Turin silently crept along the forest floor, ignoring the many ants that bit through his boiled leather leggings. His mind was focused on the meal to come, the rich and delicate taste of fresh venison. He started to drool, and his grip on his bow automatically tightened. The young red deer snuffled in the bushes searching for saplings, oblivious to the danger behind it.
He expertly notched his hand-crafted arrow, and aimed with a practiced eye. He aimed for the organs of the deer as it obliviously munched at a small oak sapling. He let the arrow loose, but it fell off target by a large distance. He had heard a blood-curdling howl, the one of an animal effected by some disease, or possessed by a spirit demon. It echoed through the forest, and chilled Turin to the bone. The young deer bolted off, obviously frightened by the howl and the noise of Turin's jagged arrow slicing into the nearby oak tree's thick bark.
Turin jumped up to his feet, the moonlight dancing on his rough form. He could hear their padded paws pounding the forest floor as they tenaciously chased any animal in sight. This was not the first time that the wolf pack acted strange. They ravaged the forest, killing any animals they came across; even humans. Turin ran as fast as he could to his shelter, and immediately struck his flint with force, the dried twigs at his fireplace immediately burst into flames. Turin added larger sticks, making the fire blaze with an uncontrollable and primal rage. Turin crouched, and did a quick gesture of protection and safekeeping. Turin caught the eye of one of the wolves as they ran past his den, its red and maddened gaze freezing him in place; he dared not move, as if a shaman had put a spell over him. The wolves ignored Turin - he posed no threat and the beasts naturally feared fire.
Something strange was going on, something that was unbalancing the natural order. Turin had been struggling to hunt this summer, lucky if he found any deer and lived almost solely off plants and dried meats from years before. The druids of Turin's tribe told of a terrible drought, but not any drought; one brought by the great ice lord, Isen. The stories of Turin's ancestors went that Isen was once a mortal man that was the son of the leader of a great tribe, one so great that many of the smaller tribes joined it in fear of being destroyed. Isen was a mighty warrior, son of the great war chief Valgus. Isen being twenty two winters old, fell in love with a village girl, and devoted himself to her. They had two sons together, and those sons grew up strong and healthy. Isen's Father - Valgus, saw this and a slow rage formed over the years for Isen and his family. Why should he have to watch his son enjoy his life and have a family while he withered away and was eventually replaced? No, he did not like it. In the middle of the night, when everyone was asleep, Valgus stole into Isen's lavishly decorated tent. He held his precious and ice-cold blade firmly, tightening his grip for reassurance. He, one by one, slit the throats of Isen's sons and wife, and ran back to his war tent in a hurry.
The next morning, Isen woke up, calling on his sons to get ready for the days training. He walked through the room, and noticed muddy footprints trailing inside. His eyes hovered over the blood trailing from each of his family, and the truth did not quite hit him instantly. His breathing slowed, his eyes started to glare with a concentrated fury that was cold, like blue ice. He noticed the war chief’s seal, ironically sitting in blood. Everything clicked to Isen, and his vengeance grew. He pulled his spear off its stand on the wall, and headed to the war chief’s tent, his intentions clear. He slaughtered his father as well as anyone he laid eyes on including the slaves and guards. It is said that Isen's heart became so cold and empty that he became one with the bitter and bleak winter, using its force destructively to wreak havoc on anything living, and tainting the rest with a hate as strong as his own.
It is also said that Isen's tribe fought internally, the individual tribes seeing Valgus' death as an indication for freedom. For weeks they fought, until only a few survived, maddened by the burden of their experiences. This great battle place is called Ruins of Gruon, as that is what the great tribe was called - The Gruon tribe. The great druids of Turin's tribe say that Isen hides in an ancient ice cave, on the very top of the Ikis peninsula using the elements to batter down anything still living. This was the cause of the great cold, of the maddened wolf packs - or so the druids said.
Turin shook himself, the weariness tearing into his being. For three nights and three days he had not slept, eating malum berries when he felt himself nodding off. He poked at his fire, and decided that it was safe to leave his haven. Opening the crudely crafted and weak wooden gate, Turin headed in the direction of his tribes camp. The forest was eerily silent, not present was the familiar chirping of the crickets, the toots of the owl, nothing. Still thinking about the great and ancient tale of Isen, Turin unconsciously fell right through a hunters trap. He fell to the floor of the expertly made trap in a heap. He cursed under his breath as to not attract any attention.
