Flashback

"Poor thing." Alkadian sat near Alim, a perfect picture of opposites. "I'll have you know that refining this vulgar weed is no simple task, though it proved no real challenge to one of my skill, of course. I hope," he said, standing away from a small paper packet left on the table, "that you manage to make peace with yourself tonight now. And, of course, do notify me when you need more of your...medicine." Alkadian turned to leave, pausing halfway to watch as Alim opened the small paper sachet, unceremoniously emptying it into his drink, then slid out of the room.

The powder, refined from a common root, tasted bitter. Alim, used to such unsavory fare, didn't so much as grimace as the foul liquid slid over his tongue. he pushed the tankard away, emptied save for a few tainted dregs, and shambled off from the ship's mess hall to his own small quarters. They'd reach Chesseck soon, and there he'd have a chance to both forget his troubles in action and to replenish his "medicinal" stores for those times that forgetting was denied to him.

Medicine. No matter what his companions called it, what he called it, it was nothing more than a pretty euphemism. Every one of the potent chemicals and herbs he ingested was a drug, nothing more. He found his solace from night terrors and paralyzing memory in leaves, berries, roots, and extracts. Alkadian had been a god-send to him years ago; his alchemical skills and herb-lore allowed him to prepare tinctures and powders, all far more powerful than their wholly natural components.

He knew, logically, that these things weren't strictly good for him; however, habituation to altered states aside, they were preferable to his dreams. If he could get one night without seeing the same past failures replayed, it was a valid trade. He lay back in his bunk now, head pleasantly swimming, and prayed for one night of oblivion on this damned ship.

***

The forest he ran in had no proper name; to his kin, it was only the Northwest Wood, an expanse of verdant life, emerald tinged shade, and cool streams, that marked the last truly safe zone in the Alliance's northern reaches. Where these trees ended, miles north of Alim's domain, the barren contested lands began. it was here, in the moderate climate of the wood, that life continued untouched, as it had for generations.

Like any frontier, there were hardships. A long winter spelled dangerously troubled times for the few settlers, and the threat of wolves, bears, and other creatures who shared the forest was almost perpetual. When Alim had taken to woodscraft at an early age, his family had been delighted, and did their utmost to further his abilities. His skills eventually helped keep them well fed, kept their few livestock animals safe, and gave them, perhaps most importantly, someone well in-tune with nature, providing adequate warning of the sometimes dramatic shifts in weather and temperature that could decimate an unprepared holding.

In time, he took to wandering further, helping the other scattered families as much as his own; after all, in this mostly forgotten corner of the world, the success of one freehold benefited all the others. He was loved for his efforts, and happly saw the rest of his life laid out before him: one continuous circuit, plying his abilities for the good of his people, always starting and ending as his home, doing as much as was possible while he could.

He ran through the sun-dappled undergrowth. Fleet of foot, he bolted his wiry frame through nature's tangles and snares. He paused, leaping a fallen log, vaulting off of the top and grabbing a low branch, before nimbly climbing his way up the trunk. With any luck, he'd see the cooking fires of the next glen when he got to the top.

Breaking through the canopy with ease, eyes half-blind with the sudden presence of the sun, he looked north for the tell-tale mark of domestic life: smoke. He grinned, having estimated his progress perfectly along his newest route. As the brightness of the sun ceased to dazzle him, though, his smile faded abruptly.

There was too much smoke.

Concern for the people, his neighbors, as well as the forest itself, flared up in him. Alim practically flew down the tree, hands blurring over knot and bole, until his feet, already running, his the loam of the gods, not again forest floor.

Alim ran like never before. The ways of the woods, his woods, opened to him, granting him a celerity he'd not known he possessed. Clearing the tree line, he stopped hard, looking uncomprehendingly at the scene before him - the home burned out, crop destroyed, and the bodies of the family who lived here, slaughtered to the last child, piled haphazardly in the center of it all.

Alim stumbled, falling heavily to his knee. Head swimming, he forced himself to get up, to ignore his blurring vision to look for survivors , for some sign of what had done this. A short search confirmed that no one was alive nearby...just as it showed him a crudely hidden trail leading in the next holding's direction.

"Fleet. I must be fleet." The words fell out of his mouth, sounding half like a command from someone else. Stringin his simple bow, Alim ran on, praying to every god he knew that he wasn't too far behind. His flight was reckless, so much so that he was on top of the moving force almost before he could dodge aside, silent and mercifully unseen.

