His broad shoulders sunk with a mixture of dread and anger that churned within his heavy heart. His arms let fall the stack of fresh meats that he cradled as the sour odor of smoke curled about his nostrils. Shock seemed like a palpable thing; it coursed through his blood like a fresh, fiery brew. What had once been his beloved hometown was now a mess of still-smoldering buildings, slaughtered livestock, and rapidly cooling corpses. At one time, these were his friends.
He began walking. His heavily bound feet crunched through the hard snow, his breath misting in front of him in large, whitish clouds. The tavern sign, once a symbol of reverie and celebration in past hunts, lied upon the frozen ground before him like a fallen comrade. All around the building, accompanying splintered wood and strips of fur, were bodies. He trudged toward the nearest of them, his heart foolishly hopeful that the man would stir from the noise of his approach. He placed a large, calloused hand upon the back of the man’s neck, feeling no movement within.
He continued on, his feet having to be supported beneath a thick layer of crystallized blood as he walked toward the town’s center. The whipping, chilled wind was his only companion in his sorrow. It added to his pain by gnawing upon his exposed ears and hands. More bodies filled the town square; some bearing long swords and armor of an attack. Most didn’t. Most were the smaller bodies of women and children. His anger impossibly intensified. They must have attacked while most of the warriors were away on a hunt, just like him.
White-hot rage filled him, seemingly at once. To witness the death of women and children – those without the means to defend themselves from the hardened warriors of their enemies – was cowardliness in the purest of forms. He drew his sword from its sheath and began stalking around the camp. His hands were shaking with rage, his eyes stung with tears. He wanted someone to hurt; to cut and make bleed like so many of those he now witnessed surrounding him.
Suddenly, a sound echoed out to his left, falling upon his trained and listening ears. He turned, the long furs around him shifting a bit upon his body. He approached the noise quickly and without any thought to stealth or to preserve the element of surprise. His body was much too filled with the vengeful souls of his brothers to do such things. A nearby building seemed to house the disturbance he had heard. Without hesitation, he kicked at the cracked wooden door separating him from his enemy’s fate. He trudged inside, weapon at the ready.
His eyes narrowed intently downward, toward the back corner of the room. A single, trembling child lay huddled against the charred wall. The boy took notice of his imposing figure, his small eyes wide with terror. Without even looking at the child, he knew this was one of their enemies. He took long, quick strides for the boy, his weapon raised, every fiber within his body aching to slice downward. What did it matter, he thought. So many of his own people’s children now lay dead just outside. This child’s death would bring him peace. A small glimmer of sweet revenge that he could practically taste upon his lips.
The sword clattered to the floor. He knelt before the boy, his hand extended. A piece of salted meat was held before the child
“You are one of the Aduuren,” he spoke with a slow, authoritative voice, “So you are aware that your people will never return for you. As far as their concerns, you are dead. “
The boy seemed to understand. He nodded swiftly. Perhaps to merely appease him?
“I will feed and take care of you, boy,” he said with a heavy heart, “As I have no one to care for any longer. I will teach you what you need to know, and in the end-“
He stood to his full height while grabbing at the boy’s arm and gently pulling him to his feet.
“You will see what monsters the people you were raised by,” he finished while turning for the door.
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