Hunted: A Narrative Fiction

Prologue

It is a time of darkness. The sun’s light casts over the hills of the earth, but then quickly vanishes. A time where trees become bare; the grey sentinels lifeless and brittle. The air cuts at your chest with every breath. It is the time of winter. Winter, in the northern lands of Falkreath, is a time of fear and struggle. The harsh winter sees no forgiveness as it is the ultimate test of survival. The folk who live in the northern lands of Falkreath have learned to cope with the harsh environment. They are a simple folk; foragers and craftsman, for they are exceptional at these two things. The hunters of Falkreath are known for having no fear of the terrible wild that live in the North Lands. They hunt the feared saber-bears, mammoths, and woolly rhinos for food. The hunters of Falkreath would spend weeks out in the lands tracking these large animals, stopping at nothing. They need the hide and meat that these animals provide to survive the winter.

The craftsmen of Falkreath build strong structures that endure the harsh environment of the North Lands. Their homes can withstand the tremendous weight of snow from week long blizzards. In this harsh land where survival is a struggle, there is something that gives them the will to live; a mountain.

There reaching at the heavens; the Mountain. Shrouded by the fog that separates peak from base. The overwhelming power of its sight. No one would dare stare at it to long, as if it were the sun. The mountain represents all that is unknown. Many journey up to face the peak and to discover the mysteries within its roots. But the mountain would swallow them and forbid them to journey home. The people believe the Mountain to be the arm of the Earth; ever moving....

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...is sword and sat on the fur mat. Barvir walked over to the edge of the camp and looked into the sky. It was a few hours before dawn, but there would be no sunlight to welcome it. As long as the Mountain stood there, these lands would not see the light. Dark times where upon Barvir and the people of Falkreath. The beast that spawns from the shadow of the mountain has yet to reveal itself. Any mention of the monster’s name was forbidden and feared, for it may come down upon the land the instant the name was spoken. He whispered, “Teratorn.”

He felt a cold wind blow through the pines and hit his face. His eyes tearing from the cold, he felt as if there was a pull coming from the Mountain. As if it was drawing him, tempting him to come to the Mountain. He shivered and turned and looked at the dying fire.

“Did you feel that?” Dorian got up drawing his sword.