Dygan Heartswind - Chapter 1

Two inspirations, nearly puking in front of my friends, and missing my deadline for this (I planned to be done by 9:45 United States East Coast Time). I have finally written The Trials and Tragedies of Dygan Heartswind, Chapter 1. Feel free to post any constructive criticisms on my writing, but please don't be groundless.

Chapter 1: A Single Step

“Which step is most important in a journey? Is it the step you take first, the one that defines where you begin, or the step you take last, the one that defines where you end? I believe it is the step you take currently, the one that defines where you are. For it is in that step that you have control over.”
-Dygan Heartswind, on journeys

“Dygan, oh Dygan!” came the sweet herbalist’s voice from inside the house. “Dygan, my child, it is time for you to eat. You can’t expect to swing that practice sword around upon an empty stomach, can you?”

“What? I agree completely, mother. I will be there promptly,” said the youth who was called Dygan.

Dygan had medium length brown hair that reflected the sun in just the right fashion. By all accounts, he was a handsome youth, if a little scrawny. He was tall, and caught the eyes of the girls the town over. His eyes, blue, were bright with the vibrancy of life. His wits were fairly quick about him, and most times he knew what needed to be said, when it needed to be said. However, he was easily one of the skinniest youth in the town, but that meant nothing to those who knew the young lad. His arms had some strength about them, and he could pull his weight when needed. Where he excelled at, however, was his swordplay. Tharanian guards occasionally patrolled the village, and Dygan never hesitated to learn all he could from a new face.

“Dygan Naronell! I’m not going to tell you again,” the herbalist called out.

“I apologize, mother.”

Dygan glanced at his mother, Raye. She always had a calm, caring disposition, especially around her young son. She was starting to lose her youthful beauty to maternal beauty, but it was the first stages of this, so it was more a showing that she was advancing into a higher state of wisdom. She had a young son and a caring husband to look after her, and soon young girls to early mothers would come to ask her advice on matters. Dygan knew this to be just a stage of life, no more different than he being born.

“Well, it’s no matter,” his mother smiled at him, and went back to tending some of her plants. She was the village’s chief herbalist, and that honor came with a lot of devotion to her plants.

“What did you do this morning?” she asked while he ate his midday meal.

“I just practiced with my sword for a while. Elly came to visit today.”

“One of your little friends came to visit? I trust you were polite?” Dygan nodded, “I see why they follow you around like bees to honey.”

They both shared a laugh, and at this time, Dygan’s father, Flisgard, entered the small house. Parts of his once dark hair and beard were graying, and he didn’t move as fast as he used to. Once, he was a great hunter, he even claimed to have stalked a dear and tapped it upon the rump before it scurried off into the brush. Now he had a tougher time with his aging reflexes, but he still knew everything there was to know about hunting. “Good afternoon, dear,” Raye greeted him warmly.

“I’m getting too old for hunting and the weather is growing colder, Raye. I think I’ll have to pass on the reins to a new generation. I hear you’re getting to be quite good with a sword, my lad.”

“I am, father. I’m the best in the village.”

“Second-best. I know my own way around a sword and I bet I could show you a thing or two.”

Flisgard gave a quick wink to Raye, and she nodded. “Son,” she said. “You’re older now,” she sounded serious, very uncommon, which put Dygan on edge, “I think it’s time you chose a path in life.”

“Huh? Well, I…I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m not the sort of person who grows herbs or traps animals; I’m too much of a free spirit to learn a trade. All I do is train with my sword, as if I’m practicing for a day that will most assuredly never come.”

“Then train, my son, with this,” Dygan was presented with a sword, a real Erpheronian broadsword, made of flat, gray iron, not wood like his training sword.

“This…this is incredible. It’s real metal,” Dygan was breathless. It was a genuine sword, something he could fight with.

“Just remember, son,” his father’s stern voice of reason brought him back to reality. “A weapon is only as dangerous as the one who wields it. You can use it to better the world, or you can use it with recklessness to harm the world. Make the right decision, my son.”

Dygan swung the sword in the air. It was a little clumsy, Dygan was used to the lighter wooden sword. He swung it a few more times, hearing the sound as the blade cut through the air. It was an exhilarating feeling, there was nothing like it in the entire world. “Thank you, mother. Thank you, father. Nothing could be more perfect.”

