He walked through the woods with certain quickness, his swift and hard footfalls crushing any leaves and twigs unlucky enough to be caught beneath his boots. A chill tickled his lungs as his eyes darted through the trees, looking for figures amongst the shadows cast by the twisting, dead branches. The weight of his sword at his waist comforted him in the strange land he now travelled through, for there the highwaymen were bold and hungry. The few who dared to brave the woods were often rich and those who robbed them lived well; that is, when they found a proper quarry. In all honesty, his sword was the only thing that comforted him.

The road on which he walked was nothing more than a slightly distinct trail of dirt with the same amount of foliage strewn across it as that which covered the forest floor. All around him it seemed hell had thrown up the carcass of some great beast, the trees were bones, the leaves were charred flesh and the great deadfalls that he would occasionally pass were smaller beasts; lost and dead within the stomach of their predator. There is no life here, thought the traveler. All is dead in this damned wasteland. He picked up his pace, his eyes still scouring the surroundings, but more so did his ears work to hear something besides the steady footsteps in the silence around him.

One foot after another, his hands at his side, seeking refuge in the bottoms of his pockets, trying to escape the biting cold that nipped at his cheeks, he walked. His sheath would bounce against his thigh with each step, making a little rhythmic patting noise. For what seemed like hours this pace went on, and he was too afraid to think. To think would distract him from what went on around him. He was in the twisting branches of the dead forest, a place where even the trees seemed hostile. Even orcs would not live among the trees; only rip them down for fires. The man who could live here and be content is no man I wish to meet.

A snap forced him to think. A twig somewhere around him had been broken. It was hard for him to take it as more than it initially was. The weight of cold wood had caused a break somewhere, or so he thought. Stopping, he listened to the sharp noise as it echoed through the frigid afternoon. The wind did not shake these trees, all was quiet. As he turned quickly to where he had thought the snap had come from he suddenly felt the rush of air as the sound of an arrow whizzed by his ear. The man did not move, he did not think, he remained perfectly still, listening. The sound of a sinew bowstring being stretched back was now all that could be heard. A single bowstring and he tried to pinpoint its source, still listening, waiting for the instant it stopped. To my left? He turned and saw a deadfall facing him. For a single moment he saw a flash of silver come from within the twisted branches before it receded into the dark safety within. An arrowhead! He thought triumphantly. Then the sound of the bowstring halted, and on that cue he dived to the side, the arrow sticking from the ground on which he had stood only seconds earlier.

Pulling himself to his feet and drawing his sword in one swift, powerful motion, the man charged forward at the deadfall. He sprinted, but brought his feet down with as much strength as he could manage, splintering each and every cruel branch that might have tripped him. When he was but five feet from where his opponent lay hidden, the man pushed off of one leg and leaped into the air, sword over his head and ready to pierce the twisted carcass that gave his foe refuge. Landing on both feet, he felt his sword hit resistance as the first streams of crimson flew from the wood, staining the trees around it. A man screamed out in the woods, the painful sound echoing off in the cold distance. He felt a sharp pain in his side, and looking down he saw an arrow shaft sticking out from his gut. It struck tough bone, and the archer had drawn it weakly, for he was not yet dead. The man withdrew his sword from the giant heap of twisted trees, ignoring the pain, and once again plunged his steel in. In and out, in and out, his pattern kept on till he was sure that anything hostile hiding within the deadfall was nothing but a mangled pile of bone, blood and flesh. Wiping the gore from his sword, the man sheathed it and looked at his own wound. I will need honey, he thought, noting how dirty the arrow looked. The pain caught up to him, and he cringed with each step. Honey, and beer.