[center][h1][b][u]Carn[/u][/b][/h1][/center] [hr] Carn had awoken in the night, on a pile of furs outside the ruins of his destroyed village. Over a dozen villagers sat near a fire. Some cried, while others bore grim expressions. All bore burns, cuts, or some other sort of injury, and all were filthy. The boy sat up, and one of the villagers noticed the movement. “Thank Cadien,” he whispered, rushing over to him. Carn opened his mouth to speak, but immediately fell into a fit of coughing. “Easy, boy, you breathed too much smoke.” “Where is my brother? And my sisters?” Carn managed to rasp between coughs. A few others had circled around, and somehow their expressions became even grimmer. “We don’t know…” the man said softly. “We didn’t find their bodies, though.” “Brundt lives,” Carn whispered. “We need to find him.” “He does?” the man’s eyes widened. “Which way did he go?” “I…” Carn said, looking around. “I… I don’t remember…” tears began to form in his eyes. Why couldn’t he remember something so important? The man frowned. “We’ll have to send a man out in every direction to look for him, then,” he said. “Most of us will stay here, in case he finds his way back. Besides…” he looked back toward the bodies piled outside the gate. “The dead need to be tended to.” [hr] That was two days ago. They never found Brundt. A mass grave had been dug for the dead, using shovels taken from the mine. Even the fallen marauders had been buried as well; to leave them as they were was to invite disease and predators. From time to time a survivor of the massacre would return, having fled into the woods during the attack. None of the others begrudged them; none of those present had survived by being brave. Food was not much of an issue; numerous cellars were still intact, so it was simply a matter of digging through the wreckage, and two of the survivors had hunting experience. Makeshift shelters had been built against the elements. But the mood around the camp remained hopeless. They had lost everything, and would likely never see this village rebuilt within their lifetime. Even if they did, they could not replace lost friends, families, or lovers. What now? The sounds of snapping twigs alerted the campers to the presence of outsiders. Before they could react, a voice like warm milk sounded from around a burnt building corner. “Gods’ peace upon you, my children.” From around the corner came the two white-robed druids, the old, bearded man and his younger female companion. “Do not be frightened. We come to aid those in need - for you are the survivors, I take it?” The man who led them rose to his feet, brushing a strand of dark hair out of his eyes. “That we are,” he nodded. “The ones who managed to flee, or weren’t cooked alive in their hiding places.” Seated on a nearby rock, Carn eyed the newcomers with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. “I see. A terrible tragedy struck you, yet it is fortunate to see that there were survivors. We rescued a young boy some ways north not three days past.” The old man raised a brow at the purple-eyed teen with the white hair sitting on a rock. “... He told us none had survived.” Carn’s eyes widened, while the leader’s eyes narrowed. “What did this boy look like? What was his name? Where is he now?” he demanded in an inquisitive tone. “His face and eyes were similar to yours, but his hair was brown. I would say he hadn’t even reached ten years of age yet. His name is Brundt,” the old man nodded for his colleague to start examining the wounded, “and we brought him to Morganstead to the north. He’s safe there.” Relief flashed across many faces, Carn’s especially. “Thank Cadien,” breathed the leader, before his expression once more hardened with resolve as he fixed his gaze on the druid. “We will head to this village immediately. That boy is the youngest son of Cadien’s champion. We must ensure his safety.” The druids exchanged frowns, but the oldest eventually nodded in understanding. “Very well. The road posed little threat to us, but it rarely does, thank the gods. Allow us to care for the wounded you leave behind, at least, so they suffer no further injury by following along. Such is the will of the Sun, after all.” The leader paused, looking slightly embarrassed, as he quickly surveyed the people around the fire. “He’s right, Yorn,” one woman spoke up. “Some of us are still in no condition to move.” Yorn frowned. “That’s true,” he looked back to the druid. “We’re not leaving anyone behind. We’ll wait until tomorrow.” Carn leapt to his feet. “But-” he began to protest, before suddenly coughing, “-but my brother!” “Your brother is in good hands. I have met with the chief of Morganstead before, and he’s a righteous and godsfearing man. Allow Gibbou to grant you another night of peace before you set out on such a journey.” With that, the old man went to assist his companion with tending to a young man’s broken leg. Carn didn’t seem satisfied by that explanation, until Yorn put a hand on his shoulder. “The Druid is right, Carn,” he said softly. “Your father knew Morganstead’s chief well. Your brother should be safe there. But our wounded will not be safe if we leave them behind to go find him. Most of us are in no state to go travelling through the night anyway. What would your father do?” The mention of his father brought fresh tears to the boy’s eyes. “I… I…” he cast his gaze downward. “I miss him,” he whispered softly. Yorn nodded. “We all do. So we should honour his memory by acting as he would. He had always intended for you to lead us one day, and that may yet be true, so you must remember his example. Understand.” Carn sniffed, then somehow managed to raise his gaze to look Yorn in the eye. “I... I will.” For the rest of the day, the druids went from survivor to survivor to tend to wounds and medicine the sick. For burns, they applied the same ointments as they