Hendirun, Blade of the Scout

Though the road had so far brought no difficulties, the scout walked carefully with a measured gait along its path through the forest. At his waist, the amber eyes of a carved weasel shone out from the hilt of his weapon. Out of sight behind the scout, the rest of his small community advanced steadily across the arch of the moving sun in the direction of their hallowed great mound. Safe in the knowledge that threats would be thwarted by others like him, they filled baskets with the waning season’s fruit as they went. Their journey through this forest was long, however, and they had entered an area that connected several towns which could not be avoided. This scout’s mind wandered to memories reminiscent of last year’s bountiful foods that he would soon taste again.

As if on cue, his sharp ears caught rustling in the underbrush ahead. Barely changing his pace, he listened closely until he detected the unmistakable whistle of air that betrays people whispering. It wasn’t long before he could make out their words; these few were young ones, but their intentions were of the dangerous kind. Before the hidden teens could spot him, he set down his pack, drew his blade and let its animal’s soul blend into his. Then, with distinctly fluid movements, he slipped silently into the woods.

By the time the would-be assailants learned of his presence, it was already too late to react. He set upon them so swiftly that he appeared to them as more shadow than man and it was but moments before they were stumbling away with panicked cries of pain and fear. Satisfied with the lesson he had imparted, he retrieved his pack and resumed his course. He had left them alive but they carried with them a tale that would always mark their bodies and would strengthen old stories that spoke of a strange danger that awaited villains in the depths of the woods. Meanwhile, his people remained safe and unhindered as they traveled, their minds on holy and festive things to come…