A Different Fantasy: The Sorin Chronicles

Chapter 1: The Jagged Peaks

*disclaimer*

1) I do not own the cover art. I found it on google, credits go to fmikeart on DeviantArt.

2) This chapter does have a content warning. I don't believe the content you absorb is anyone elses problem, but I think people should do their due diligence to warn people about content that is graphic in nature and might cause psychological harm. reader discretion is advised.

The day I was born wasn't a special one, aside from the excessive snow that blanketed the jagged peaks, and almost completely obscured the hills and valleys with a prolific and ever-present mist. My father Grimvald, a great big man with an enormous red mane and beard, covered head to toe in battle scars and tribal tattoos to mark his many victories, was scowling at my appearance. by all accounts, I was a small and unremarkable baby lacking the marked red mane of my brothers and sisters, however with good reason. My mother, Rhea, was a small fair woman with dark blue hair and a loving countenance. make no mistake, despite her rather fragile appearance, she was a fierce and capable lioness of a warrior in her own right, and a compliment in everyway to all of my fathers strengths, and a perfect counter to his downsides. Being she was married off to my Father in a political move to strengthen tribal relations between us and the highland forest tribes, she had come to be a shrewd and adept diplomat.

"The boy is small. he'll be lucky to live through the first winter." said My father, standing next to the resting bed my mother lay in, cradling me in her arms.

"Oh, Grimvar, my love. don't you see? the boy is a perfect Symbol of our union. Look at his hair. a lustrous violet...a perfect mix between the two of us."

"The boy is still small and pale. How do we know he will survive? and even IF he does, what makes you think he will grow to be a capable warrior? or hunter even? no son of mine will-"

"hush, love. he is small yet. he will grow, and he will train at the age he is strong enough to wield a blade. Have patience, hw will be a fine son...here."

Cradling me softly and supporting my head, she passed me along to my father, Who was taken aback and I imagine, for the first time holding his only son in his arms. If I remember correctly, my mother said it was the first time she had seen this man's countenance soften, and his face glow with fatherly love.

"I think we shall call you...Sorin."

As an infant, then toddling child, my mother says my father and I were inseparable. He playfully used to call me his third boot, as I clung to his leg at every opportunity.

As I grew older, my father grew harder toward me, as he was preparing me to be a capable warrior. at this point in my life, I think, was when my father's disdain for me began to take seed. I hadn't grown to be quite as large as he'd hoped, compared to the children of the other men in the tribe. I imagine my father had felt I was the unfit child of a chieftain like himself, being as accomplished as he was. Frequently he would scold my mother, who taught me how to read and write, for "Making me soft" and blamed her for producing a son as small as I was. He must've done something right, (possibly with the aid of my mother's teachings) however, because as I grew older I did indeed become quite the capable fighter compared to the other children, who were easily twice my size, and only about a third as cunning. This did not, however, assuage my fathers doubts. He was a ruthless and unkind teacher. nonetheless, by the time I grew to the age of 13, I was battle ready and eager for any test of strength.

As a tribal custom, every boy must be cast into the wild for one year at the age of 13. They are given a pack with a weeks rations, a sword, a bow, 5 arrows and a light raiment. They were to return with the skin and teeth of a great beast, or not return at all. When my time came, my father was especially cruel.