had given Brundt, but they used no magic to dull the pain this time, causing a great many burn victims to howl in pain as the most charred skin was cut or scraped off with perhaps a little dull flint sickles, and the inflamed skin was heavily doused in ointments and salves, finalised with sore bandages. There was one among the survivors whose right leg had been left untreated long enough to become gangrenous, and Kaer Mirh and Kaer Anni had been forced to hack it off with an axe. Not even this one was given the respite of Gibbou, but she passed out from the pain on their own. In place of some form of tourniquet, Kaer Anni turned her tree branch staff into roots that squeezed the leg so hard, she fractured it. However, thanks to that, the woman didn’t bleed out as they severed her leg above the knee-cap. Several of the survivors winced with sympathy at this, while one had even risen to his feet as if moving to stop it - only for another to hold him back, assuring him that the druids probably knew what they were doing. Even after the sun went down, the screams and grunts of those being treated kept the rest of the group awake. But eventually, all had been treated, so they could assign lookouts and at last find some sleep. The druids washed their hands in a nearby beck and Kaer Anni headed to a nearby grove of trees to pick nuts, acorns and pine cones, which she then proceeded to plant in the nearby soil. Kaer Mirh, meanwhile, walked up to the old mine shaft and started stacking stones into a small heap. A few moments later, Carn came up behind him. “What are you doing?” Kaer Mirh turned to the lad and smiled. “I am building a monument to Boris, the mountain god.” He placed another stone on the heap, tested the heap’s integrity and then bolstered the foundation upon finding it lacking. “Boris?” Carn questioned. “Why?” The druid reached to the ground and took a handful of sand. He then started filling in the holes in his heap as best he could. “Am I the first druid you’ve met, my son?” “Another druid came to our village, a long time ago,” Carn said, after some thought. “I don’t remember much about her, though.” Kaer Mirh nodded. “I see. Well, let me tell you, then. I am building this altar to Boris because I am indebted to him. His glorious spirit granted me power last week - a great deal of power - and for this, I must regain my favour with him before I ask for more. It is only fair, considering how much help he has offered someone as insignificant as myself.” He nodded in the direction of Kaer Anni, who was busily digging holes for more seeds. “My kinswoman Kaer Anni, meanwhile, has a debt to the World Tree, also known as the Tree of Genesis. Have you heard about it?” Carn shook his head. “I thought not. It’s not a god us northerners know well, as a group. It’s the god of all plants, from the tallest tree to the smallest weed. Its presence is stronger in the south, where the trees grow tall and thick, and the rain is heavy and warm.” He chuckled. “Not many in my circle have seen its body with their own eyes, but this old fool? Oh, he has, he has.” “Where are you from?” Carn found himself asking. This question silenced the druid’s chuckle, and his eyes suddenly stared far beyond Carn, or anything for that matter. They then blinked down at Carn again and Kaer Mirh offered a single snicker. “Somewhere far, far away from here, my son.” He nodded back at his little heap. “Would you like to help out? The mountain god is certain to offer you some favour too, if you work for it.” Carn looked to the pile, then scanned the ground for a rock. When he set his eyes on one, he picked it up and carried it over. Once the druids had done their duties and made certain no one else was in dire need of aid, they approached the leader of the band, Kaer Mirh gesturing northwards. “I hope the route remains safe for you when you walk it. We saw nothing dangerous on the way, but you never know in these times.” “We’ll pray for you to have a tranquil and peaceful journey,” Kaer Anni offered and bowed curtly. Kaer Mirh repeated her action. “Thank you for your help,” Yorn nodded gratefully, though those who had suffered the most under the druid’s treatment appeared resentful. “But will you not be joining us?” The druids each raised a flat palm. “Sadly not. We’ve decided to travel further down south, now that we’re here. It’s been a few years since I personally visited this region, and Kaer Anni here has to stock up on remedies which plants cannot be found much further north than, well, these parts. However, we will be travelling north again soon, however, so perhaps our paths with cross again?” “Perhaps,” Yorn nodded. “I don’t know where we will go after we find Brundt, but… we’ll find a way to survive.” “I’ve heard Morganstead needs additional farmhands. When in dire need, my son, reach out to your neighbours. Perhaps they will take you in like they took in Brundt?” With that, the two of them turned and started walking away. “May the gods give you their most gracious blessings!” The survivors of Thyma watched their departure in silence. [hr] Two days later, they arrived at the village of Morganstead. The man who had his leg amputated was carried on a makeshift stretcher, while the worst of the other wounded were helped by their comrades. Others simply had to limp and endure the pain. As they walked into the village, the chieftain approached them and sighed. Two warriors flanked him on both sides. “What brings you here, outsiders?” “We’re from Thyma,” Yorn said, as if that would explain everything. “Oh,” the chieftain said. “Forgive me. I was told that none survived.” “Where is my brother?” Carn interrupted, stepping forward. “Where is Brundt?” The chieftain stared at the white haired boy, and realization dawned. “Oh, by the gods…” he whispered in horror. “I didn’t think…” “We were told that he was here,” Yorn snapped. “Where