Loremaster of the Amaranthine lands

Dark grey clouds and faint rumbles filled the sky above the thick forest canopy. A lone figure trudged through the dense undergrowth, his worn leather boots sinking into the damp earth with each step. The air was heavy with the scent of the decaying leaves that had gathered on the ground over the years. The young man heard distant cries of unseen creatures which echoed in the distance. He tightly clutched his makeshift short bow, knuckles turning white as he navigated the treacherous terrain.

It was foolish to brave the woods alone, but he was hungry and desperate. The village had fallen on hard times, its once fertile fields yielded meagre crops, leaving the villagers suffer. Days of starving had forced the youth to venture into the forest, hoping to hunt anything edible. His eyes darted from one bush to another, wary of any sign of movement. ‘Where are you, you damn thing?’ The poacher searched for his target.

The large rats that were said to infest the forest were his best chance at securing a meal for himself for the day, maybe even for tomorrow. While the light around him slowly waned, the thought of returning empty-handed made his stomach churn with anxiety. Moving deeper into the forest, the silence was broken only by the rustling of leaves underfoot and the occasional hoot of an owl perched high in the branches.

His heart raced as he caught sight of movement in the corner of his eye. The young man froze, his senses heightened as he slowly turned his head towards the source of the disturbance. There, in a small clearing, he spotted a large rat scurrying across the forest floor, its beady eyes glinting with a mix of fear and hunger. With a surge of determination, the young poacher crouched low, his eyes fixated on the mangy rat. He steadied his trembling hand, aligning the arrow’s tip with the rat’s path.

Time seemed to slow as he took a deep breath, his focus narrowing solely on his target. In one swift motion, he let loose the arrow. The creature squealed in terror, but it was too late. The crude bronze-tipped arrow found its mark, impaling the rat and pinning it to the ground. The young man’s heart swelled with a mix of relief and triumph as he retrieved his prize. His first catch in days, likely just enough for an evening meal. In the next two hours, the scrawny rat hanging from his belt gained a companion in the form of a slightly smaller rat with a similar arrow wound.

When the sun began to wane, the young poacher decided to head back home. As he made his way back to the village, the weight of the rats hanging from his belt felt like a small victory. Both were a meagre meal on their own, but they would still provide some respite from the gnawing hunger that plagued him. With each step, his determination grew. He would not let the poor crops or the darkness of the forest consume him.

He would continue to hunt, to scavenge, and to fight for every morsel of food. In this dark land, where a full stomach seemed but a distant memory, he refused to surrender to despair. The youth emerged from the dense forest, his breath ragged and his body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The lifeless bodies of two giant rats still hung from his belt, most of their blood already drained.

A grotesque testament to his skill as a hunter. He looked ahead, seeing the faraway gates of the rundown village. It nestled at the edge of the woods, smoke coming out from some of the chimneys. As he approached, the poacher noticed a commotion near the west gate. Panic-stricken villagers scattered in all directions, their terrified screams piercing the air. A lone guard could be seen in front of the village entrance, locked in a desperate struggle with a massive wolf.

The beast’s snarls echoed through the barren fields, its eyes gleaming with feral hunger. Without hesitation, the youth reached for his short bow, an heirloom passed down from his father. His fingers found the leather strip bound grip and he notched an arrow while jogging toward the village. Drawing the string back, he aimed at the wolf, his heart pounding in his chest.

Time seemed to stop as he released the arrow, its flight swift and true. The projectile sliced through the air, finding its mark with deadly precision. It pierced the beast’s neck, earning a heavy wince. The guard used the sudden distraction to stab the wolf with his sword. It let out a final, agonized howl before collapsing to the ground, its lifeblood staining the earth.

The villagers, their fear momentarily forgotten, turned their gaze towards the youth. Whispers of awe and gratitude filled the air as they approached him, their eyes filled with a mix of admiration and relief. The village guard, a weathered man with a greying beard, stepped forward to address the young poacher.

