Rhys

The Hunter's Son Age: 12 Hometown: Misty Village, Outskirts of the Alyndor Royal Capital Homeland: The Shattered Dominion Family: Garrick (Father), Anwen (Mother), Lily (Younger Sister) Appearance: Dark, slightly tousled hair cut just above the ears; wide, inquisitive brown eyes; a lean, strong build, standing a little taller than most boys his age. Usually dressed in simple wool and leather, with a weathered brown cloak inherited from his father. The Boy from Misty Village There are children who grow restless because they have been given too little, and others whose curiosity persists despite having nearly everything they need. Rhys belongs to the latter. At twelve years of age, he has known a life of modest comforts, hard work, familiar faces, and the particular security of a household where affection is seldom announced but generously practiced. He knows the smell of woodsmoke drifting between cottages after rainfall, the complaints of neighbors whose hens have wandered into another garden, and the sound of his father's boots upon the threshold before dawn. He knows which families bake bread on the first morning of the week and which old men occupy the same benches outside the village gathering house, arguing over matters none of them has any intention of settling. Such things constitute the ordinary substance of his childhood. Yet beyond the fields and wooded hills surrounding Misty Village lies a world that has occupied his imagination for as long as he can remember, and he has never been able to understand why so many of the people around him seem content to know so little of it. Misty Village rests beyond the busier roads of the Alyndor Royal Capital, removed enough from the city's affairs that news often reaches its inhabitants late and seldom arrives unchanged. Its cottages are built from timber and weathered stone, their roofs darkened by rain and their gardens hemmed in by low walls, tangled hedges, and the patient encroachment of woodland. During the colder seasons, mist settles thickly among the trees and along the narrow lanes, sometimes lingering well into the morning. Travelers unfamiliar with the region have been known to wander past familiar landmarks without recognizing them, while the villagers themselves navigate the obscured paths with the quiet assurance of people who have spent their lives learning the shape of the country beneath their feet. On clear days, the distant presence of Alyndor reminds Rhys that the world of kings, scholars, merchants, and soldiers is not so far away. On other mornings, the village seems entirely separated from it, enclosed in a silence older than its oldest buildings. The inhabitants are a private people, hospitable enough to those who earn their confidence but wary of strangers who arrive without explanation. Their caution is partly practical. The Shattered Dominion has endured too much upheaval for rural communities to welcome every traveler without question, and the roads beyond the village are not always as safe as royal proclamations suggest. Yet practicality does not explain all their customs. Certain families refuse to leave their doors unlatched after the last evening bell. Others place small charms above their thresholds, inherited from relatives who could no longer explain their original purpose. Children are warned against answering voices heard beyond the tree line after dark, particularly when the mist has settled low enough to hide the path beneath their feet. Most adults dismiss these warnings as old superstitions when questioned openly, though remarkably few are willing to disregard them. Rhys has grown up among such beliefs without accepting all of them. He is respectful toward the elders, but respect has never entirely suppressed his questions. He wants to know why the wooded ravines have names no one will explain, why certain trails are abandoned despite being shorter than the roads everyone uses, and why people lower their voices when speaking of ruins concealed among the distant hills. His questions do not always receive answers. Sometimes his father tells him that knowing the danger of a place is more useful than knowing its history. Sometimes an elder changes the subject. Rhys usually remembers the exchange, even when he appears to have forgotten it, storing unanswered questions with the same care other children reserve for treasured possessions. The House of Garrick and Anwen The center of Rhys's world is a modest family home shared with his father, Garrick, his mother, Anwen, and his younger sister, Lily. Their household is neither wealthy nor particularly distinguished, but it possesses the kind of order established through years of shared labor. Garrick keeps his hunting implements carefully maintained, Anwen sees that the little they own is never wasted, and both children are expected to contribute according to their abilities. Water must be carried, firewood brought in, animals tended, clothing repaired, and food prepared regardless of what adventures Rhys has imagined for the afternoon. The work can be tedious, especially when the forests are calling and the weather is clear, but he has learned that responsibility is rarely a matter of preference. He takes pride in being trusted with tasks that once belonged solely to his father, even when that pride occasionally makes him volunteer for more than he can comfortably manage. Garrick is a hunter by trade, a capable and somewhat reserved man whose knowledge of the surrounding wilderness has been acquired through necessity rather than romance. His son admires him greatly, although admiration does not prevent frequent disagreements. Garrick possesses little patience for carelessness, particularly where blades, animals, or dangerous terrain are concerned, and he has never entertained the notion that enthusiasm can substitute for experience. When Rhys makes a mistake, his father generally