A group of ten or so marched along, picking their steps with care. They were armed and armored better than any forest settler could ever afford to be, seeming to positively bristle with blades, fletching, and pure malice. They moved isngle-file, stretching into the verdure ahead of Alim's sight like a serpent. Alime choked back sudden tears for the next home, a small family minutes ahead; his duty, however, was to the community as a whole, and he held no doubt that, with the benefit of surprise, this bad could easily handle any individual homestead as easily as they could hill him if he attempted hasty intervention.

So he circumvented the farm, unlike those cruel men, and children's screams echoing through the trees gave his aching legs and feet wings once more.

He stopped at each nearby clearing in turn, wild eyed, panting, doing no more than to demand that everyone gather at Eledrahl, the wood's central point, the gnarled and ancient oak, with whatever weapons they could muster. Wracked with guilt still, he was nevertheless determined that no more of his people would be caught unawares.

Alim circled around when the last man was told, intent on finding these invaders of his simple world. He found them finally, resting near the blazing, but mercifully abandoned, ruins of a farm. This, some several along the trail from the scene of the last slaughter, found the men grumbling, angry at being cheated of their sport. They milled around, obviously debating their next course of action, when one left the group, heading wide of the sparking cinders of the building, to relieve himself.

Alim's arrow caught him easily through the throat, silencing him, lessening the marauders' advantage. The next man, coming to look for his friend, met with the same ending, an arrow speeding through trees to bury itself home in his vitals.

After that, they stayed banded firmly together. Alim, looking for another chance to drop one of these men, studied them all, from carriage to types of armor. While well put together, they were obviously military. Peering intently, he finally saw the finely etched crest, with all pigment removed, on their shoulders: Thesk. Alim's hands trembled slightly on seeing that - the minions of the Emperor were said to have no pity. He looked for more clues, more information, anything to help his cause.

As he looked them over, his eyes were drawn to one in particular - a somewhat larger man, with armor of obviously finer make, complete with full helm, carrying a black bow of absolutely marvelous craftsmanship. He barked the orders, the others followed. They took to the path again, but strayed from the route.

Alim sped by, his wide path costing precious minutes, and met the few dozen folk gathered at the tree's clearing. He prepared them as best he could, rank and file of men with primitive weapons standing in front of their women and children. They were barely organized when the men broke through the trees. A volley of arrows, and unarmored villagers fell, combatants and innocents alike. What followed was short, but pitched, as the woodsmen swarmed over the remaining seven soldiers, inflicting nevertheless far less damage than they received.

In the end, Alim's arrows made a difference. When the forces broke, there were still a handful of Alim's men standing, while there was only the leader and one of his own men left. They circled the group, while the men of the woods fell back to guarding their own. Alim looked constantly for an opening, some way to end this horror, but nothing presented itself.

The man in the helm began to laugh. It started as a slow chuckle, almost voiceless, and increased in volume and mania until it was absolutely unbearable. Never stopping, he ripped the helm off of his head. There was no sound as it fell to the ground, apart from his cackling, revealing his face at last. Twisted features, a truly black hue, what looked like...scales. He was, simply put, like nothing they'd ever seen before, like nothing they knew how to deal with.

The laughter stopped, abruptly, as the half-dragon leaned forward and vomited a stream of burning acid, covering the clustered Northwoods folk, and even his own man. Flesh sizzled and slid, screams erupted, and Alim, who alone had managed to dodge out of the acid's path, felt something break in his mind. Walking forward, he fired with blurring speed arrow after arrow, closer and closer to the wildly laughing soldier, watching every point sink in to the fletching.

By the time that the half-dragon realized one was alive and, indeed, a threat, he was pierced in half a dozen places and bleeding profusely. The only comfort Alim could receive was the utterly confused look on his face as he died.

***

Shuddering, Alim woke up. He reached for his haversack, pulling out a small packet, popping the cap of a dried mushroom into his mouth and chewing frantically. There had to be a way to make these dreams stop, to redeem himself for failing so many people.

The men had been, of course, a small scouting party, an advance force of the Emperor's army, which had tried to push far down into Rasth. The forest he'd loved was decimated by them. The people he'd loved were destroyed. When the forces of the Alliance had rallied to repel the invaders from Thesk, he'd joined. He'd fought, using the half-dragon's own bow against them, and found a small peace in revenge. When that ended...so had his purpose.

So now he wandered, with no thought for himself but trying to do what little good he could so far from anything he truly cared about. With his companions of the last few years he'd gained a bit of direction. Even if it was their own, and not his, he was happy to have something to do.

And now...the farthest northwest seemed like a brilliant destination. A surge of troops, battling orcs, and maybe, just maybe, finding some of the evil bastard dragons responsible for tainting the world with their half-breed get.

The lights dimmed on him as the cap did its work, sending him down into a paralytic sleep for most of the next day. If he dreamed, he didn't remember it.