Sleep evaded Wyll, his grey eyes staring into the darkness of the night. His dream felt so real, the remnants of memory almost as he clenched his jaw and huffed, beads of sweat gently rolling down his face. Wyll felt his mind racing, a rush of questions and information overwhelming him as he let out an annoyed groan before standing and gathering some water. Quickly he quenched his thirst before pouring the rest on his head, the shock of the cold water clearing his mind as he breathed, sighing as he made his way back to the tent. The only thing he needed on his mind was the Rites that would take place in the coming day, something that would earn him a rightful spot among the Purple Dragoons.

Slowly his mind drifted, chasing the knowledge he knew. Humans were the oldest race but known for one of the shorter lifespans, but generations had been walking the world before the other races. The second oldest race is an argument; the Dwarves argue its them, and the Elves swear by the creators it was them who walked Vileres second. The youngest of the races to be appropriately acknowledged by the Blacksmith were the Beastkin, coming in all shapes and sizes and a variety of animals. They were the most interesting to Wyll due to the rumor that they could change, and their strength drastically changed with them.

The sound of an animals cries drew Wyll from his sleep as he stirred, a pained yelp sounding in the nearby forest as Wyll rose from where he lay. His eyes curiously wandered to the tree line as he began to put on his armor, sliding the furred leather breastplate over his sleep shirt and quickly putting on the rest as he slinked off into the forest. Wyll tried his best to sneak through the woods without drawing too much attention though it was difficult seeing that he stood six feet tall(1.82 meters.) Twigs cracked under his feet, leaves crunching with every fall of his foot as the pained sounds of an animal beckoned him deeper into the woods. His vision was obscured, trees cutting his vision short as he came into a clearing, as the familiar smell hit his nose, blood.

His eyes fell on a grave sight but not an unfamiliar one. A small beastkin child, blood spilling out onto the forest floor, choking on tears as he shook. The child looked to be a young boy with small round ears sitting on top of his head as they were almost hidden by his blonde hair that was dotted with black. The young feline had bloodied claws as he weakly bore them at Wyll with his fangs. Wyll saw that the kid still had fight in him as the boys lips seemed to grow paler; Wylls grey eyes were quick to spot the problem. An arrow was planted in the boys thigh; it was unclear if the arrow had missed the Femoral artery, but Wyll didn have time to guess.

Wyll approached, sliding beside the boy, who quickly began to lash out at him in fear, the claws catching his armor and nicking his skin some as he bore through the pain. Since Wyll wasn a Wielder, he was never allowed to join in on battles, but he did act as a field medic for the Purple Dragoons. Quickly he applied a field bandage to the boy, not removing the arrow as the sound of hunting hounds came near. With them came voices,

”You idiots! This was a simple job, and you dumb **s managed to screw it up! We promised an unharmed Beastkin cub! Preferred feline, and we found one, and you idiots can keep the brat under wraps! You deserve those damn scratches! ” a very annoyed and tired mans voice sounded out, almost echoing through the woods.

The boy goes to sob out in despair as Wyll covers his mouth, motioning for him to keep quiet with his fingers over his lips. With teary eyes, the boy sniffles, holding back sobs as Wyll gently lifts the boy off the ground, and the two begin to make their way out of the forest. If it were anyone else from the company, it would have been smooth sailing, but unfortunately, Wyll had lead heavy feet. A branch snapped under his foot, and the talking ceased, the sounds of paws racing toward them as Wyll muttered a curse.

Arrows were let loose at blinding speed as they seemingly curved and narrowly missed trees, the glint of moonlight signaling to Wyll of their approach as he broke his pacing, stepping behind a tree as the arrows solidly planted themselves into the sturdy wood. Wyll cursed, hearing the dogs draw closer as he weighed his options. Abandon the boy, make it out alive, and hope to make it back to camp in time to make it back with reinforcements… Not an option. Wyll gulped as he set the boy on his feet and locked eyes with the young cub.

”I know you
e hurt. I know you feel weak, but you must run, little guy. There is a camp ahead with people; scream and Yell that Wyll is in trouble in the woods; they will keep you safe. Run, run, and don look back, don slow down! ” In a whispered hiss, Wyll spoke, his voice having a hint of fear as he struggled to remain strong for the feline.

The boy weakly began to run, wobbling off into the thick woods as Wyll stepped out from his hiding spot. Large dogs quickly approached as the ringing of steel being brought down on hot steel echoed in Wylls head; a burning red lit up his vision as off in the distance, a figure was leaned over an anvil beating on heated metal. Wyll saw one of the beasts leap out toward him as time seemed to slow, his heart racing in his chest as he placed a kick into the dogs windpipe, feeling it give way as a yelp sounded out into the forest.

Wyll didn have time to feel guilty as the other dog came into view, beginning to circle him as Wyll brought up a guard. The beast bore its fangs before jumping out to lash out, its jaw clamping down on his forearm as the bracers kept his skin from being pierced.

”Im sorry… ” Wyll, in one fluid movement, snapped its neck. The sickening crunch churned his guts as the body went limp, as four men came into view, shocked to see a large figure dropping the dog like a sack of potatoes. Wyll looked at them as the air seemed to shimmer, each of the men flinching as an aura surrounded Wyll. The air seemed to warp around him like heat distorting the air around flames as his grey eyes glowed in the night. Two of the three men began to flee, yelping out in fear as they took off into the night.

”Tch, suitable for wastes of space. Crazy trick you
e doin there, bud, but it won run me off! Now, if we
e gonna fight, you better draw your weapon, or Imma kill ya in a single swing! ” he roared, his words laced with vile venom. The man seemed revved up, excited to see a challenge, as a malicious grin crossed his face. Quickly he draws a weapon Wyll had never seen, a club-like weapon made of stone, seemingly studded with metal. The weapon looked gaudy and difficult to wield, but the man seemed confident.

”Sorry to disappoint, but I don have one. I get it tomorrow, but I don have time to let a scumbag like you live another day. Come at me, you tub of lard; Ill put you in your place ” Wyll held confidence in his voice as his eyes narrowed at the greasy man. The bandit seemed to stand taller than Wyll by a few inches, though the bastard had much more weight to him than Wyll. Anger washed over the man as he screamed out in rage; as suddenly, with almost blinding speed, the club swung at Wyll, slamming into him, Wylls world was immediately rocked.

The air was knocked out of him as he was slammed into a tree, and the feeling of one of his ribs crunching spread through his body as he cried out in pain, forced to spit up blood. The ringing became deafening as he struggled to breathe, a saying that the company had crossed his mind. Today is a good day to die!

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