The Broken Realm

Chapter 1

DAMIEN

Golden rays shone across snow-capped trees as the rising sun emerged from behind the mountains, announcing a new dawn. The air was crisp and clear, carrying a cold that bit through layers of wool. Hidden away in the crown of a mighty oak tree, the boy stretched his body, waking from his sleep. Damien rubbed the remainder of his dreams from his eyes and gazed at the mountain range in the distance, giants of grey and white shrouded in a curtain of cloud. The common folk of Windred called it the Crags for steep and rugged they were. Dangers were aplenty for beyond the Crags lay the Endless Mountains. No living human had come or gone from the place, not from his knowledge at least.

It's cold today, he thought. Feeling the icy chill permeating the morning air, he shivered before pulling a well-worn cloak of moose-hide closer to his chest. That's better. An adept hunter and tracker, Damien had earned this cloak by felling a moose many moons ago, a feat that brought him close to the Crags. Days of tracking and a well-placed arrow to its head, mostly luck, took the large animal down. Damien had eaten well that winter. Crude and rough it may be, but the cloak, padded with roughspun wool, served its purpose well, and had kept Damien warm on many cold nights.

Hailing from the village of Windred, Damien was a handsome youth of sixteen. Perhaps it had something to do with the way he ate – which was little to none, but Damien was scrawny for his age. With dark eyes, raven black hair and a fair countenance, one might mistake him for a noble. Alas, his origins were not that lofty. Brendan, his foster father, told him his story.

Brendan had travelled to Everclear Harbour for trade when their party discovered the remnants of a convoy. The work of brigands he reckoned, for such incidents were commonplace in the Swamplands. They searched the debris for survivors, only to find a barely breathing baby. Brendan rushed him to a healer in Everclear Harbour. Thankfully, the baby was saved, though his heart ceased its beating once. He was then adopted by his saviour and named Damien. Though Damien often wondered if he took after his father, or his mother, these are things that he'll never know, for he was absent any memories of his kin. His appearance belied a frailty that did not exist. In the harsh northern lands, the common folk of Windred were no strangers to hardship and suffering.

"I'd best be headed back," murmured Damien sleepily, as he unbuckled himself from the thick branch he had called a bed. He had developed a habit of talking to himself for days were long and lonely in Blackwood. Freed from his restraints, he studied the forest floor intently. Blackwood forest was not a place that the inexperienced or ignorant should venture. The many beasts that called this forest their home would easily view Damien as a delicious snack. A reason that convinced Damien to risk falling from the branches of ancient oaks and towering sentinels during his sleep. All seems to be clear. Assured, Damien slung the pack containing his trophy, a fat pheasant that stumbled into his path, over his shoulders. He swung himself from the branch, jumping from one to the other, natural as a monkey. Perched up high near the crown of the oak, he navigated his way through a criss-crossing maze of branches. Damien finally dropped from a low hanging branch just a few feet off the ground and landed lightly on his feet. His unruly hair bore the appearance of a bird's nest, with twigs and leaves entwined within. He ran his fingers through the mess and brushed himself off. It was time to head for home.

His breath steamed in the frigid morning air as he began to walk. "I'm a little hungry. Let's see what I've got in my pack." Of course, he remembered exactly what he had in his pack. Removing the last of the leather-like rations from his pack, he grimaced as he placed the dried jerky in his mouth. By the gods, what I'd give for a warm meal right now... Damien threaded his way briskly through a trail indiscernible by the inexperienced, his footsteps careful and measured. There were tentacles of tangled branches and roots hidden under blankets of leaves that could easily inflict a sprain upon the unwary. Such an injury could prove fatal in Blackwood, for weakened prey was not something most beasts would ignore.