“Again, don’t depend on that weapon. In any battle, your mind is your most valuable asset. Don’t be quick to use it either. The better man is the one who draws his weapon last in combat.”

“I will remember that.”

“Be sure that you do. Your mother and I have business we need to attend to in town. Stay here, and watch the house.” Even in these civilized days, bandits still roamed the forests around the smaller towns. Not that they would come close to Flisgard’s home, it was only a mile from the small village of Tereftan. Dygan wanted to go to his secret location in the woods, where trained quite often. With a small brook and deep green trees, it relaxed him, and allowed him to concentrate fully on his weapon. He always felt at peace there, no matter what was troubling him.

However, his duty was to watch the house, so he simply went out to the front of his home instead. He grabbed his sword and held it at the ready, just as his father showed him how to do so. He did a slow horizontal slice across the air, getting accustomed to the weight of the blade. He ran through several slow thrusts, slices, and even put in a spin, by letting his wrist fall, and then moving his hand back slightly, allowing the weight of the blade to help move the rest of his wrist. He tried it again and again, backward and forward, getting it faster and faster until he could whip it out. Spinning the blade was always an interesting trick, a trick that Dygan kept trying to incorporate into his actual repertoire rather than just for show. He practiced for an incredible amount of time, thrilled by just owning an actual sword. “Hi Dygan!” came a voice from behind him. Dygan, startled, nearly spun all the way around for a sword stroke, that would have undoubtedly felled the young village girl, Elly.

“Oh, hello Elly. Did you leave something here?” Dygan remarked.

“No, I’m finished my chores, so I decided to come over and say hello.”

“You did that already today.”

“Well, yeah,” she blushed when she talked to Dygan. All the girls did, and Dygan often wondered why. “Is that a real sword?” she asked, wide-eyed with wonder.

“It is. I just got it and I’m practicing.”

“That’s amazing,” she looked down and blushed again before she looked at him again, “Can I…watch you practice?” Elly had a double motive. She would get to stay with Dygan as well as watch real swordsmanship. No one who lived in the village ever learned how to swordfight, except Flisgard, who made it a point to not show it to anyone unless it was absolutely necessary.

“Sure, as long as you stay back,” he warned in a friendly tone. Elly was a nice girl, the same age as Dygan, with vibrant red hair and a wide smile. She was one of his closest friends in the village, one he was happy to be around. He tried his absolute best to make every move perfect, trying to impress her. She smiled and laughed with delight as he went into basic two-stroke combinations. Left then right, up-right to across left. He even went so far as to thrust-high block-low strike-mid block. These, if nothing else, helped his balance and his flow from one technique to the next. “You’re really good,” Elly complimented, smiling widely, “You’re like some kind of hero. The ones that parents tell their children when they’re old enough to understand.”

“I’m not in that league. I’m just a common person who likes to practice with my sword.” Dygan shrugged off Elly’s adoration.

“Even so, they may be great and powerful, but they have lived their time, and did their deeds. You may not save cities, but you can certainly live a good life.”

Dygan thought for a second, “Did you just think of that? Very profound…”

She nodded happily, “I thought about it when I was watching you.”

Dygan took a break from practicing. He sat on a large rock next to Elly, engaging in idle conversation. At last, they parted, and Dygan went into his room to rest, but before he did, he passed by Flisgard’s sword. It hung with pride on the wall. A single ruby was placed below the guard. The blade reflected the light, making it dazzle with the beauty of its craftsmanship. For a second Dygan almost reached out to touch the blade, but he remembered his father’s wish that no one, not even his wife or son, was to touch the sword. As his reason, Flisgard said that it was a family heirloom, given to him by his father, who received it from his father, and so on. Raye and Dygan respected his wishes. Dygan withdrew his hand. Flisgard was indeed terrifying when angry, and although raising a son had calmed him a little, one of Flisgard’s habits was a long, but terrible temper. Better then to not risk it, thought Dygan. Flisgard and Raye had been gone for several hours. “I wonder where they could be,” Dygan thought aloud. Nothing else to do, Dygan started to review the lessons Flisgard had given him in combat. ‘Fight as if everyone is better than you, because there will be many fights where there is,’ Flisgard would say, or, ‘Don’t rush to attack, parry and find an opening,’ and one of the most important, ‘Your legs aren’t tree trunks, move about in combat.’ When asked, Flisgard never told him where he learned his combat skill. Dygan assumed that his family taught him, in the same fashion that he himself was being taught. He closed his eyes, and visualized himself, with a sword. He caused his mental image to fight an invisible opponent, carefully studying his technique. One of the Tharanian guards that stayed at the inn taught him this. If he could see his weaknesses, he would be able to better himself. The only problem was, Dygan never could see how his style would fare in actual combat. There was no reason to fight in these days. Thar had formed the kingdom of Tharania over 150 years ago; there were no more wars between men. The three races lived in peace, and with the Oath of the Young, there were to be no more repeats of the War of the Impious. The peoples of the world had indeed learned their lesson from the First and Second Sarvonian Wars. Even so, Dygan wanted to see how he would fare in an actual swordfight, just to see if the years he had put into practicing and listening had paid off.