Strangely, the pit was covered with soft fur, and Turin looked underneath him. The stench hit his nostrils so hard he almost fainted. Carcasses of wolves where piled up in a massive heap, creating a festering pile of rotting fur and flesh and bones. Turin’s head was spinning. He stumbled towards the wall of the trap, reached it, and tripped. His head hit a solid object and he fell into the festering pile that was his floor.
A ray of sunlight sliced across Turin's face, bringing him out of his sleep. Familiar smells wafted into his nostrils, intoxicating him.
Turin groaned. His head was throbbing, and he was soaked in his own sweat. He had been taken into a dark and gloomy wooden hut, and had been put into a massive pile of wolf and deer skins. He looked around; recognising none of it. Sitting up, a wolf skull glared at him. It was hanging from the wall, adorned with intricate paintings and stones. The memories of the previous day hit him - the smell, the sickening smell – the rotting flesh, the inescapable and claustrophobic pit... Turin bent forward and retched, but nothing came out. He sat there for a few minutes, shaking. Finally he decided to get up. He tried his leg - but fell to his knees.
He drifted in and out of consciousness, the walls of the hunting hut blurry, the colours all mingled into one mass. He crawled as far as he could go, and all that was familiar to him drifted away, like a log drifts down a river... He could hear the water, trickling gently, urging him to let go... to give in to the temptation of eternal sleep. No! He would not! His father brought him up better; he was a hunter of the Gruon tribe, son of Lokthar the tribe leader. Turin found a new strength and his anger for this force grew. He floated back into consciousness, and found himself floating in the river Fulis Dekh, Fools death. The river was amply named, its steep muddy banks made sure nothing escaped and the icy fast flowing currents swept the aggressor along with a wild fury.
The spirits of Fulis Dekh are well known for hating all living things. Turin’s natural reaction was to let the river control him. He knew that if he struggled he would die. He let it carry him, for many minutes. Turin saw his chance – a fallen tree, just in his reach. At the last moment, Turin used all his strength to lunge out of the water and to clutch on to the tree. From there, he clambered up the fallen tree and fell on to the muddy bank, the mud larvae sucking his blood, but he did not care. He was on solid ground again. He kissed the mud, thankful that the Earth mother had saved him from the river spirits. Turin brushed the mud larvae off of his body, and started to limp in the direction of his tribe’s camp.
Upon arrival of the tribe’s lookout outposts, Turin noticed something strange. The thing that was so strange was that he heard no sounds. Usually you would hear the friendly mumble of families talking around a fire, or the birds singing their songs, or the coarse laughter of warriors telling each other jokes – but, nothing. He also noticed that the temperature had dropped greatly, and it was in the middle of spring. Turin dashed forward, forgetting his injuries completely. What if something or someone had attacked his tribe? Had they fled? or... Turin shook the thought out of his head. They couldn’t! His tribe was the strongest and most known and respected tribe in the greater forest!
Turin crashed through the bushes and brambles, ignoring the arrow-sharp thorns that hooked and embedded themselves into his flesh. He stumbled into his family’s tent, and fell forward. The smell... it was awful. Something had been rotting for a few days already. Turin looked around, but saw nothing. He started searching and upon opening his river reed case for his hunting bow, the rancid smell overpowered Turin, so much that he almost vomited. Turin stumbled backwards into a pile of hides. He ran outside, and retched up what little food that he had eaten. Kneeling down, Turin processed what he had just seen.
“It can’t be...” Turin whispered, his voice hoarse.
He fell down on his knees, tears flowed down his cheeks. He shouted to the forest, to the spirits that watched over him. Birds flew from their perches, animals scampered in the forest floor, seeking refuge from something unknown. Turin focused his rage, promised himself he would avenge his families death. He started to pile a funeral fire, collecting as much wood as he could. He lit it with a flint he found in his families tent, the fires wild and primal nature reflected into Turin’s eyes. He covered his mouth, and carried his dead mother out of the tent and placed her on the funeral pyre. He then dragged his father out, taking off his father’s ornately designed and painted lamellar armour, as well as his hunting bowie knife and placing it carefully by a young spruce.
The fire sparked and spitted with the addition of Turin’s father. Wearing his father’s war armour, Turin picked up the bowie knife, putting it into his leather satchel. He picked up the ivory bow, his grip tightening expertly. His eyes thinned with discipline and fury. Whoever did this will pay...
Turin ran out of sight of the camp. He learn what accursed thing had done this, and bring an end to it....
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Nice job so far, I'm very much interested in the rest.
