The Huntsman - Part 1

The sunshine. That's how they always started. The strange, scenic, somehow filtered sunshine, the kind that only exists in memories. The kind that you remember on warm summer days, on days full of children laughing and running, playing games that no adult or elder could understand. On days that only truly exist within one's mind. He could remember the trees, almost feel the bark and crisp green leaves on his fingertips, as if they were right there, waiting to embrace him once more in that world. He could hear the distant bubbling of a brook, and the running of a creek, like a puppy letting you know, not even if you asked, that it was happy, and that it wished you to be happy. He remembered so much now, so many more details. Yes, all things were good, all things were good, all was perfect in this world, as it should be.

Something, however, had crept in. Something that had not been there before. Suffocating, a hot burning in his lungs. Not even the sunshine, in all its holy, healing glory could save him from this suffocation. It filled him, gripped his entire body with a vile, cruel hand. Not even the brook, and it's quivering, obnoxious friend the creek could yell at the pain to leave him. The beauty had fallen away, where it stood now was filled with the putrid stench of smoke and ash, the pain and grief had taken that away from him. It had taken so much more in its wake. But where had that left him? He knows where he was. It was where he had always ended up, where he had ended up every day, to find that faux sunshine once more; the ground, where the leaves had died and joined him.

Huttson awoke, his eyes fluttering open as the stench of smoke filled his nose and lungs. He squeezed his watering eyes, rolling onto his side and off of the sleeping bag, hacking and wheezing like a sickly man. Huttson crawled away from where torment was, blindly trying to steady himself, the sleep still fresh in his head. He rubbed his eyes, squinting the tears gone from his burning eyes, scanning the campsite for what had caused the intrusion. Simply enough, it had been smoke. Smoke from a fire he had attempted to snuff hours ago. It appeared, however, the fire had a will to burn on, and its embers had carried its legacy. That legacy was, as it appeared to be, to burn Huttson's eyes for forsaking their forefather. Huttson sighed, pushing his palms onto his face as he rubbed his eyes, then looking to the sky. The sun was just appearing to rise, to witness this abrupt end to an unceremonious night of rest.

Huttson walked back to the small camp, glancing around for what was there. His small and inoffensive belongings were thrown half-thrown about, as if he had been robbed, which he was sure he had not. Not to say no one in the world wasn't desperate enough to steal from the sleeping man, but on the contrary, there was much to gain. Why, who could resist the urge to steal a tankard mug, made from the finest, cheapest copper! Or the luxurious pot, for only the most wealthy of kings to hold unsatisfying amounts of soup in! Perhaps even the grand wooden spoon, known far and wide for its thin material and the sorrow it gives to clean! Huttson frowned to himself. No, there had been no thief, nor scoundrel to vanquish, no crime to justify a brawl. He knew that much by the simple fact his horse, the large beast, was still there with its cart just to the side. He flipped up the leather sleeping bag, a shine in the dim light announced to him that his sword was still there, thank all things good. Huttson let out a sigh, sitting and slouching down on the grass. Then, his eyes widened. His heart sank as he patted around his neck; it must be there, he hadn't taken it off, there's no way in hell he had taken it off! He shot up, tearing open the snap buttons on the sleeping bag and frantically looking inside. It wasn't there. He spun around, searching the ground for a glint, a shimmer; anything. Nothing. He balled up his fists, shaking with rage and sorrow. He felt like crying, like screaming.

"Damnit!" Huttson hissed, slamming his fists down on the pockets of his trousers. He paused. Huttson shimmed his hand down his right pocket, hooking his fingers through a metal chain. He fished out a silver necklace, a small, solid pendant the size of a coin attached to it, the face of it blank, save for small scratches. Huttson scoffed, smiling slightly in embarrassment.

"Sneaky bugger, aren't ye?" He said, unhooking the small latch on the chain and putting it on. "Almost thought I had gone and lost you. Da would have killed me if I had." he said, sitting back down on the ground. He looked down at the necklace, his face almost lost in it. He raised his head, looking to the sunrise. It was not as pure as the light in his dreams.

Huttson took a deep breath and stood, stretching his legs as he did, his knees and hips popping quietly as he began to gather his things. As he collected his small fortune of objects, packing them into a bag on the side of his small wagon, which was loaded with boxes and barrels, all nailed and crested with the mark of the Hunter's Guild, he looked at his horse. The horse, a large brown stallion with splotches of white, seemed almost as tired as his rider.

"Sleepy, Hans?" He asked the beast, certain that he would get no answer. Huttson often spoke to his only companion regularly, much to the concern of most others. Perhaps he was forcing his own emotions onto this beautiful beast, the creature that's life was to carry others. Huttson, for some strange, unknown reason, felt as though Hans, this quadruped animal, understood him. The biped gently patted this creature's spotted forehead, scratching vertically with dull and dirty nails. The shire closed his eyes, braying softly in agreement. Perhaps this large creature could understand its rider, in some way.

Huttson knelt down near the cart, lifting up a large mess of dark leather and wood, the large piece of riding equipment was about as heavy as the man meant to ride on it. Giving several heaves, he sat down the saddle onto Hans' back, the large beast slightly moved down, huffing as it was dropped onto him. Huttson tightened the straps, giving Hans a pat on his rear, then began to tighten down the straps.

After a few minutes of strapping the saddle to the back of the great beast, he attached the arms of the wagon to it, then climbed onto the saddle proper.

"Ready?" Huttson asked, receiving no response from his companion before nicking at the horse's waist. And like that, they were off, trotting to the dirt road and continuing on to the horizon.