Dygan thought of this, as well as other aspects of life. He thought of great questions, like, where would his life lead him? Why did he train with a sword? Why did he have the sense that he would be leaving his family? Why was he thinking about these things? His mind hurt from all the questions he asked himself, and from the answers he tried to gather but failed to find. He was so engrossed in finding his answers that he barely heard the door open. “Are you alright, son?” Raye asked, startling Dygan to where he almost fell backwards in his chair.

“Oh, I’m alright mother,” Dygan answered. “I’m just thinking about some things. Things like where I was going, what I was going to do.”

“Those are some powerful things to be thinking of. Why would you be thinking about them?”

“I feel something. I don’t know what it is. It is a carrot dangling out of reach; something that I should know, but I don’t. And it’s really bothering me. I want to know what it is, and I just can’t find it.”

Raye was silent for a second. Her lip quivered, as if she was torn between two extremes. Then, she leaned over and held the sitting Dygan in her arms, just like a comforting mother would do. “My son,” she told him, “we can talk about this later. It’s late and you need to rest.” However, Dygan felt that she didn’t really want to talk about it. Dygan thought he knew why. He already knew that he was her pride and joy, and if he left, there would be an empty void in her heart, one she might not be able to fulfill with anything. “Mother, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought up something so painful.”

“No, it’s not your fault. You’re young, you just didn’t know,” his mother was close to tears. “Please, just go to bed, and leave me to my thoughts.” Dygan, not wanting to upset his mother further, obeyed. He hurriedly prepared to sleep.

Lying in his small bed, Dygan thought of his day. He spent almost the entire day practicing with his weapon, with only short breaks for food and talking to Elly and his parents. While receiving the sword was certainly a factor, Dygan had the feeling that he could have been training for a reason. When swords were needed, that meant trouble, and that was the last thing Dygan wanted. Again, questions fluttered through his mind, questions that he wanted answers to. When he could not find them, he turned over in his bed with frustration. “Why can’t I know? I should know,” he said to himself. Sleep did not come easy when Dygan’s mind was so full, but in the end, it forged it’s own path to the young man.

The youth was drifting in a strange place. Grey smoke surrounded him, obscuring his visibility. He looked around, trying to make sense of this new world. Suddenly, out of the sifting smoke, came a figure. As it stepped closer, Dygan could see from some unseen source of light the face that this figure had. It was that of his father. Flisgard stood there, but it looked as if he was devoid of a spirit. His eyes held no luster; his face bore neither smile nor frown. Something was definitely wrong. “Father,” Dygan asked, surprised that he heard his own echo. He waved his hands in front of Flisgard’s face, but nothing happened. “What’s going on?” he asked, and was startled by another noise behind him. It was his mother this time. She was covered in a blanket, as if hiding from something or someone. “Mother?” Dygan asked. The figure made no response. It was different however, than the inanimate figure of his father. His mother was showing signs of life. “Mother? What are you doing? Are you cold?” he reached out, but his hand was pushed aside. “Why do you push me away? I’m your son, I’ll help you.” His hand was pushed away again and again.

The realm darkened, to the color of the night. Dygan felt something moving around him. It was intangible, but he could feel some kind of entity, something that flowed around and through, invisibly occupying the air around him, making it feel like a thick fog, but somehow it was different. It was a fog with a filmy skin, and it put him into a wary state. “What are you?” he demanded of the air around him, “Where am I?” The fog, if it could answer, chose not to. Instead it started to move about Dygan, who felt the sickness of it crawl over his body.

