Outskirts of the Swamp of Sorrows, Eastern Alindor.*Two figures crouch behind some low brush, their similar features reveal them to be related, most probably father and son. Their clothing is coarse, homespun. The bow clutched nervously in the boy's trembling hands (that he tries so desperately to hide) is also of a crude make. Crudely perhaps .. yet lovingly made. An inscription on the shaft reads -
To my son on his 13th birthday, never was there a father more proud. The inscribed letters are simple, the script of a man clearly unused to scholarly pursuits. The bow is the result of countless hours in the evening spent in front of the hearth shaping and polishing the wood long after the rest of the family had taken to their beds. Countless hours spent crafting a bow for his only son.*
"That's it son, slow and steady now. Ssshhhhhhh, easy does it, sssshhhhhhh. Keep your movements slow and steady ... ease the arrow back, that's it. Keep breathing, in and out ... good.*Some forty paces away (perhaps fifty of the boy's paces) is a nide of pheasants, completely unaware of their would be hunter.*
"Breathe, in and out ... relax your shoulders. Hold a moment ... and release"*the arrow flys from the bow, the carved bone head splits the air with an audible hum .... only to strike the trunk of a tree at least a foot or three above the head of the tallest pheasant. The birds scatter into the underbrush. Laughter rings out loud and unforced from the father, the need for stealth now gone. His son, face burning, cannot help but join in the mirth with a chuckle.*
"Much closer that time son. Had that bird chosen that moment to leap high in the air, surely your arrow would have struck true! Go fetch the shaft, it is time we are home. Your mother will start to worry afore long and your sisters will be awaiting tall tales of the hunter's adventures.""Yes father"*Rising to his feet as his son went to recover the wayward arrow, the man stretched the aching muscles of his back. Moments like this were all too rare yet there was always much to be done on their small farm. Despite the clearing of the skies, life was still hard. A man had to work from dawn to dusk and beyond in order to survive. Luxuries such as this hour-long hunting trip with his son were few and far between.*
*Then, a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision.*
*Then, there is screaming. Then, there is blood. Then, there is death.*
. . .
*Then, there is silence.*
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