"Thanks for the help, Marik," the man said, his voice carrying the weight of his fight. "Your skill with the bow is starting to reach your father’s."

Marik nodded silently, his gaze fixed on the fallen wolf.

“How did that thing even get here?” he asked, his voice tinged with a hint of fear. “No wolf came this close to the village in…”

“In at least four years,” a villager remarked. “It's the famine, I tell you. Even the beasts of the forest are getting riled up.”

“You might be right about that.” The guard agreed.

The air hung heavy with the stench of blood and sweat as Marik stood beside the wolf’s carcass. The lifeless body of the beast lay at his feet, its once fierce eyes now glazed over. The village guard, battered and bruised, was about to grab the corpse to drag it away, no doubt hoping to butcher it for meat. But their moment of triumph was short-lived. A sudden rustling of leaves and the clattering of hooves announced the arrival of horsemen. It was a group of twelve horses, half of them soldiers.

Ahead of them, several servants and hunting dogs were moving toward the villagers. Among the people riding, they could see three nobles as well. The most prominent was a young woman, similar in age to Marik. Dressed in a blouse of fine silk and well crafter cotton pants, adorned with jewellery that sparkled in the fading light. She exuded an air of entitlement that made Marik’s blood boil. He had seen this woman before. They all did since she was the local lord’s daughter. As Lady Isobel dismounted her horse, her eyes narrowed with disdain.

“What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, her voice dripping with condescension as she pointed at the dead wolf. “How dare you, a mere peasant, lay claim to our prey?”

“Your prey?” he asked surprised. “This wolf attacked the village. We merely defended ourselves.”

A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd, but Lady Isobel paid it no mind. She took a step closer, her eyes scanning Marik from head to toe.

“You’re nothing but a poacher,” she sneered as she stepped closer to slap him. “A common poacher who preys on my father’s lands.’

Marik’s face flushed with anger and the sting of the slap, his voice rising. “I am not a thief! I hunt to survive.”

The entourage behind Lady Isobel bristled at Marik’s words, their hands instinctively reaching for the weapons at their sides.

“You will pay for your insolence,” she hissed. “No one talks back to a member of the Aldric family and lives.”

Marik’s heart pounded in his chest, but before Isobel could do anything, a voice boomed from the distance.

“What is the meaning of this commotion?”

All eyes turned to see Lord Aldric, a towering figure with a stern countenance, striding towards them. His presence commanded respect, and the villagers instinctively parted to make way for him.

Isobel’s expression shifted from defiance to apprehension as her father approached. She quickly composed herself, casting a disdainful glance at Marik before turning to face her father.

“Father, this peasant has dared to claim our kill as his own.” she said, her voice dripping with disdain.

Lord Aldric’s aged gaze shifted from his daughter to Marik, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation. The weight of his authority hung heavy in the air, and the young man felt a shiver run down his spine.

“Is this true?” Lord Aldric asked, his voice stern but measured.

“No, my lord. The wolf attacked the village guard, and I defended him. I had no intention of laying claim to the beast.”

A moment of silence followed, the tension palpable. Lord Aldric’s gaze lingered on Marik, his expression inscrutable. Then, with a nod, he turned to his daughter.

“Isobel, it seems you have misjudged the situation,” he said, his voice carrying a hint of disappointment. “The wolf was killed by a blade and the boy has a bow. He could not claim your prey as his own.”

Hearing those words, Marik let out a sigh of relief.

“Those rats hanging from his belt however clearly died of an arrow wound. A clear proof of poaching. Arrest him!”

A split second later everything went dark around Marik as a guard smashed his sword’s pommel into the back of his head. The guards grabbed the bleeding youth and threw him on a horse.

“Let us leave.”