He awoke from that odd nightmare at that moment. Breathing heavily, he tried to grasp what had happened in his mind. It was a dream, but he could still feel that disgusting feeling all over himself. It subsided, along with the beating of his heart, after a few moments, but it remained in the back of his mind. What should he do? Should he tell someone? Would they believe him? He had always been known to be honest, but everyone would just dismiss it as a bad dream. A very vivid dream yes, but still a dream, and not to be concerned over. Just to be safe, he looked around his tiny room. There was nothing hiding behind or under anything. He breathed a deep sigh of relief, and got dressed to meet the challenges of the day. He stepped into the main room of his house. It was quiet. Normally, his parents would already be up and about, but the house was deserted. “Mother? Father? Where are you?” He looked all throughout the house, and he looked as hard as he could outside. No traces were found. He started to get distressed. Something was wrong. Was that crazy nightmare a message? He grabbed his new sword and strapped it to his belt, like his father showed him. Without a second thought, he raced out of his house towards the village.

“Have you seen my parents?” Dygan asked the first villager he met, a farmer by the name of Gerdroc.

“Naw, son. Haven’t seen ‘em. You’re all flustered out. You need to relax,” Gerdroc told Dygan. Gerdroc was famous around the village for being lazy and equally drunk most of the time.

“It’s very important. I feel as if something’s going to happen.”

“Nonsense. Nothing’ll ever happen here. Tereftan ain’t some thriving city where there be bad folk waiting to pounce upon any who fall. We just a little village of right good people, and that’s how it’s goin’ to stay.”

“I hope you’re right.” Dygan could not shake the feeling that what happened next would be monumental. He went on further into town. Every person he met knew nothing of Flisgard or Raye’s whereabouts. Dygan, feeling hopeless and powerless, ran to his home. He sat down at the table and began to try and think about what he could do. He wanted to do something, but he didn’t know where to start. He pounded on the table in frustration and anger. The chances of something amiss were close to nothing, but an inner feeling told Dygan that now wasn’t the day to play the odds. What was he going to do? He couldn’t just sit and do nothing, but what else could he have done. He looked all over town, so where else could they have gone? Dygan looked around for anything out of the ordinary. “Huh?” Dygan raced over. Something was wrong, because Flisgard’s sword was missing. When Dygan tried to think about the past hour, he realized that it wasn’t there when he awoke either. That meant…

“Oh gods,” Dygan gasped. He thought about where trouble would be if it ever came up. “The forest,” he said. The forest was concealing enough to mask nearly anything, and no one bothered to go in it anyway. Without a second thought for his safety, he ran into the wilderness.

“Father? Mother? Where are you?” he called out. There was no answer, but Dygan thought he heard a rustle further in, past a fallen tree. Typical with moments of great peril, it turned out to be a false alarm in the form of a squirrel, scurrying about. Perhaps it stowed some last-minute nuts for the winter months, but whatever the reason, it didn’t matter to Dygan. He jumped over the tree and continued moving deeper into the thicker woodlands. Over a small brook, moving past rocky grounds, the terrain wasn’t important, but finding his parents was.

After 20 minutes at a hurried pace, Dygan came upon a small clearing. Three figures were there. Two were his parents. It was incredible; he had actually found his parents! The third figure, oddly robed, and the fact that Raye was on her knees behind the third was unsettling. Dygan moved closer, trying to overhear the conversation.

“Let her go, Mercelus!” came an angry voice. That was Flisgard. The next voice, presumably the one called Mercelus, refused the offer.

“What do you want? It was her decision. You can’t force her to change her mind over something so grave.” Flisgard boomed out again.

“It wasn’t right. The only reason she chose you was because of…”

“She chose because that is what she wanted! She did not want to spend her life wed to you, and so she didn’t choose to!” Flisgard angrily interrupted. It was clear Flisgard had been pushed and was nearly over the limit. Dygan observed that the sword was clearly out in Flisgard’s hand.

“Temper, temper, Flisgard Naronell. You always were so violent, especially when you were around me. I’m more powerful than the pathetic wretch I was. Do not tempt me hunter, or you may get more than you bargain for.” Mercelus was rubbing his hands eagerly. “I hear you have a child now. How would the fool feel if we were to bring him here and show him what was happening with his…” Mercelus now twisted his words with sarcasm, “…dear beloved parents.” Dygan was shocked with what was going on. He at first wanted to jump out and put an end to this entire matter, but he wondered if he could. This man Mercelus was not to be underestimated, if he was able to provoke Flisgard with what appeared to be full knowledge of the consequences.

