Project Dream Preview, Chapter 1

The air was algid, the ground, wet; light snow coaxed all silent, though, despite a streaking, cardinal vision, to Alo, but two existed: he, his prey. 

With bow drawn and arrow eager, he aimed to the clearing beneath, to an oblivious, lonesome deer. 

“…Remember…breathe…” he stilled, “steady…” his right arm faintly trembled, shielded merely by matted, maculate, umber fur, sodden rags, and a worn mantle, “focus……clear–”

His grip gave: the target violently bucked—its turbulent wake was painted a deep, rich claret.

“…A shame…” it hissed within, “an opportunity bestowed…natheless…forsook—”

The bow was hurled, Alo stripped of his quiver, both were buried to the ivory banks, “if I’d ample wares, t’would’ve been finished! If…if…if I…?” his fervent heart gradually simmered, “…forgive me…” 

Akneel, he gathered the sown reeds, though lingered upon one’s engrave, one stout, scarlet plumed, “t’was slightly off…hardly a day t’will take to track, for I know where it heads…”  

He laced a braid of snared hares around his mane, recovered from a thoroughly slashed tree trunk…

“…How callow…” it hissed within, “to gander,” Alo overlooked the ledge, “yet scarcely See…” 

“…I’ve time afore dark–” an unnatural chill raised his hackles, “who goes there?” his nostrils flared, “fresh…soil…?…And…and I swear I heard…?……No,” the notions were shaken from mind, “focus…” 

The heavens, from saffron, sunk to violet dyes; distant glimmers occasionally gleamed behind a delicate veil of frozen flakes.

“…South,” Alo wearily cleared a damp place, “t’will be found tomorrow…South,” another was cleared for his burdens beside, “where they’re always…” 

Despite the brilliant skyward display, an ascensive gaze was wholly denied, “…from this slumber…I wish not wake…”

“…Oh, lowly runt, why plea…?” it hissed, “t’is vain…how weak…”

~

“Please, Forebear, I apologized!” aside from their father’s emerald gaze, they recognized no feature, “I’ll study each day, I swear it!” 

~

Not without a valiant effort, the resistant covers atop Alo’s vision broke; his limbs stretched ere rose from their gossamer sheets: anon, Alo roamed, led through the heightened drifts by shallow tracks. 

“…Still…no other tracks…?” 

Amid the weald, Alo’s dormant prey was eventually discovered: its eyes were wide, recessed.

“My thanks to you and the Natural Order,” the lethal barb was plucked, “…a tempest stirs…I suppose, you must suffice,” with a rope the husk was tightly bound within his tattered cape, “you’ll not, but one may hope…”

On muddled roads, Alo retraced to a modest village (most residents had long retired); avoidant of a disheveled shack, too its adjacent, rotting wood heap, he steered t’ward a lonely-lit chalet.

“Urgh, runt!” he was welcomed inside by lilting growls, “we recently cleaned the floors–!”

“Then tidy again, Elan,” he leered at the sapling, “t’is your cub’s duty, after all……well…? My usual.”

“You’ve a note, runt?”

“Tch, I keep Keenda fed,” the stout arrow was drawn then twirled atween his fingers, “be more grateful.”

“Ohhh, threats? Songa would be so proud,” Alo’s fangs immediately cowered, “correct your omissions, runt: remove your game and scrub your feet.”

With a scowl (more akin to a pout), the deer was drug beyond the entry; his crude sandals, composed of bark, fastened with aged bandages, were thoroughly scraped too. 

“Alo.” 

“What?” awhimper, he sat at the counter, “Elan, please, I’m tired…my usual…”

“F-Father…?” the sapling muttered, “he does seem exhausted; I wouldn’t mind–”

“No, Hodee, for him, we do enough; you’ll not needlessly toil on his behalf. Runt, the mop.”

…From the hall closet, a swab and pail were reluctantly fetched.

“…Your usual,” a clay jar was produced, “when you’re done…”

Perhaps finer than it was prior, the hardwood was swashed: amidst the snow, Alo wrung the swollen plies, Hodee, his doleful spectator.

“As father…” Elan sighed, “as scion…”

Below misted breaths, Alo cursed and kicked at the mire; his homestead was near, a mighty lodge, merely by one, in caliber, bested.

 He clamored with the key ‘fore bursting within; minus his drink, his quiver, and bow, he forwent his mildewed garments among the hunted carcasses, then felt through the shade, leery of underfoot debris (of which there was plenty). Once ignited with flint, a wall-loomed torch was ushered past decorative, name-carved plaques, to the great room’s log-brimmed, brazier. 

“…From this slumber,” shrouded in pelts, Alo bit the container's cork, “I wish not wake…” he rocked with his weapons cradled afront the radiant, somnolent dance…lulled by gentle cracklings…