By The Moon's Blade

1. Grasshaven, About One Year Ago

I toy with the piece of paper in my pocket, fingertips grazing the worn corners of the envelope. I hear the shifting of leaves and my hands quickly leave my pockets to notch an arrow in my bow. I keep my gaze focused when I see a duskdeer gingerly trot along the treeline ahead. I move from my hideaway behind a large bush and keep myself arched down, footpads gracefully finding gaps between the leaves.

I find a bush comfortably close to my target and hunker down once again, keeping my location hidden. This was my least favorite part of living out in the woods. I'd never get used to the feeling of letting an arrow loose into an animal, watching the life leave its eyes. After a couple of years of training, I've learned to send my shot straight to the heart. A quick, painless death.

Our small village takes turns hunting, a skill I had to learn quickly as we assimilated into the group. The older members of the group take on the responsibility of butchering the animal while the younger ones, myself included, were responsible for the hunt.

I watch as the duskdeer gently lowers its head, white spiky horns move down to the ground, black hair glistening with the lines of sunlight that have begun to take shape. I recognize my moment and raise my bow once again. I pull back the crude string and feel the wood in my other hand bend to my will. But as I go to release the arrow, a cacophony of birds begin to cackle and swirl up into the trees.

The duskdeer startles and quickly prances off back into the depths of the grove, out of sight. I throw my bow down into the mud and melting snow, frustration lining my brow. It's not worth the run, not now that the deer is on edge. And as the sun rises, the odds of success are slim for any creature. I squat down and stare at the ground, hands placed on each side of my face. I pause for a few moments to gather my thoughts.

With a deep sigh, I snatch up the bow and sling it across my body, splattering mud on the navy blue tunic. I roll my eyes and look down at my clothes, black pants and leather boots also covered in mud. All for a pointless hunt.

I make the short walk back to the village, head hanging low in defeat. This will be the third time I've come back empty-handed in the past month and I begin to wonder what I'm doing wrong. My pride has fragmented, like someone's thrown a rock at a mirror, sharp pieces scattered on the ground.

It's been about a year since we've officially become a part of Grasshaven, a small commune of about thirty, mostly families with a few displaced older folks working together to survive. Not unlike Cloudridge in those early days.

Tadral is still a dangerous place, even with the war 'officially' over. Plenty of Goldstar soldiers still have a chip on their shoulder and each tyrannical lord or lady still insists on ruling with an iron fist. We do our best to keep the village out of sight — no fire after dark, keeping voices low, anything that might tip them off to our existence.

As I exit the heart of the grove and into Grasshaven's clearing, the sun beats down on my head, an unwelcome presence as the heat becomes stifling. It's late morning, which means families are out of their small hovels to cook food, wash clothes at the nearby stream, harvest fruits and vegetables, patch clothing, whatever they may need that requires light. There are about ten different shacks of various sizes, but all are made of the same decrepit wood. We each have a small piece of land, maybe about an acre, where we keep our supplies and belongings under large tents.

The group is made up strictly of humans, ones that were part of the Apros territory that was stripped away by Goldstar during the war. Unfortunately, their group never really got large enough to be able to band together and establish a larger camp, so they do what they can in the bounds of their small village here. They're not easily trusting, a trait which I share, so it took a good amount of convincing to join the ranks.