“Don’t you dare speak of Dygan!” Flisgard took a threatening step forward. “He is not a part of this!”

“Perhaps not, but does the fool know the truth about Raye? You know as well as I that she cannot bear children. Was it enjoyable to lie to him all those years.” Dygan’s ears burned when he heard that. Not the son of Flisgard? He had to be. This man was lying, but why didn’t Flisgard deny that? “No,” he said to himself very quietly, breathing out his shock, “No, it can’t be true.”

“What would you prefer, you soulless wretch?! Leave him as he was, a lonely crying infant?!”

“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore. I have Raye back and that is all that matters, now.”

“You’ll have her over my dead body!”

“That is the plan.”

It was time to Dygan to spring into action, if he went now, he could surprise Mercelus before he could pose any harm. But, he hesitated. Was he Flisgard’s son? Was he really an orphan? As he thought, Flisgard leapt to attack. Mercelus had a plain, wooden staff with an odd insignia at one end. Flisgard sliced downward and to the left, from the right shoulder, to rip across Mercelus’s chest and dispatch him before he could become a threat. Mercelus stood and made no motion. The sword went down and hit an invisible barrier before reaching Mercelus. Dygan pieced it together. The staff, the robes, the barrier, Mercelus was definitely a wizard. Flisgard told him about wizards, especially the legendary Thalambath. They could be good or evil, but some things were constant. Their powers were deadly, and their sanity often slipped. Dygan hesitated to rush into battle against such a powerful opponent. In that hesitation, Mercelus finished a spell, and a streak of fire erupted from his staff, striking Flisgard and burning him horribly. Dygan was stunned, and he ran out into the clearing, broadsword in hand.

“So, orphan, you’ve come to me at last. You are too late to save the hunter, and now you will join him. No one will stand in my way!”

“I will! You’ve taken your last life!” Dygan didn’t know what propelled him to say those words, but he said them. Another jet of fire blazed out from the staff, but Dygan had already moved, shuffling twice to the left.

“I must commend you, you are better than I imagined, but your power is still but a candle to my flame. Deal with this!” Mercelus went into a series of incantations and strange gestures. Dygan was up and thrusted forward, only to meet the same problem as Flisgard, the invisible barrier. Mercelus finished with his spell, and mist spewed forth from the staff. It took shape, and then substance, into a blade similar to Flisgard’s slightly curved one. The blade shone with beauty, but Dygan had no time to admire the craftsmanship of this weapon. It lunged forward with terrifying speed, and Dygan barely had time to counter. He started to move about, trying to see what he was going to target. There was nothing behind the blade, so the only logical target was the wizard, but the wizard was shielded. Dygan blocked the blade again, amazed that he was able to survive this long in actual combat. In his mind, an inner voice was urging him to use his head rather than his sword. The only way to defeat the wizard would be to breach the barrier, but Dygan couldn’t breach the barrier. The wizard could breach the barrier, but he wasn’t going to, so that left him without a plan. Several seconds of swordplay and thought later, Dygan had an idea. He started to move closer to the wizard, inching ever closer while keeping the sword at bay. When he closed in enough for the wizard to reach out and touch him, he stopped and proceeded to parry the sword again and again, waiting for the right time. The wizard targeted Dygan with a bolt of energy, easily striking at such close range. Dygan took the impact, the pain burning in his body. It would be necessary for his plan. The sword moved back, it was now or never. The spectral blade went for a forward thrust, to slay Dygan in one blow. At the last possible moment, Dygan dove to the side, but the blade continued onward, slicing past Mercelus’s protective barriers and embedding itself within the wizard’s chest.

Mercelus let out a scream of pain, but it was already over for him. Years of spells to better himself and to harm others were ended by his own magic. Dygan paid no attention to the fallen mage. He raced over to Flisgard, who was breathing in short, labored gasps. The flesh on his face was burned, his hair and beard were singed, and Dygan could see the interior of his mouth was burned as well. As to what had happened to his internal organs, Dygan couldn’t say, but he guessed that the lungs were also burnt as well. That meant…

“Father…” he cried out softly. Flisgard painfully moved his head, one eye shut due to the immense burning around it.

“Dygan?” Flisgard wheezed. It was painfully obvious he did not have longer to live. “Is…that…you?” Flisgard couldn’t only say one word per breath; so incredible was the pain.

