A passing breeze is marked by a trail of rustling leaves. The forest with trees far-reaching, is almost thick enough to form an autumn canvas. A lone figure traces its path into oblivion before returning his gaze to the present. He stands in the middle of a road atop a knoll, trees close in on both sides, framing the path with an inconsistent canopy. Shafts of light break through and casts a warm glow onto the cobbled stones - stones weathered smooth over the years by passing traders and travelers.
From his vantage point, Arcturus overlooked a small village, its stone dwellings arranged in neat rows and avenues. The cobbled path he was on wound itself down the hill, across sprawling meadows and fields, past the village gates and connected with the other avenues at what looked to be the village market, in the center. A makeshift wall of stone rings itself around the village, with wooden palisades erected at intervals. This village has seen its share of raiders, he thought. A lone, steady stream of smoke could be seen in the furthermost corner, with it was the accompanying sounds of metal upon metal. The smoke-blackened foundries, just barely visible from this distance, indicated the presence of a blacksmith.
A sudden gust of wind buffets Arcturus, sending him rocking back on his heels. He shivers, pulling his travel-worn cape around him. Dressed in simple leathers and boots, identifying him as a hunter, he wears little in the way of protection against the elements. A small bow is strapped across his back; it is of simple design and what it lacks in aesthetics more than makes up for with its functionality. He reaches up to pat his tumbling hair into place, a pale blonde in the autumn sun.
Behind him, old ruins claw out from the forest. Concealed within, tales of a time long forgotten, the village had long since learned to live around it, avoiding the place for the most part. Arcturus turned, just off the path was a broken pillar, half concealed in moss and vines. He swiped the foliage apart and examined the rubble. Runic patterns etched onto the pillar wound their way from the base and would have continued if not for the missing half. Surprisingly, they still appeared sharp and defined, unlike the stone itself.
A shrill cry pierces the depths of the woods. With a start, he stumbles backward almost tripping over the congealing vines in his haste. Heart racing, he gathers his catch of the day, left atop the hill where he initially rested. It is a bevy of rabbits flushed from their den, out by Dowden's Falls, south-west of the village.
He slings it over his shoulder, jogging down towards the village but not without taking several backward glances at the forest. The ruins seem darker, even in the afternoon sun.
A weak breeze sighs from the forest, tickling the back of his neck.
