Ronio: A town once proud and prosperous. We had good business with our neighbors, and we suffered little. Out of all our enterprises, the most prosperous was the fur trade. Our hunters were the envy of other people. Whether hunting deer, fox, fowl, or any other beast, we were unmatched-- and my father was one of the best. Oh, if you could have seen us back in the golden days! Even the humblest and poorest amoungst us lived like the wealthy do in other lands. It seemed that nothing could go wrong.

    But, as is always the case for those who become proud and complacent, the glory days did not last. For one day, the Humakora came. It killed animals in numbers beyond its consumption, and chased the rest from the land. It fouled our crops with rotting corpses. It picked off our livestock and hunted those who traveled alone. It wanted us dead. It wanted us all to die.

    Our hunting parties tried to track it down, but it always eluded us, always one step ahead. Sometimes, our hunters would awaken from camp and find their numbers one less than the night before. Over the years, our population began to dwindle; some were taken by death... others fled. But proud people will not easily admit defeat. And so, my father refused to give up. He would rally the men of the town and form hunting parties. Every time, they came back with only tragic news for another widowed wife. As soon as he could, however, he would call the men to arms again, and inspire them for another hunt, "Once more, brave men of Ronio" He would say. But never was the nightmare slain. Eventually, he wore himself out and fell ill. Knowing his time was drawing to an end, he called me into his room.

    "My son..." He wispered hoarsly. "I have long sought to slay that evil thing, that vessel of decay. But alas... I shall meet my maker unvictorious."

    I knew not what to say. What could I say? So I remained silent.

    "You must take up my mission." He said. "Find the beast... bring back it's horn."

    "It's horn?" I asked.

    "Yes. It has one great horn on it's forehead. I saw the fiend once, up close. Even now I can see it's face as clearly as I see you before me. That horn will be proof of its demise. Bring me that horn. I ask nothing more of you."

    Days came, and days went by. Time marched on.

    I ran through the wooded hills, in pursuit of my target, branches whipping past me in my chase. My arrow had injured it, and it would not likely be able to keep up speed for long. Though it was faster than I, my shear determination drove me forward. I could hear it's footsteps even over my own.

    I could see glimpses of my quarry, and I saw that I was catching up to it. It's speed began to slacken, and the gap between us grew shorter. Hooves beat upon the ground, and a white tail contrasted the dark greens and greys of the forest. The deer darted behind a massive tree, about twenty foot in breadth, and its footsteps ceased. I stopped, and could not hear it. I smiled with satisfaction, knowing that it must have paused to rest, or it colapsed from bloodloss.

    I put an arrow to my bowstring, pulled it back, and held it ready to shoot. I crept quietly towards the tree, listening for movement. I could hear other noises in the woods around me, but shut them from my mind, keeping alert only to the sound of the deer. I followed the tree’s perimeter. I had not eaten meat in many days, and the thought of fresh venison was empowering. When I guessed I was close enough, I darted for where it must have been, arrow drawn and poised. But the deer was not there.

    With arrow still readied, I looked around. No sign of the animal. It had been there mere moments ago, yet I found myself alone. I had been listening carefully for the sound of a deer's footsteps, but did not hear it. Perplexed, I stopped and wondered what could have happened.

    Then, I heard a rustle above me. Slowly, I turned my gaze towards the canopy and saw the deer being pulled into the shaded branches of the tree by an unseen predator. Though I could not quite see what it was, there was only one possibility.

    A chill went down my spine, and my blood seemed to run cold. Slowly, I backed away. My heart beat so loudly, I feared the beast would hear it. I could hear the monster eating the deer; the tearing of flesh, the crunching of bones. If I were caught, I could no more defend myself than could that animal's copse.