With that, Aldric turned and rode away, leaving behind the terrified villagers who watched in silence as the young man was taken away by the lord’s guards. Marik’s eyes fluttered open an unknown time later, his vision blurred and his head pounding with a relentless ache. As his surroundings cleared up a bit, he realized he was chained to a rusted rack in the depths of a dimly lit stone-walled room. The stench of decay and rust filled the air, mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

His heart sank as he remembered the events that led to his wretched state. Lord Aldric, the merciless nobleman, had him arrested for poaching in the forbidden woods. And the man was well within his right. It was Marik’s fault for not dropping the dead rats before his fight with the wolf. Then again, how could he have known that the nobleman would appear as he did? The nearby heavy door creaked open and Lady Isobel entered the dungeon. Her eyes, cold and devoid of any compassion, locked onto Marik’s chained body. She wore a gown of black silk, a stark contrast to her pale complexion, and her lips curled into a sadistic smile.

“Good morning, peasant,” Isobel sneered, her voice dripping with malice. “I trust you’ve had a restful night?”

“Restful is not the word I would use.”

She laughed, a sound that sent shivers down Marik’s spine.

“Oh, you poor thing. Let me help you wake up properly then.”

With a flick of her wrist, Isobel signalled the guards to approach. They were burly men, their faces hardened by years of brutality. Each held a cane, worn and splintered from countless beatings. The first strike landed across Marik’s back, the pain rushing through his body. He gritted his teeth, refusing to give his tormentors the satisfaction of hearing his screams.

Blow after blow rained down upon him, the guards taking turns, their eyes filled with boredom. It was clear that they were far too accustomed to such things to find any excitement in it. At some point, the pain became unbearable and Marik’s mind faded into darkness. Days blurred into a haze of agony and despair. The youth’s body gathered a great number of welts and bruises, his spirit weakened but not extinguished.

He clung to the faint hope that someday, somehow, he would escape this hellish nightmare. Perhaps Isobel would eventually get bored of torturing him, maybe finding a new target for her sick pleasure. On the fourth morning, he prepared for another day of torture which was fuelled by some water and a few spoonfuls of something that barely resembled an edible gruel. The guards appeared, as usual, ready for the hour-long beating, then, the door opened behind them.

“Stop,” another soldier appeared with a reddened face. “His lordship received a letter from the capital.”

“So what?” One of the men with the cane asked.

“A royal decree had been issued,” the guard responded. “Commanding all nobles to send their prisoners to the nearest seaport town.”

“What for?” The other one looked at him puzzled.

“How should I know? I was ordered to tell you two to stop beating the prisoners and get them ready for travel.”

The guards, their faces etched with disinterest, unchained Marik from the rack. Weak and battered, he struggled to stand with his legs trembling as they were ready to give out beneath him at any moment.

“Consider yourself fortunate, brat,” the guard spat, his tone dull. “It seems the crown needs your corpse more than Lady Isobel.”

Marik’s hazy gaze met the guard’s, a flicker of defiance burning in his eyes.

“I may be broken, but I am not dead. You’ll pay for this one day.”

“Yeah, yeah. Keep your bravery to yourself.” The other man shrugged as he grabbed the young man, dragging him outside while the rest of the guards did the same to the other prisoners.

Marik’s body ached as he was roughly pulled out of the cold, damp dungeon. The stench of despair and decay lingered in the air, clinging to his tattered clothes. He could hear chains clinking and rattling as he and the other prisoners were herded towards the courtyard.

The guards barked orders, their voices laced with cruelty. Marik’s heart pounded in his chest as he watched his fellow captives, their faces etched with exhaustion and fear. The prisoners were forced to strip off their rags, leaving them exposed and vulnerable. His skin prickled with shame and humiliation as he stood naked, his thin body shivering, despite the mild summer air. The guards grabbed buckets of water and began splashing it over the prisoners.

The cold water stung their skin, washing away the grime and filth that had accumulated during their time in the dungeon. Once drenched, Marik and the others were hurriedly pushed towards a waiting jail cart. The wooden wheels creaked under them as they were loaded inside. The cart was cramped, with barely enough space to sit down while hugging their knees to their chests. As the last prisoner got pushed into the cage, the driver swung the reins and the horses began to trot forward. They watched the sight of the nobleman’s manor fade into the distance as they rolled along the forest road.