expects him to understand it rather than merely apologize. An incorrectly laid snare must be examined. A trail lost through inattention must be retraced. A frightened animal must not be pursued blindly into unfamiliar country simply because the boy dislikes admitting that it has escaped him. Garrick is not unkind, but he is sparing with praise, and Rhys has learned to value the rare occasions when his father considers a task well done. Their relationship has grown increasingly close as Rhys has become strong enough to accompany him on longer hunts. In those early hours before sunrise, when the village is asleep and the woods are heavy with moisture, father and son share a companionship different from the noisy affection of home. Garrick speaks less, allowing Rhys to observe and ask questions when questions are useful. He teaches him how to distinguish a fresh track from one left the previous evening, how to recognize disturbed vegetation, and how to judge whether an animal is wounded, sick, or merely frightened. On cold mornings they sometimes rest beside a fallen trunk and eat bread wrapped in cloth, speaking of little beyond the weather and their progress. Rhys treasures these journeys more than he admits. He likes being treated as someone whose judgment matters, and he likes the uncommon satisfaction of earning his father's approval without having asked for it. One possession carries particular importance: an old brown cloak that once belonged to Garrick. The fabric has faded unevenly, its hem worn from years of rain, brush, and hard travel, and one shoulder bears a careful repair that Anwen made long before Rhys was old enough to remember. It remains slightly too large for him, gathering awkwardly around his frame unless fastened tightly at the throat. He wears it nevertheless, often to his mother's amusement and his father's feigned irritation. The cloak is practical, warm, and well suited to the colder paths beyond the village, but its value to Rhys is not merely practical. It allows him, in some small way, to imagine himself standing where his father once stood. When he pulls it around his shoulders, he feels older than twelve, though the effect seldom survives his return home, where Anwen is quick to remind him to wipe the mud from his boots. Anwen provides a different kind of education. Where Garrick teaches Rhys to study the things before him, his mother encourages him to consider what might lie beyond them. She possesses a patient intelligence and an affectionate disposition, though neither should be mistaken for an inability to recognize foolishness. She has learned to distinguish genuine curiosity from her son's attempts to escape an unpleasant chore, and she is more than capable of meeting his excuses with a look that brings them to an end. Yet she rarely discourages questions for their own sake. The family owns only a small collection of books, several of them old, their pages softened by repeated handling and their bindings repaired more than once. Anwen treats them with care and reads from them whenever the household's work permits, sharing accounts of lost kingdoms, ancient heroes, forgotten magic, and the unsettled history of the Shattered Dominion. Rhys's love of stories began beside her. As a younger child he would sit close to the hearth, watching firelight move across the pages while Anwen read aloud. He was particularly drawn to accounts that described distant places with enough detail for him to imagine walking through them: old cities raised above rivers, mountain passes guarded by ruined fortresses, forests where travelers left offerings to powers whose names had been forgotten. He frequently interrupted to ask whether the people in these stories had truly existed, what became of their descendants, and why the books so often disagreed about events supposedly known to everyone. Anwen did not always have an answer. Sometimes she admitted as much, a habit Rhys has come to respect more than the certainty of those who never confess ignorance. His younger sister, Lily, is the companion of his ordinary hours and the person most capable of reducing his ambitions to their proper size. Where Rhys can become solemn with responsibility, Lily has a talent for puncturing his seriousness. She is curious in her own right, quick to imitate her brother's habits and even quicker to complain when he attempts to use his seniority against her. They quarrel over small things: who should fetch another log for the fire, whether Rhys has hidden the best portion of a meal for himself, or whether Lily is old enough to accompany him beyond a familiar stretch of woodland. Such disputes seldom endure. Rhys is too fond of her to remain angry for long, and Lily understands this advantage perfectly. Their closeness is evident in the little customs of the household. When Anwen begins a story, Lily often insists that Rhys sit beside her, even if he claims to have heard it a dozen times. When he returns from a hunt, she demands an account of everything he has seen, showing considerably more interest in strange footprints, animal encounters, and unexpected discoveries than in the practical success of the excursion. Rhys sometimes embellishes his adventures for her amusement, although she has grown skilled at recognizing his inventions. He has a particular weakness for making her laugh, and his attempts to preserve an air of grown-up seriousness tend to fail most completely in her company. Of everyone in Misty Village, Lily perhaps sees most clearly the difference between the boy Rhys wishes to become and the one he still is. To her, he is neither an aspiring hunter nor a future man of great deeds. He is simply her brother: sometimes irritating, sometimes overprotective, occasionally foolish, and nearly always willing to come when she calls. Lessons from the Wild Rhys is physically capable for his age, standing slightly taller than many