At last air finds his lungs as he sucks in a simple breath as if it were the most precious thing in the world. The breath is followed by many gasps as the young man tries desperately to get enough air. High above he can hear the cruel laughter of the ones responsible for his current state of being. In the morning gloom he can hardly see their bright faces above, however he doesn’t need to see them to know who they are. They are youth, a few older, most around the same age, who have for the past week found new and exciting ways to wake up their favorite punching bag. Not that they actually hit him often, that they left to the adults, however the pranks they pull on occasion are far worse than any blow he's suffered at the heavy hand of the local blacksmith or horse master.

Take today for example. Somehow they had managed to sneak up to the loft where he slept, even though he'd been prepared today, and with little effort, roll him all the way to the edge. He managed to wake up before they actually shoved him over the edge, which is likely what saved his life. The fifteen foot fall could have easily broke his neck, but in a sleeping haze he'd hooked the ledge just enough so that he landed on his back, not his neck. A very lucky aversion of a break.

As he feels his limb functions returning his instincts kick in. Despite the chores he knows he needs to get started on his first need it to get away. He has to get away from them before they decide to have a little more “fun”. He can hear their hands and feet on the wrings of the ladder that leads to his resting place and with a jolt he forces himself to his feet. He is running, fast as he can, out towards the edge of town. Despite how much they love to torment him, he knows he's always safe out there. Out among the trees, out where the monsters roam.

The cries of his pursuers ring in his ears and he stumbles slightly as a rock, no doubt flung by one of them, grazes the side of his leg leaving a split in the skin. He ignores the pain, the wound will heal, he just needs to get away. Racing through the last farm before the forest, he manages to get out of sight of the pursuing mob, however he does not stop fleeing. The small chicken and crookoo scatter as he races through a mob of them, and it isn't until he is surrounded on all sides buy the dark trunks of tress that he begins to slow. Looking back he can see them jeering, whipping stones blindly into the forest. Wanting a little more distance he continues into the wood, following a trail he's walked many times before.

As a young child the elder would often bring him out into the woods. Unlike the other children she told him not to fear the forest. She would show him places she herself enjoyed, and encouraged him to find his own. She was kind, in her own way, and he did thank her for what she'd done for him. [i]'She's gone now. . .Now I enter this wood alone. Now I am the only one who feels comfortable under it's boughs. . .'[/i] His dull eyes look this way and that, spotting the tracks and trails left by the forest beasts. The weak little ones who can travel this close to the village. There are animals too of course, here and there, but those are not as pronounced in this particular stretch of wood.

Moving slowly now, favoring his wounded leg, he comes to a clearing and relaxes a little. Looking around he sees no sign of anything having been around recently and with a soft sigh he climbs on to a large flat stone set in the middle of the clearing strewn with needles and leaf litter. The cool surface feels good against his skin and as he settle upon it to wait and check his wound he simply lets the feeling of it pass before going to work on his leg. [i]'Damn. Well, here goes another couple inches of my tunic'[/i] He's not a complete fool. He knows he needs to cover the open wound, however he can not help but curse his luck for a moment before doing so.

The sound or ripping fabric is swallowed by the trees as he carefully makes a bandage for his wound. He always tries to get tunics that are far to big for him for this very reason. However this particular one is rather old and doesn't have much in the way of length any more. As he takes off the last bit for the bandage he realizes that the tunic looks about the right size for him now. If it wasn't for the ragged bottom, he may even look almost presentable. [i]'Not that I even need to be. Everyone knows I'm an orphan living in a hayloft. No matter what I look like, it doesn't change who I am'[/i] As soon as the injury is tended to, the orphan boy Kir-Kon flops on to his back and stares at the cloudy sky above. His dark hair flares out around his head, unbound, and for a moment he considers tying it back. He dismisses the idea quickly though. No one to impress and no work to be done out here in the woods. . .