“It is. Father, you’ll be alright.”

“I’m…sorry. I…won’t. Dygan… take…my…blade. With…it…find…your…” Flisgard breathed his last breath, and his head fell limply to the grass. His arms similarly fell, lifeless.

“Father? Father!” Dygan shouted to the dead body. “No, this can’t be!” For a second, Dygan blamed only himself. He hesitated, which cost Flisgard his life. His very existence prompted Flisgard to attack. It was all his fault. Dygan turned with venomous eyes toward the fallen wizard. “Damn you, Mercelus!” he cursed the name. Raye at this time made a squeal under her gag, catching his attention. “Mother?” Dygan went over to untie her bonds. She was weak, but unhurt. Slowly, he walked her back to their home. Inside, Dygan began to question his mother.

“Who was that man?”

“Mercelus. He was a wizard and my fiancée, years ago. He wanted to claim me back for some bitter reason. I never wanted to understand that man.”

“Is what he said true? Am I…?” Dygan could not finish his sentence.

“I’m sorry,” she hung her head. “You were a tiny baby, when Flisgard found you in the woods. Your father had been shot by arrows, and he begged Flisgard to raise you. He said he was a nobleman from the city of Voldar, but we never learned your real last name, only your first. I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t bring myself to tell you.”

Dygan was shocked. The illusion of being just a normal village boy was shattered, and he didn’t know who he was. He wanted his old life back, wanted to remain Dygan Naronell of Tereftan. Dygan Naronell, the son of an herbalist and hunter. Dygan Naronell, the quick-witted youth who liked to practice with swords. That life was gone, taken from him by a scheming wizard, but in a sense, it wasn’t his life anyway. No, that life was a false one, chosen by someone else. Since his finding, he never had any say as to his identity. “I don’t even know who I am, or who my parents were. You gave me a life that wasn’t mine,” he suddenly accused her. He was acting quite irrationally.

“What?” Raye was stunned. She knew Dygan wouldn’t take it well, but she wasn’t expecting this. Tears flowed freely down her cheeks.

“You always told me to be honest, and you lied to me since I could talk! I am not Dygan Naronell, and I’ve never been Dygan Naronell! It must have been terrible, then, every time I called you mother and you did nothing! Or did you enjoy it?! Did you become so enwrapped in your lies that you started to believe them yourself?! This is not my home! This never was my home! It was an illusion, a trick that I fell for since the first day you said I was home! The lie is broken now! I’m leaving!” Dygan yelled at the top of his lungs to the woman weeping softly.

Leaving Raye crying in her spot, he stormed into his room and grabbed a green traveling cloak. He left all of his possessions in that room. They were Dygan Naronell’s, they didn’t belong to Dygan the orphan. He kept the sword Flisgard recently put his last breath into giving him, and returned his old broadsword to its proper point in his former room.

He stared at that house for what seemed to be an eternity. Raye and Flisgard lied to him, something that he couldn’t forgive. All they did was give him a roof over his head and meals to eat. The couple had only took them in and raised him to be a well-mannered, well-spoken young man. “By the gods, I’ve made a terrible mistake.” Dygan scorned himself

“I felt angry at my foster mother and father for lying to me all those years. Then that anger moved toward myself when I realized she took me into her home when I had none. I had no right to conduct myself as I did, and I was too ashamed to even apologize to her in person.”
-Dygan Heartswind, on his message to his foster mother

Dygan couldn’t walk in and beg forgiveness; he was beyond that point. He wrote upon a piece of parchment and placed it in an open window:

“Dear Raye Naronell,
I have disgraced your home with my ill-spoken words. My anger was poorly misguided, and I have shamed myself by it. I cannot see you now; I do not have the right to. In time, if I ever am worthy of being forgiven, I may come back. That day will be a rare one indeed, for my actions in the death of your husband, and the strain I have placed upon you are weighty things, things that will not be forgiven easily.

Shamefully,
Dygan

Dygan turned and looked at the road ahead of him. It would be a long, treacherous one, and the sun had already set. The first snows of winter were just now falling, as a sign of the youth’s misdeeds. Taking a deep breath, Dygan took a single step down the road, toward his new future. Then he took another, and another. And thus did the journey of Dygan, no more than a homeless orphan, begin.

Edited by: Eskon at: 2/4/02 5:08:42 pm