t was cold. Damn cold. The heat of the rising sun had not reached him yet, and for that he was glad; he needed the punishment of the cold to sustain him, hold his reserve. He stood on the highest outcrop of the rocky mountain, gazing down on the forest floor below. His eyes strayed towards the parchment in his hand then jerked back as if seared by fire. He did not want to even look at the parchment. The message it contained was too painful, too heartbreaking to bear. Pain. The essence of his life. Since his birth on a cold wintery day in the frosty land of Kelterwin, pain had been his succor. The memories bought back the pain, pain which he desperately wanted, so he continued: Born deformed, a horror to a barbaric society, he had been cast out by the elders of the village when he was but a babe. The deformity was an extra finger on his left hand, but to the villagers it was still a sign from the gods that this boy was a demon. His mother - screaming - had protested viciously, tearing out the eye of the clan elder. But to no avail. At the age of two he was left to die in the freezing forest he now gazed upon. He had survived in the forest in spite of the best efforts of the clan. His mother, less a right arm for the attack on the elder, fed him at first; but soon he became sick from the cold and lice infestation and his mother stopped coming. Koras - that was what he thought his name was - battled on desperately, but every day saw him closer to death. And then the man found him. Koras lay in his tiny alcove, sheltered from the rest of the forest by a thin screen of bush, when a large boar crashed through. It eyed him wildly for a moment, it's large tusks gleaming in the morning sun, then charged. Koras saw it bearing down on him, and had the intelligence to be scared but knew not what to do about it. Suddenly he screamed, a primordial sound that echoed across the valley. The boar stopped dead in it's tracks for a bare second, surprised by the sound. And died as an arrow lanced it's neck. The man raced over to them. He was tall; even at that age Koras saw it. He had the large muscular features of a warrior, but at the same time a kind of gentleness seemed to permeate his soul. He wore green predominately, a large bow strung over his back and a sword over his left hip. Koras would later learn that he was a hunter, living in a state of isolation in the forest, catching animals to sell four times a year in town. But at that moment Koras cared nothing for fine details. All he saw was another human, one of those that had tormented him and thrown him out here to live. He tried to scream again, but before the sound left his mouth he passed out from fear... He awoke in unfamiliar surroundings. It was a tiny room, large enough only for one, but somewhere room had been made and he lay on a pallet next to the larger bed. A small wooden table stood near the fire with a single chair it1s only company. The fire itself was warm, something Koras dimly remembered but could not recall offhand. Something else seeemd out of place. He cast around him to see that which was not right. Suddenly he realised; he was clean!! No excrement caked his body; his long feral hair had been washed and tied back neatly, and loose fitting clothes given him. Where was he? What was happening? But before he had a chance to become afraid, his benefactor returned. It was the hunter, Koras noticed, carrying the dead boar slung over his shoulder. He noticed that the boy was awake and smiled widely, exposing neat white teeth. "How are you?" the man asked in a clear melodious voice. Koras tried to reply, but his voice was hoarse, and he had not spoken in so long. The hunter saw tears welling up in the boys eyes and hugged him tightly to his large chest, rocking back and forth as the tears flowed. "It's alright, my boy," the Hunter said. "You will be well soon." From that moment forth the hunter had devoted his life to the boy. After nursing him back to health, he began to school the boy in simple words, until after a year he could talk and speak as any other six year old child. The Hunter, Morias, then taught the boy to read and write, something that proved vital to him in later life. At the age of ten Koras held his first bow, and at the age of eleven brought down his first boar. He became proficient like no other; he could hit a knot in a tree at two hundred paces. Swordwork held more challenge for the boy, but by sixteen he was the equal of his master. At eighteen he was sent into the world, and the parting was one of the most painful things the pair had ever done. No words were exchanged; nor were they needed. The pair shook hands and turned away from each other, and the words that were not spoken became all the more powerful. All that time spent together. Later, as Koras' sword became dull with use and his bow sold for a better one, he never forgot Morias. He sent letters home constantly, telling of wars he fought in and other conquests (which were not always on the war field), asking questions on this matter or that. He would receive replies in the major cities at designated places, and always sage advice would be offered by Morias. In all the distant lands and cities Koras never knew happiness like his childhood, and constantly he wished to return but knew that would be seen as a failure. In his twenty-eigth year, the year that Morias turned fifty, Koras married Llyn, a beautiful buxom lass who had turned her eyes on the young warrior and had not looked back since. And still he did not forget Morias. The first baby was a boy, and it seemed only fitting that it should be called Morias. The first few years of his marriage were the only happy times in his life. Morias was strong and handsome, the spitting image of his father. And then the raiders came. And killed his wife and child. And died for it. The pain and anguish he felt then had shrivelled his soul up. The raiders died, one by one, never knowing until death took them, each at the hand of Koras. It was during those years that he stopped communicating with Morias, perhaps because he was too ashamed of his actions, perhaps for something else. After the last raider died he settled down in a city and drank all day and all night in a lonely tavern. He neither knew nor cared what day it was and rarely bathed. And then the letter came. hat was what his life amounted to, Koras thought as he slipped out of his reverie. A few dead men and a drunken binge. He wanted so desperately to tell Morias that he was sorry, that he could succeed. But gazing down at the parchment again he realised that could never happen. The note had few words on it. It was shoved to him one day as he sat in a catatonic state at the tavern with his ale. Written in large letters so even through his drunken state he could read the words "Morias died last month. Cottage burnt down. Come immediately." They were the only words that could ever have brought him out of the stupor, and they succeeded admirably, for there he now stood. For one last time Koras pictured his mentor's face. Then with a cry he said "To hell with it," and leapt....

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