    Thinking only of that dreaded beast, I forgot to hold the arrow tight. It slipped from my fingers and shot into the ground with a lound twang. The monster must have heard this, for it's feasting stopped. I tried to stay still, but my hands began to tremble. I tried to stay silent, but my teeth began to chatter. I lost my nerves, and I ran. I fled as fast as I possibly could, expecting the beast to snatch me up at any moment. As I ran, a branch caught my hunting bow and pulled it from my hands. I glanced back, but I did not stop. I dared not stop; not even for an instant. Finally, I reached the shelter-- a crude, shallow dugout covered by earth and fallen logs. I crawled inside and pressed myself against the back-most wall, cowaring at the though of the fiend. My thoughts were filled with violent images of being eaten alive, or mutilated and left to bleed out.

    I laid there for the remainder of the day, not daring to leave. I could not hear it, but that only meant that the Humakora could be anywhere.

    I lay there in my shelter, praying that it would not find me.

    Never before had I been so close to the beast-- so close to death. Most days, I encounter no sign of the predator. Even when I do not see the thing itself, evidence of it's presence are plain to the alert observer; Claw marks on the ground and roots, animal remains left unfinished after it ate its fill, or the sounds of it's scuttling feet in the distance as it stalks the land.

    I should not have been out that day, as it seems to hunt in this area on every fifth day, but that deer was too tempting, and with so little wildlife left, I rarely had the chance to eat meat. Most of the time, I go from one shelter to another eating the berries and fruit that that gluttonous carnivor seems to have no interest in. I cannot stay out long, of course. Although I know it actively hunts in this area every fifth day, that doesn't mean it wouldn't kill me on sight if I crossed its path any other day.

    The shelters were built from fallen logs over small, shallow pits. The logs are partly covered with earth and clay, and the surrounding ground fortified with the large stones that, thank the heavens, are so common in the region. The first shelter was simply a low patch of earth over which one tree had fallen, and another lay nearby. I later built others and reinforced them over time, having little else to do. I am fortunate to have constructed them back when the beast was complacent and careless, for it had since become hungry and desperate, and even more malicious than before.

    Most of my days are quite routine, and involve scavenging, forraging, planting seeds, and occasionally hunting some small animal that had escaped the voracious predator. Every fifth day I confined myself to the sanctuary of one of my burrows-- sign or no.

    Then one fateful day, I wandered out farther than usual. Normally, I never let myself stray far from the shelters, but I was lost in contemplation, and my feet seemed to walk of their own accord while my thoughts were elsewhere. I found myself recalling once more that last day I saw my father.

    I remembered how he looked up at me from his bed. "Bring me that horn." He said. "I ask nothing more of you."

    "But... It cannot be done. Our greatest hunters could not kill the thing... how can I, alone?"

    He shook his head dismissively. "Naught is impossible to a Ronian, lest he makes it so."

    "But I could fail. I could die."

    "If you do not succeed, we are a lost and broken people-- and that is a fate far worse than death." He began to caugh violently. I grasped his hand in mine and tried to stop him from speaking further, but he insisted. "Percevere, my son. No matter how long it takes, the deed must be done. We depend on you-- our fate is in your hands."

    In my absent-minded wandering, I found myself in a wide clearing next to a hillside.

   There was a great over-hanging stone, from which a stream trickled and dripped into a shallow pool below. There were images on the rock, painted perhaps by some ancient people long ago.

    I thought little of this sight at the time. It was interesting, but little more than that. Though I had drinking water enough for the day, my face was dirty and dry.

    But as I drew near, I heard a rusling, and a figure came running towards me from the nearby woods. He stood between myself and the spring and barred my path. His clothes were fashioned in part from common clothes, and part from patches of furs and leathered hides, though he did not appear to be of any of the old barbarian tribes. By the look of him, he was most likely younger than myself by a few years, and had been living in the wild for much longer.

    "This spring is sacred." He said to me with great resolve. "I will not allow you to defile it."

    I considered following the water's flow and washing out of sight of this guardian, but the spring ran into a shallow, murky stream; not fit for cleaning in.

    "Give way." I ordered. "While you still have all your teeth."