of the village boys and possessing the lean strength that comes from climbing, walking difficult ground, carrying supplies, and helping Garrick with the practical demands of hunting. His movements are generally economical, and he has developed a good sense of balance, particularly on loose slopes and among tangled roots. He is neither exceptionally powerful nor invulnerable to exhaustion. His hands blister, his muscles ache after difficult excursions, and he sometimes pushes himself too hard rather than admit that he needs rest. Garrick has begun teaching him that endurance is of little use without judgment, although this remains one of the lessons Rhys finds hardest to accept. His understanding of tracking is considerably more developed than his experience of combat. He can recognize common animal signs, move quietly over familiar terrain, identify useful plants and sources of water, and select reasonable shelter when weather turns against him. His father has taught him how the woodland changes through the seasons: where game is likely to gather after rainfall, how cold alters the behavior of smaller creatures, and why a trail that appears clear in daylight can become hazardous when fog obscures its lower slopes. Rhys learns these things quickly, in part because he enjoys them, but also because he dislikes repeating mistakes. He possesses a good memory for paths and landmarks, though he can sometimes become so absorbed in a particular sign that he overlooks the broader country around him. He carries a small hunting knife and has learned to use it for the ordinary work of the trade. He understands how to maintain its edge, cut rope, prepare kindling, clean small game, and handle the blade without endangering himself or those beside him. Garrick has also begun instructing him in the basics of defending himself should he encounter a dangerous animal or an unfriendly traveler. Rhys approaches these lessons eagerly, although his father has made a point of reminding him that cutting meat and fighting another person are very different matters. The boy knows how to hold a knife. He has yet to discover what it means to use one when another living creature intends to do him harm. This distinction troubles Rhys less than it should. He has a young person's confidence in the power of preparation. If he learns enough, practices enough, and pays close attention, he believes he can make himself equal to most difficulties. There is admirable determination in this belief, but also a dangerous misunderstanding of the world. Some circumstances offer no fair opportunity to prepare, and courage cannot always correct what strength or experience lacks. Garrick has encountered enough danger to understand this. Rhys, whose knowledge of such things remains largely inherited, is still learning. Yet there is something noteworthy in the way he responds when frightened. He seldom becomes entirely reckless, and his first instinct is often to understand what has disturbed him rather than flee blindly. On one occasion, while following a trail through particularly dense mist, he became separated from his father and mistook the movements of an unseen animal for someone approaching through the undergrowth. He was afraid enough that his hands shook upon the knife, but he remained still, listened, and eventually recognized the distinctive sound of a deer moving through the brush. Garrick found him shortly afterward and scolded him for wandering beyond the agreed boundary. Rhys accepted the reprimand, though he privately regarded the encounter as proof that his father's lessons were beginning to take hold. His greatest strengths remain observation, adaptability, and persistence. None is yet exceptional enough to mark him as extraordinary in the eyes of the wider world. At twelve, he is a promising hunter's son learning the limits of his own abilities. He makes mistakes, tires, gets distracted, and sometimes acts from wounded pride. What distinguishes him is how difficult he finds it to abandon a problem he has not understood. A Temperament Not Entirely at Rest Rhys possesses a gentle disposition that has survived the beginnings of responsibility without becoming timid. He is thoughtful around younger children, respectful toward those who treat him fairly, and inclined to help where he can, even when assistance costs him time he would rather spend elsewhere. His kindness is not universal or effortless. He can be impatient with people who dismiss his questions, particularly when they offer seniority in place of explanation, and he sometimes mistakes another person's caution for cowardice. When embarrassed, he has a tendency to grow quiet and stubborn rather than acknowledge the cause of his resentment. Anwen understands this habit well; Garrick usually allows him time to recover his sense before speaking further. He is also proud, though less openly than some boys his age. He wants to be competent, dependable, and trusted with matters of importance. There are days when the desire to prove himself makes him unnecessarily difficult, especially if his father orders him to remain at home during a hunting expedition or judges a task beyond his experience. Rhys accepts authority more readily when he understands its reasoning. An unexplained command can linger in his mind for hours, sometimes becoming the subject of renewed argument at the evening table. He has not yet learned that a person may be both right to question and wrong in the manner of asking. His protective instincts are strongest where Lily is concerned. He is quick to intervene when older children are unkind to her and often assumes responsibility for her safety even when none has been given to him. This devotion sometimes irritates his sister, who has no wish to be treated as helpless. Their disagreements over the matter reveal something important about Rhys: his wish to protect others is genuine, but