The silence was all-consuming.
Ywain was uncertain just how long he had been away; in places, the canopy of the thick and untamed forests had blocked out all but the scantest amount of sunlight, dusk and dawn becoming indistinguishable.
Still, he had what was needed; wildflowers, bark and other remains of plant and creature that were needed to survive. A few secrets whispered by nature, in all its all-encompassing and dispassionate existence, to afford the Verbreker wild man and his fellows a few tools to survive against the elements and the beasts.
His steps against the grass were the only sound he could hear now, save his own breath, as he approached the tiny settlement he called home. His people, no more than twenty, across five families. His brow furrowed. Surely, he should be hearing the sounds of the daily toil, as the people tended to their animals and constructed further defenses against the merciless wolf men. The animals... he should be hearing them too, surely?
Something was amiss. Ywain's soft steps quickened across the grass, as a thousand possibilities, all terrible, raced through his mind. As he reached the crest of the last hill, and the tiny hamlet came into view, his heart shattered.
The modest, ramshackle huts were in ruin. The fences and defenses were in pieces. The animals that remained were scattered in many pieces, the blood fresh and sanguine against the grass.
With halting steps, he advanced through the debris. In the centre of the hamlet, a mass grave. The bodies of his fellows were strewn about like detritus, in varying states of completeness. Most were missing limbs. The way they had been pressed together brought to Ywain's mind the disturbing thought that their killers, undoubtedly their lifelong foe, might be returning to them for meat when they hungered again. He saw the arm of one of the fallen, a woman's, outstretched towards another of the destroyed huts. Though it was hard to tell from the state of her face, Ywain believed that this was Iona, wife to Drenig, whose animals had kept his hamlet fed through many a winter. Suddenly, a terrible, youthful cry filled the wild man's ears, tearing him from his helpless study of the dead. Following the sound, he found it lay in the same the direction as Iona's pale hand. He hurried forward, roused to action by the knowledge that one of his own still lived.
He hauled aside the collapsed wooden walls of the hut in hopes to free the one trapped within. Pushing aside the final planks, his heart sank. Lying in a heap, in what was once a cradle, was Iona and Drenig's youngest child. The girl was bleeding profusely where the falling debris had struck her, wisps of matted hair clinging to her cheek. She seemed to be growing paler with each passing moment, her desperate cries for help, wordless as they were, as clear as day. Ywain began to tend to the girl, seeking to seal the wound and ease the pain. His hands were trembling, his whole body tense with rage and sorrow. For a moment, however, he dared to hope that he could save just one of his people.
The girl fought for breath, her cries growing fainter and increasingly strained, until eventually, they stopped. Her small, sightless eyes continued to regard Ywain. With trembling fingers, he gently closed them. Lifting the girl's corpse from her cradle, he carried her back to Iona and set her in her arms.
He fell to his knees, cried out and wept.
--
Some hours later, he urged his body once more into action. He constructed a pyre, dug a trench around it and filled it with water to contain what he would do next. He would not permit the wolf men to feast upon his own again. He set the pyre alight.
As he watched the flames, guilt gnawed at him. He should have been there. He should have fought with them. He should have died beside them.
There was nothing left for him. He was a cursed man, and could not bring himself to find another hamlet to call home.
Ywain travelled north until he reached the river that is called the Musarde, where he persuaded one of the river-traders to take him on his boat.
From there, they followed the Musarde until it becomes the Luna. They passed through Borca, until they reached the end of the river-trader's journey.
Ywain had arrived in Barovia.
