The Forgotten

Prelude

It was still early, the rays from the sunrise reflecting off autumn leaves that left areas shimmering in white and orange light just above the morning mist. An old forest with only a few small saplings just visible behind ancient ancestral trees that towered beyond sight towards the sky, covered in green moss that glistened from the water droplets that coated it. The place was quiet apart from the rustling of small creatures wading their way through the fallen leaves in search for something to eat.

Unable to see the small rats and wood mice that roamed the forest, Rendall strode through the white haze covering the boy's legs. Rendall's mother always told him to stay clear of the forest past the towering oak trees whose trunks spanned three meters, the trees that he had passed over an hour ago. The forest lost its name many centuries ago but it was rumoured that it held horrors that would ensure men and women never return to where they came from. One such horror was the wild wolves, growing to six feet tall while on all fours, hides as hard as steel and teeth that would crush a skull like he would bite into an apple.

Descriptions of the beasts were at least exaggerated, Rendall thought. No one had ever seen a wolf and if the stories were true, you would never know that one came near as they were as silent as the night while stalking prey and they were likely the prey themselves.

His mother meant to scare Rendall with the stories. But they only fuelled his curiosity for adventure to one day meet one. Yet of all his favourite stories were the ancient race of men known as the Belldar. They appeared human with only a few subtle differences. Their eyes were often a deep silver or gold that would reflect light giving them sharper vision but also made them discernible in a crowd. They also had a mark on the back of their neck that would represent an animal that they bonded with, though rarely were the young identified as one of the race as the mark would only appear after they had gone through the bonding. Humans hated the Belldars' ability to live long lives. Lives that would span hundreds of years before even the marks of age could be seen.

With a deep love of nature and fairness the Belldar ruled for centuries with peace and prosperity, but as time passed descent grew amongst fractions of men that lusted for their power. As the stories went, rebels gathered in secret gatherings, with followers and fanatics flocking to their cause. With numbers too many to count on their side the world dissented into war, the last war many call it, as nothing has been seen of its like since. Hundreds of thousands died, cities were destroyed and forests burnt to ash.

After years of conflict, men eventually overwhelmed the Belldar, the number of humans too much for them. Many went into hiding, exile or were just killed on sight. Death would have been better for the ones that survived as their bonded animals were hunted and killed. The loss of their animal companion drove them into madness which was said to birth some of the most feared warlords known in history.

The war against the Belldar was cruel and Rendall wondered if the story fell into legend and not history because his forbearers tried to hide the atrocities they committed.

Rendall stopped and surveyed the woodland, grimacing at the thought of the destruction. Although it was meant to be a story, the boy stared at statues of kings and old towers found in the depths of the ancient forests. He felt a kinship with the lost race, either through the love of the tales of something else that he was never quite sure how to place. What's more is the young boy hated the celebrations of murder that took place when stories were told, and when they were he was often found staring at his silver eyes in the reflections of water wishing for revenge.

He felt at peace in the woods no matter the stories or warnings, it was untouched by human hands and at this time in the morning, all that could be heard was the songs of the sparrows that would wake up the slumbering animals, the rustling of leaves masking their sneaking around. Rendall had woke early, leaving before the sun rose, off into the woods with his bow, a small bag of rations and a knife in search for some wild mushrooms that would spring up overnight when the conditions were just right. The snow-white caps would circle one another as they spread their fungi in a perfect ring. Elders would often tease the children that fairies would come and lay them so aptly named fairy rings.