hammer, taking down another putty that had tried to sneak up behind Nicholas. The creature crumpled to the ground, leaving Nicholas in stunned silence.
Panic surged through him as he took a step back. "What's happening? Who are you?" he shouted, but the Black Ranger was already turning back to the fray, fighting alongside the Yellow Ranger. They were a force of nature, moving in perfect sync. The Black Ranger swung his hammer again, the heavy thud echoing through the chaos as he cleared a path.
Nicholas looked back at the Yellow Knigh- no Ranger, who was now summoning her Zord. The colossal beast emerged, roaring with a sound that reverberated through the ground beneath Nicholas's feet. The sight was awe-inspiring.
"What the…" he muttered, his eyes wide in disbelief. These were the protectors—the warriors he had heard about but had always dismissed as mere tales. They were real.
As the Yellow Ranger took command of her Zord, Nicholas finally found his voice. "You're… you're one of them! One of the heroes!"
Before he could process the enormity of the situation, more putties surged toward him. He turned to run, but they were too close. The ground shook with each footfall of the Zords, and the chaos was closing in.
He ran forward, trying to escape, but the putties were blocking his path, and the cries of the villagers surrounded him. He could do nothing but watch as the Yellow Ranger fought valiantly, her boomerang whirling through the air, deflecting attacks and saving civilians as she maneuvered through the chaos. Just as it seemed they might gain the upper hand, the putties surged again, overwhelming her and knocking her to the ground.
Nicholas felt a rush of panic. "No!" he exclaimed, unable to hold back the fear any longer. He couldn't let her get hurt. He wouldn't let fear control him.
But the moment was interrupted as another putty charged at him, its intentions clear. Nicholas barely had time to react before the Black Ranger was there again, his hammer swinging low to take out the creature in a brutal swing. The putty crumpled before Nicholas's eyes, and the Black Ranger glared at him, his voice urgent.
"Run! Don't look back!"
In that instant, Nicholas pushed through his hesitation. He had to escape. The danger was too great, and he couldn't let himself be caught up in the chaos any longer. With one last glance at the battling heroes, he turned and ran, navigating through the panic and fear that engulfed the scene.
As he dashed for the exit, the screams of the villagers and the clash of battle faded behind him, but he could still feel the weight of what he had witnessed pressing down on him. The legends he had dismissed were now alive before him, and the image of the Yellow Ranger fighting for her life would stay with him forever.
--
As he debated (coward why didn't you help her, she's dead because of you! ) with himself, the black ranger suddenly appeared, quickly hammer in hand, striking down a group of putties with a powerful swing. The sound of the hammer's impact echoed through the air, and the putties crumbled under the force of the blow.
The black ranger didn't even spare him a glance.
"Didn't i tell you to run!?"
"MOVE!"
Nicholas stood there, before he began to run back towards the exit. Looking back watching in awe as the rangers fought. They were incredible—moving with a speed and precision he could barely comprehend. But as the battle raged on, he felt a growing sense of shame. He had stood by and done nothing. He had watched, frozen in fear, while others fought for their lives.
What kind of person did that make him ?
--
End of Chapter 1. 5k words.