he has not fully understood the difference between caring for someone and deciding what they ought to be permitted to do. It is a small flaw in a boy, scarcely unusual, though one that gives his affection a certain earnest severity. More privately, Rhys worries about disappointing his parents. Garrick's approval matters enormously to him, and he has been known to spend an entire afternoon practicing a skill his father criticized that morning. Anwen's disappointment affects him differently. He dislikes discovering that he has been unkind, thoughtless, or dishonest, and her quiet questions can unsettle him more than his father's reprimands. He has inherited something of both their temperaments: Garrick's persistence and willingness to endure discomfort, Anwen's curiosity and concern for others. These qualities do not always coexist peacefully within him. Despite his ambitions, Rhys retains much of the imagination and vulnerability of childhood. He is susceptible to nightmares after hearing particularly grim stories, and noises outside his window sometimes trouble him long after the rest of the house has settled. He dislikes admitting this, particularly to Lily, though she has more than once caught him listening at the shutters. He is not ashamed of feeling afraid so much as ashamed of being seen afraid. His father has begun trying to correct that misunderstanding, reminding him that a frightened hunter who pays attention may survive where a confident fool will not. Rhys understands the words. Living by them is another matter. The Stories of the Silent Veil Of all the histories Anwen has read aloud and all the legends repeated by travelers passing through the village, none has captured Rhys's imagination more completely than those concerning the Silent Veil. The order is spoken of with differing measures of reverence, suspicion, and fear throughout the Shattered Dominion. Some accounts describe its members as solemn guardians charged with preserving the boundary between the living and the dead. Others portray them as wandering hunters who carry strange lanterns and appear wherever restless spirits trouble the roads, old battlefields, or forgotten burial grounds. According to village tradition, a Soul Hunter may pass through a settlement without announcing himself, answer questions no ordinary priest can address, and depart before morning without accepting payment or thanks. There are tales of the dead being guided to rest, of houses freed from terrible hauntings, and of creatures born from Blight that could not be put down by common steel. There are less comforting stories as well. Some say the lanterns carried by the Veil contain imprisoned souls. Others insist they burn with a flame that requires no fuel, and that its light reveals things a living person was never meant to witness. An old villager once told Rhys that a Soul Hunter could stand beside a grave and hear every lie spoken over the person buried there. Another claimed that certain hunters walked for decades without appearing to age. Rhys has no way to distinguish invention from truth, and the adults around him are unhelpfully divided. Garrick prefers not to speak of the order unless pressed. Anwen is willing to discuss its place in history, though she cautions her son against taking every tale at face value. The village elders sometimes make warding gestures when the Silent Veil is mentioned, then refuse to explain why. To Rhys, the mystery is irresistible. He imagines the hunters traveling beneath unfamiliar moons, crossing ruined kingdoms, entering abandoned sanctuaries, and confronting dangers from which ordinary people must hide. The notion that someone might possess the courage and knowledge to face such things fascinates him. Yet what interests him most is not simply their weapons or unusual powers. It is the purpose of their work. The idea that the dead might remain troubled, that the world might contain suffering beyond the reach of common remedies, and that an order of men and women exists to confront it raises questions he can hardly express. Who taught the first Soul Hunters? Why do the dead sometimes refuse to depart? What do their lanterns truly hold? And why would anyone willingly dedicate a life to walking where other people fear to look? He has asked Garrick whether Soul Hunters are heroes. His father considered the question before answering that a person could perform necessary work without becoming a hero, and that stories rarely include the entire price of what was accomplished. Rhys was dissatisfied with the reply. Later, he asked Anwen the same question. She told him that a story could be true in one person's telling and incomplete in another's, especially when the people involved were no longer alive to speak for themselves. The uncertainty has done nothing to diminish his interest. Rhys sometimes dreams of meeting a Soul Hunter, though he cannot quite decide what he would ask first. He would like to see one of the mysterious lanterns for himself. He would like to know whether the hunters remember the spirits they encounter and whether ancient magic feels different from the simple physical things he knows: the pull of a bowstring, the cold of rain beneath wool, the beating heart of an animal held in his hands. He has never seen one of the order closely enough to recognize him. For now, the Silent Veil belongs to the same distant world as the oldest kingdoms and the ruined monuments of the Shattered Dominion: real enough to inspire wonder, remote enough that he can imagine it without yet understanding its demands. The World Beyond the Familiar Paths Although his responsibilities keep him close to Misty Village, Rhys thinks often of traveling beyond its boundaries. He wants to see the streets of the Alyndor Royal Capital, where merchants arrive from places he has encountered only in books, where scholars are said to preserve histories older