    He said nothing more. He seemed to have said all that he needed to, and so only stood. But I would not back down. I was done with hiding and running. This boy was no wall, no barrier to me-- just an obstacle, a momentary delay in my quest. We stared eachother down, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

    A distant noise caught his attention momentarily, and in that instant I rushed at him. He reached for a dagger at his ankle, but I caught him first.

    Though I was older and stronger than he, he had lived in the wild longer, and learned the resourcefullness that the feral life entails. He attacked with fist and foot and knee and nail. He broke away from the grapple and took a sling from a pouch at his side, but again I attacked before he could ready his weapon. Though he fought with zeal and ferocity, I managed to take hold of him by the belt and the colar of his shirt, lifted him off his feet, and threw him down. The impact knocked the breath from him, and the pain stunned him. He lay helpless on the ground as he slowly caught his breath again.

    As I stood over him, he looked up at me with stony hate, but also with defeat in his eyes, as if expecting death. Then I thought to myself Why? Does he think I will kill him? Why would he fight me in the first place if he believed his life to be at risk?

    "What is this spring?" I asked him. "For what purpose do you guard it?"

    At first, he did not respond, as if he expected my inquiry to be a trap. I extended my hand to him, and after a hesitation, he took it, and I helped him to his feet.

    "It is a holy place," He answered, as if out of obligation, "for those who seek redemption. It is a place for second chances—of courage for warriors and men of mission."

    I looked once more at the spring, and a curious feeling came over me. It was a sense of belonging, or that something was right or important in my being here. Was it in fact blessed? Had destiny brought me to this place? I felt a gathering anticipation, as though some great opportunity lay before me.

    "What do you know of the Humakora?" I asked him.

    "I do not know this name..." he said to me, "but I know the beast you speak of. Wolves fear it, foxes cannot escape it, hounds cannot find it, and man cannot outsmart it. But I have seen its nest, and I know its habits. Most of the wildlife is already gone, so it's getting hungry, desperate, and reckless. I suspect it will attack the nearby town directly any day now. Why do you ask?"

    "You and I? We are going to hunt the Humakora."

    Having been defeated in single combat, the youth felt obligated to serve me as I wished. Perhaps it was an old tradition-- some remnant of a broken civilization. I had no need for a servant. I needed a strong fighter by my side in order to slay the beast. When I told him this, he too looked toward the spring for a minute, then said that it would be so. We both drank from the spring and rinsed the sweat and dirt from our faces.

    We devised a plan before long, and put this plan into motion as soon as we were able.

    We went that night to Ronio. It was not difficult to sneak in, as our walls were made to keep livestock in and wild animals out, rather than to fend of invading forces. Climbing the walls was a simple task.

    Once inside, I saw the town for the first time in the years since my father's death. How desolate it had become since I left! Many if not most of the buildings and houses were left abandoned, and I was saddened to find the house of my family in such a state. Fortunately, with so few still there, it had been easy to evade observation.

    We went into my home from a side door. Inside, dust and cobwebs had long since replaced the light and warmth of live residents, and no surface seemed to have been spared their presence.

    I turned to the youth and said "We are not to steal anything, mind you. I don't know if your hands are in the habbit of looting or not, but we are here for specific supplies only. All of which will be returned. Do I make myself clear?"

    "I will take naught from this place," he said, holding up his hands before me, "save that which you tell me to."

    We found my father's room, left as it was before he died. My conscience gnawed at me for looting this shrine-like arangement, but our mission would be more important to him than the arangement of unused equipment. The first crossbow we took looked good at first, but the string had been frayed long ago. We found another in better condition and I gave it to my friend. I took my father's favorite longbow. It was difficult to pull to full length, but it had remarkable firing power. It had actually been made as a military weapon rather than a hunting tool, and at close range it could put a bodkin arrow through a steel armor. We also took some of the leather and light mail armor that the champion hunters wore to festivals, or when facing some of the more vicious animals. After collecting sufficient ammunition, traps, and other gear, we set out to find the beast's lair.

   (To Be Continued)