Chapter 1: The Forest.
A plague had spread through the lands of Willowvale, turning the Vistakin– a race of anthropomorphic cervids, with long antlers regardless of gender and various eyes, ranging from person to person, which worshipped the deity of Clarity, Visuisa, who had just disappeared for some distant business, in an undisclosed part of the land– pale and sickly. And with the birds of Vogelstead to the west being overrun with hundreds of men from some unknown lands, taking what belonged to the birds, Celestyn Thornis was quite frightened, he'd been worried for months, his father– a farmer, whose farm had died from not being tended to– had gotten the sickness a few days ago, it was only a matter of time before it reached him. Frightened and afraid, he ran off into the woods, seeking to hide and wait out the sickness, deciding to head toward the crumbling Shrine-house that once belonged to his lost Lord, Visuisa.
After having run through the woods and thickets for hours and days, Celestyn decided to take a small rest. He looked around at all the surrounding trees, unsure of where he was. He climbed up a tree, branch by branch. His foot slipped, but he quickly found his footing again, making it quickly up the tree. He stood upon a high branch, looking over the wood, at all the purple tree leaves, bristling in the wind. Serene. So unlike home, which was overrun with panicking sickly kin, speaking of the end of days. Celestyn tried his hardest to wipe these thoughts of home away, focusing on looking for the Shrine.
He spots the red roof tiling among the trees, a squick of relief filling his head, he lets out a deep breath he didn’t notice he was holding. relaxing, he turned and crouched, trying to sit on the branch for a moment, but failed to realize that the branch was still slick with rain from the night prior.
He slipped, he fell, letting out a shout of surprise, he grasped, hands clenching and unclenching, grabbing for anything, gasping, hoping to grab something. Anything. To save him from the ground which approached so quickly. But his hands quickly turned red and sore from the rough tree bark grinding and sliding against his palm, unable to grasp anything. He looked down to the ground, only to be immediately met with the cold hard ground, falling unconscious with a loud crack.
He awoke, dazed, slowly climbing to sit on his knees, groaning in pain and struggle. He placed his hands on his head, rubbing it softly in an attempt to calm the blood in his head, pulsing violently, urging him on, urging him to get up, but he just sits there, waiting a moment, counting in his mind to regain his bearing, as his father had taught him.
“One…”, the blood rushed a mile a minute. “Two…”, the blood pulsed, angrily. “Three…”, the blood pounded against his skull like a hammer. “Four…”, the blood began to cool. “Five…”, the blood slowed. “Six…”, the pounding reduced to a gentle throb. “Seven…”, ah, peace. serenity. “Eight…”, calm. “Nine…”, focusing on the sounds of the forest surrounding him.“Ten…”.
Celestyn slowly opened his eyes, before looking down at his reddened, swollen, and bleeding palms, wiping the blood onto his pants.
He wiped his forehead, then checked his palm again, checking for any blood, but found his hand dry. with yet another sigh of relief, Celestyn rose to his feet, testing his legs for any pain, testing for any breaks, relieved to find himself only bruised and sore.
Now that he had gathered his bearings, Celestyn decides to check his belongings next. He pulled his worn cloth bag off of his back, hanging it on a branch by the shoulder strap and opening it, peeking inside. The thing he checks first is wrapped in cloth, he pulls it out, slowly unwrapping it, making sure to be gentle. He pulls it out of the cloth and examines it: his late mother’s hand mirror, the only thing she left behind for him. He let out a deep exhale he yet again had not realized he was holding, examining himself in the mirror. His bruised head, his five eyes, four on either side with one in the middle, and his long antlers, one of which had just cracked and broken from the fall, he winced as he looked at it, then sighed, yet again, putting the mirror back in its wrapping and the bag. Next, he pulls out his coin sack, untying it and looking in, counting his coins– 12 gold and 19 silver, just as it was before. Phew. Next, he pulls out a small keep-sake his father gave him before he ran away, a small little amulet, adorned with a glimmering red gem, his father never quite told him what exactly it was, but it looks similar in colour to a red garnet or a ruby, somewhere in the middle of those. He grins softly as he sees it in perfect shape, sliding it back into the bag, pulling the bag off of the branch and slinging the bag back over his shoulder, looking around to try and remember which way the shrine was.
After a few moments, he figured out the way he needed to go, roughly north-east, and began walking yet again.