Sarda, Year of Severus, 15, I.R., the 26th day of Fall, Hillsprung Encampment

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The day was gloomy as the sun shied away into the clouds while the fog wrapped the camp with its thick white cloak of cold air. The beastman woke up in the cold breeze of the morning's gloom. He rose up from bed and stretched his sleeping muscle.

It was already a week since they arrived at the tree-densed encampment. There were still no signs of the faerfolk waking up and the beastman had prayed to his Moon Goddess for their recovery more than he could count his fingers. Still, they laid on their beds recovering yet peacefully asleep.

He wished for them to wake up already. The longer they were bed-ridden, the more he sunk into his despair. There were a lot of things he missed at that time when he was unconscious. The knights on the camp claimed how lucky he was to be one of those survivors of the massacre.

He tried asking the knights what truly happen that night but even they couldn't explain it to him. No one was there, and they were far too late when they arrived. All they saw were exsanguinated bodies torn apart and scattered all over the place. It was a grisly scene as one knight recalled, too grisly for him that he's having night terrors just thinking about them.

The beastman still didn't have any recollection on how he got them out of the mines. No matter how many times he tried to recall it, everything was just dark to him. As what Tristam told him, his tattoos glowed a strange tinge of blue as he carried the faerfolk to the gate.

He knew his tattoos didn't glow. That's not how his marks work. His mark patterns grew along with him. It stretched itself along with the contour of his muscles. The marks are a form of enchantment a beastman of the Meh-Teh would receive once he reaches the age of five. From there, additional marks would be inked on their bodies until they reach the age of 15 where the final mark would be given to them as an initiation for the Hunt.

The beastman had used his abilities before to its full extent, but he never saw that glow like what the knights claimed he had. It only added another fog of mystery to his already unclear memory of that fateful day.

He walked out of the cold tent and into the cold fog outside. His lips cracked under the cold weather, but his body couldn't care less about the cold. He's used to it, they were trained to be used to it. The cold was nothing to him. His father would always tell him that the Meh-Teh people had thick hides. Thicker than leather, harder than iron.

He walked barefoot on the cold rocky ground. The cold autumn wind blew brushing the dead leaves on the ground. The tall trees stood like dead posts kissing the gloomy sky as the green withered and life slowly dies while waiting for the first snow to touch the ground.

He walked a few tents more passing the huddling knights over a small bonfire, drinking spiced wine or eating a bowl of hot tubers soup. He would have loved that same thing they do if only his friends were around and well.

The beastman missed their nightly gathering over a small bonfire at the mines. He missed how the dwarf and elf would exchange their banters against each other. Or how the dwarf would tell stories which he secretly don't understand for the best part of it. He missed their company so much.

After eating his breakfast alone near the faerfolks' tent, the beastman went inside and sat in between his friends. He sat silently praying and wishing for this torment to end. He looked at the elf's calm sleeping face and thought to himself how incompetent he was to not be able to protect them the way he could've if he was awake that time.

"It has always been like this!" He gnashed his teeth in anguish. "Why are you like this?!" He punched himself hard hoping that the physical pain would take the suffering of his soul.

As he hit himself, he recalled the night he got his sleuth killed. The night where his sleuth perished because of his incapacity for violence. He should have killed that spy he saw dangling at one of their traps while disposing the entrails. Instead, he helped him get out of the trap and even cleaned his wounds.

His gesture of goodness was turned against him. His incompetence on his watch costed him everything. His sleuth, the tribe and himself. After running away from the tribe, he was captured by the raiding knights of the House Honcula, who then sold him to slavery.

Since then, all he did was atone for his sins. The sins he thought was healed by the company of a human, an elf and a dwarf but even that had to be taken away from him, all because he was incompetent.

He silently grabbed his other arm and began clawing on it, ripping the skin off his muscle. But the toughness of his skin made it look more like a scratch than anything else. His claws weren't as sharp, and the knights were even close to killing him more than he could do it himself.

The beastman knelt on the ground sobbing discreetly as his anguish slowly consumed him. He hated himself before but now, he loathed his very existence. He wished to die and planned it more than he could count, but he could never put himself to execute the plan. Even at ending his life, he hadn't got the courage to do it.

He looked at the dry, cold ground inside the tent. Its brown color reminded him of his hair, he hated it. It reminded him of himself that he loathe. He punched the ground once; it made a dent on the soft ground. He punched it once again and the hole became deeper.

His hair hung loosely in front of his eyes covering them. He got mad even more. He grabbed his hair and try to rip it off his scalp. He better do it, he thought. At the very least, it would make him less recognizable from his standout appearance. Maybe being bald might not be as bad after all.

As he yanked his hair violently to rip it off his head, he felt a warm hand suddenly touched his shoulder. He stopped and realized the soft hands reminded him of someone. It reminded him of that tender touch his mother would give him when he cried on her lap. The warm touch of home, a loving and caring home.

He looked around and saw the elf holding his shoulder while in tears. His eyes widened in disbelief!

"Yah…L-lad…d-don't let despair e-eat yah…" He heard a soft mumble on the other side. He turned around and saw the dwarf with his weak smile on his face.

The elf began to sign at him. He never understood it, but he saw in her eyes the pain just by looking at him. He nodded and hugged her.

"I'm so sorry…I wasn't there when you needed me…" his voice cracked as he tried his best to talk straight to them. "I-if only I was…" He clenched his jaw trying to finish his sentence before breaking down again.

"Y-yet yar here, Lad…t-to me…tis…all that matters." The dwarf said as he tried to move his body.

"I-I…" The beastman paused. "…I'm glad both of you are back." He smiled an authentic smile he thought he forgot doing after all those years.

The sun finally found the courage to shine away from the clouds, bringing in the warmth and light that everyone needed. The sunshine made its way to the little hole at the top of the tent. It entered the gloomy tent and brightened its interior.

But more than anything else, the beastman had finally found his way out of his own fog. A bright day indeed. As the light found its way into his heart and melted the gloom he carried for such a long time.