1 The Execution.

Red is the first thing Aaren remembers. Not a ripe red, like that of an apple, and not the bright living red of fire. The deep, disturbing, crimson that spills from war and battles.

Around him was a tower, and walls surrounding it. They were made of stone bricks, hot from the beating rays of the sun. He moved his eyes back to around the blood. A head, familiar but unrecognized, lay without a body. His eyes felt slow moving. He looked abvoe to see a man with pointed ears, in dark blue armor, holding what looked like a backwards, long knife. Crimson coating it.

His limbs were cold. He couldn't move his body. The only movement he could force was opening his mouth and letting out a small whimper, as the cry was stopped before it came form his lungs.

Another man, with overly angular features, and the same armor, walked towards him, and picked someone beside him. Aaren was able to turn his head, thought with great difficulty. He was none, to his left, and none to his right; He was the last.

As for the men in the blue armor, something told him that they were different from him. They way their ears where pointed, as well as the hair that looked like cheese. He could see their faces looked normal, but, slightly off. He didn't enjoy looking at them.

He could see the person next to him walking towards a tall wooden block. A gate was towards Aaren's left. It was made of old wooden planks. The person was forced to lay their forehead head down on the tall, wooden stand. The man in the blue armor raised up his backwards knife with considerable effort.

A sound like a thunderclap came from the weapon. It was now a distorted clump of metal on a stick.

Aaren saw his chance. He moved the anxious fluttering in his stomach, and used it to galvanize his legs into action. He ran towards the gate. He pushed it open, bruising his hand. He could hear the stomping of boots.

He ran and ran. The boots soon stopped. Regardless if he was being chased or not, he continued running. He spared no thought of the sky darkening above him, or the dark tree he found himself surrounded by. His adrenaline carried him like golden wings until he fell waste deep into a frozen pond.

He sprawled himself onto the rocks beside the pond. Cold, and gasping for any air his abused lungs could get. He knew he had to get warmer, but he had no idea how to create a fire, and he was too tired to get up and try. He rolled himself over on his back with great effort.

He could see the pricklets of silver in the night sky. He could see the way they twisted with his eyes into shapes. Great beasts, and beautiful faces formed from the sky, only for him to close his eyes, and have the connections between the glowing eyes of the sky reset, and form new images of gods and heroes.

Despite the cold, and the rocks he was laying on, his eyelids fell down like they were made of iron, and he drifted off into sleep.