is he?” “I-I’m sorry,” the chieftain said. “Warriors arrived from Ketrefa the day after the druids left. They took him. You… you can see the remains of their camp over there.” Yorn looked around suspiciously. “The rest of your village seems unharmed.” He stepped forward, and his hand fell to an axe at his belt. “Did they take him, or did you give him up?” The chieftain’s guard levelled their spears in response, which in turn led each Thyman to place their hand on a weapon. “Enough!” the chieftain barked, causing his guards to point their spears back up, while some of the survivors from Thyma relaxed. Some, but not all. “This village has seen enough trouble as is. I’ll not have any blood spilled within it!” he scolded, both to his guards and the visitors. Then he fixed his gaze on Yorn. “We didn’t give the boy up. The Ketrefans were bound for [i]your[/i] village. When they found out it was destroyed, they took him and left the next day. There was nothing we could have done.” “You could have fought them!” Carn yelled, finding his voice as he stepped forward. “If we fought them, we all would have died,” the chieftain stated bluntly. “My father stayed and fought! He was outnumbered, but he fought so we could get away!” Carn argued defiantly. Yorn began approaching, intending to pull the boy back. “Your father died, boy,” the chieftain told him, “and the rest of his village didn’t fare any better. Forgive me. He was a good man, but we can’t just-” He never got to finish. A primal rage welled up in Carn’s chest, and suddenly the boy seized a knife from the chieftain’s belt and rammed it into the man’s gut. The village exploded into chaos after that. Bystanders screamed and yelled. One of the guards caught the chieftain as he fell, the blade still embedded in his gut. The other guard stared in astonishment and then, after recovering from his shock, thrust his spear toward Carn. But Yorn stepped between the two, deflecting the spear point with his axe. Seeing the fight break out, the survivors drew their weapons - spears, axes, picks, and swords. The back of Yorn’s axe smashed across the guard’s face, knocking him out, while the other guard attempted to drag the chieftain to safety. Yorn let him go. “Stupid boy!” Yorn hissed, seizing Carn by the neck and pulling him back to the main group. The villagers of Morganstead emerged from their homes carrying weapons of their own. Most had not seen what happened; only that their chieftain had been stabbed and one of his guards was down. They would not stand a chance against eighty disciplined troops from Ketrefa, but this ragtag and injured band? They could manage. With weapons in hand, Morganstead’s residents charged who they believed to be their attackers. They came from all sides, in bits and pieces; there was no unity, and no discipline. Yorn buried his axe into an attacker’s chest. Carn watched a Thyman fall nearby, the killer moving on to another, only to take a spear in the ribs. The villagers of Morganstead drew back; five of theirs dead in exchange for three of Thyma’s. But they were not done - they began forming up around their dying chieftain, finally realizing that they could drive their attackers back with the advantage of numbers. “Run!” Yorn shouted, and the survivors ran, Carn among them. The man who had his leg amputated had to be left behind. They fled toward the treeline, and the villagers of Morganstead gave pursuit. Fortunately, Yorn’s group had enough of a headstart to safely make it to the brush. Even then, they continued running. A few were lost - either they broke off to flee on their own, or they tripped over roots and rocks. Eventually they made it a safe distance from the village. Then, Yorn seized Carn by the shoulders and shoved him against a nearby tree. “Stupid boy!” the older man repeated, backhanding him sharply across the face. Carn tasted blood in his mouth. He struggled under Yorn’s grip, then spat out a tooth. “They lost my brother!” he cried. “Killing their chieftain won’t bring your brother back,” Yorn repeated. “You’re a bloody murderer, now. You’ve disgraced your father’s memory, got good men killed, and brought shame to the rest of us!” Carn looked to the rest of his people, hoping someone would intervene. But nobody had any sympathy. Yorn pulled him away from the tree and turned him away from the group. “Go,” the man said. “We can’t have you around anymore. Word will get out that you killed that chieftain, and nobody will welcome us anymore. By our own laws you should die, but we’ll let you live out of respect for your father.” He gave him a shove. “Go!” Carn went, breaking off into a run. Tears stung his eyes and anger filled his chest as he thought of the unfairness of it all. [hr] [hider=Post Summary] Carn is rescued by Thyma’s survivors. They bury the dead and set up a camp. Two days later, Kaer Mirh and Kaer Anni arrive. They tell them that Brundt is alive and then tend to the wounded. Carn asks them some questions about the gods, such as Boris and the Tree of Genesis. The next morning, the druids part ways to go elsewhere, while the survivors head to Morganstead - under the leadership of a man named Yorn. They arrive at Morganstead are quite pissed to discover that Brundt was taken by some Ketrefans. As the chieftain is explaining himself, Carn stabs him with a knife. A fight breaks out with the villagers, with the group being forced to flee after taking more casualties. After they all get away, Yorn is pissed. He calls Carn a murderer and exiles him from the group. Carn flees deeper into the woods. [/hider] [hider=Prestige Summary] [u]Carn[/u] [b]Beginning Prestige:[/b] 5 +5 for 10k character post. -1 for Carn, a child, to kill a grown man with his own weapon before he can react. [b]Ending Prestige:[/b] 9 [u]Longstride[/u] [b]Beginning Prestige:[/b] 5 +5 for 10k character post. [b]Ending Prestige:[/b] 10 [/hider]