than the villages surrounding them, and where men who have crossed the Dominion's most dangerous regions speak of what they have seen without necessarily agreeing on the truth. He would like to visit a great library, examine old maps, and learn enough of the ancient languages to understand the inscriptions upon the ruins Garrick occasionally points out during their journeys. These ambitions remain somewhat shapeless. At times Rhys imagines becoming a renowned hunter whose knowledge of the wilderness is sought by nobles and soldiers. On other days he considers serving as a scout, traveling with explorers, or devoting himself to the study of histories that seem to have vanished from the ordinary knowledge of village life. His interests change with the books he reads and the stories he hears. What remains constant is his desire to discover something beyond what has already been explained to him. His parents regard these ambitions differently. Anwen encourages him to read widely and think for himself, though she reminds him that distant places contain ordinary people who must also work, eat, quarrel, and endure disappointment. Garrick is less impressed by dreams of great cities and legendary deeds. He believes there is dignity in a useful life and sees no reason a person must travel far to find it. Rhys admires that conviction without sharing it entirely. He loves his home and cannot imagine willingly abandoning his family, yet some part of him remains attentive to the road beyond the village, as if the sight of an unfamiliar bend or a distant hill were a question directed specifically at him. There is an important innocence in this longing. Rhys has heard enough stories of war, plague, strange beasts, and the lingering dangers of the Blight to know the Dominion is not gentle. But most of his knowledge has reached him at a safe distance, through books, warnings, and the careful recollections of adults. He has seen animals die. He has tended wounds, witnessed sickness, and learned that an empty winter storehouse can frighten a family more effectively than many legendary monsters. Nevertheless, the worst horrors of the wider world remain outside his immediate experience. His imagination fills those distances with peril, certainly, but also adventure, discovery, and the opportunity to prove that he might be equal to something greater than his familiar responsibilities. He has yet to understand how little the world concerns itself with whether a person feels prepared. Beneath the Evening Mist On certain evenings, after the household's work is finished, Rhys walks as far as the familiar path overlooking the wooded outskirts of Misty Village. From there he can see the clustered roofs below, smoke rising from chimneys, and the pale evening mist gathering among the trees. He knows the country well enough to recognize the break in the hedgerow near an abandoned fence, the shallow hollow where rainwater collects, and the stretch of woodland where his father once showed him the tracks of a large stag. Beyond those landmarks, the paths become less familiar, passing into the deeper country where the villagers seldom travel without reason. Rhys likes that place because it offers enough solitude for thinking without carrying him beyond the sound of home. Sometimes he brings a small book tucked beneath his father's cloak. Sometimes he practices identifying the marks of animals along the damp ground. More often he simply watches the distant woods, considering where the old roads might lead and how long it would take to reach places whose names he has only read. His mind travels easily, though he is rarely careless enough to lose track of the fading daylight. Garrick has taught him the importance of returning before weather and darkness alter the woodland, and Rhys generally observes the rule even when he resents it. One evening, with the mist gathering low and the first lamps being lit in the village below, he hears a sound from somewhere beyond the trees. It is faint, too distant for certainty: perhaps an animal calling, perhaps a branch shifting against another, perhaps nothing more than the peculiar way sound travels through damp woodland. He stands listening for several moments, trying to separate it from the evening's familiar noises. A part of him wishes to follow it, if only far enough to identify its source. Then Lily calls from the lane behind him. She has come looking for her brother, impatient because their mother is preparing supper and Rhys has once again neglected the time. He tells her he heard something in the woods. Lily asks whether it was a wolf, and when he admits he does not know, she accuses him of inventing another story to frighten her. He protests, she laughs, and the matter quickly becomes an argument about who must carry the bundle of kindling waiting near the path. Rhys takes the heavier end. They begin walking home together, Lily talking about something she has been reading with Anwen while Rhys listens and occasionally corrects a detail she has deliberately confused to annoy him. Below them the village windows shine through the mist, and the sound of supper preparations carries faintly from the cottages. Rhys draws his father's cloak closer against the evening chill and follows his sister down the familiar lane. At the bend, he glances once toward the distant trees. Then Lily catches his sleeve and pulls him along, and the two disappear among the warm lights of Misty Village. Rhys enters the history of the Shattered Dominion as a hunter's son: inquisitive, loyal, sometimes stubborn, and still young enough to believe that knowledge and courage can prepare a person for whatever waits beyond the next familiar road. His story begins among the modest affections of a family, the guarded traditions of an isolated village, and the unanswered questions of a boy who has never been content to leave the wider world unexplored.