The Huntsman of Harlus

Chapter 1 - Bad Dreams and Worse Names

In the dark cold of midnight, a town was lit up brighter than daylight. Roaring fires swathed over rooftops and raged through houses. The surrounding grassland had begun to catch fire as well, the inferno consuming all in its path with the greed and ferocity of Hell itself. The townsfolk fled their homes, desperate to escape the raging inferno to the safety of the distant hills, away from the flames' grasp. The men, women, and children were too panicked to realize how blindly they ran into running into greater danger. Scores of Nordic raiders surrounded the town on all sides, maliciously hefting battleaxes, arming swords, and longbows drawn at the ready. Horrified, the townsfolk froze where they stood as arrows pierced through the darkness, shortly after piercing flesh, fletchings almost sprouting from the commoner's bodies like cruel ferns taking root.

Any chance at survival was cast off when the first homestead was lit ablaze. Now, there was no fighting or fleeing to be had, only the capture and execution of townsfolk too terrified to fight and too petrified to run. With a triumphant bellow, the company of vagabonds pumped their fists and weapons in unison, whooping and hollering in cold-blooded victory.

Raloff's eyes shot open. He stared up at the cloudless sky with dark beige eyes the color of earth. Laying still, he reached up a dirt-caked hand to his forehead, fingers running through oily cinnamon hair. Normally in a ponytail, scraggly locks of hair now hung loosely around his face. With a grunt and long exhale, he sat up and observed the immediate surroundings. He was laying among the miscellaneous cargo of a shoddily made horse-drawn cart, with splintering wood and squealing wheels. Normally, it would have been panic-inducing for someone to find themselves in such a resting place, but with the "escort" he had paid for, Raloff was relieved to have not been robbed while sleeping; or furthermore, to have fallen asleep in the first place.

As soon as mild relief began to set in, so did the numerous aches and pains throughout his body. "The joys of sleeping in a cart," Ralof muttered to himself as he pressed a finger to his temple. The light, cheery voice of a young man responded with, "Oh? Has doth statue yonder awoken from thine stone-cold slumber?

Ralof turned to face the driver in a full-torso motion that probably looked as stiff as he felt. "Has doth idiot yonder forgotten how to use modern language?" Raloff mocked in an unenthused impersonation of the burgeoning coachman. The driver was young, to be sure, anywhere between fourteen to sixteen years of age, but to his credit, handled the ramshackle carriage with the steady hand of a professional chauffeur.

From what Ralof could tell, the boy was also a foreigner. Between the lad's rich, chestnut-colored skin and his jubilant hazel eyes, he looked to be from across the East-Medrossian Sea. Raloff himself had never been there, but living in a port-town for 22 years brings many foreigners; even more so stories of the lands they come from. Most foreigners come to central Medrossia with open minds and strong arms, only to find ridicule and xenophobism after passing into Harlus' borders. Raloff however, couldn't care less where the boy was from, much less put in the effort to produce any quips about the lad's appearance; the only exception to this being the bushel of hair sprouting from the boy's head.

Even now, Raloff had come up with at least 3 potential jests at the curly black mass resting atop the young man's head, and all of them featured a belligerent badger as the gag line. Raloff didn't believe the boy would kick him off the cart for wisecracking, but there was little point to instigating further, so in his mind is where the jests would stay.

"Oh dear me," the coachman laughed, "another brilliant reposte from Mr.Hunstman!" Raloff and the boy had engaged in several bouts like this during the past few hours the trip had taken place, but there was never any true contempt carried in their jeers, and the banter made the journey far less boring, at least in Raloff's eyes, anyway.

Raloff laid back against a heap of vegetable sacks and gazed at the landscape, casually stretching out his arms and pulling them back behind his head. The surrounding countryside consisted of gently rolling hills of unspoiled emerald grass that roamed off into distant forests, and in the north, ever distant beyond those, the mountains. Raloff could tell that way was North because it was the only area in the entire Continent of Medrossia that had any form of mountainous scenery. The North, however, would be far out of Raloff's way, which was fine by him. He had business in Yaleh, a city within Central Harlus, which was the political centrifuge of the Kingdom of Harlus.

Raloff considered why the late King had named locations in such a manner. He figured old King Harlus must have been either an ass who was incredibly vain or an ass who couldn't be bothered to come up with anything more creative than, 'my name is cool, I'll name everything after me.' Judging by the sea of grassy turf, the moronic-named destination was close, another hour at most. At that thought, Raloff let out a long sigh of relief; the sooner he could leave behind Harlus, the better.