A Lute's Lament

The forest whispered with the crackling of frostbitten wood, an eerie symphony beneath a tranquil shroud of snow, where life lay hidden beneath a serene white blanket.

Trees stood as silent sentinels, their skeletal branches adorned with delicate icicles glittering faintly in the fading light.

Dark clouds sprawled across the evening sky, mirroring the intricate pattern of twisted branches below, forming an oppressive canopy heavy with the promise of a coming storm.

As the moon rose, a silvery glow washed over the woods, its light piercing through the darkness to reveal a pair of eyes shining like twin stars among the shadows.

The sky's melancholy hue set a somber tone, casting the forest in an otherworldly glow that seemed to freeze time itself.

High in the tallest tree, a crow perched with a regal air, its feathers as dark as the deepest night. Its eyes burned with hints of madness and curiosity, two fiery orbs reflecting the aimless figure walking below.

The crow tilted its head, its sharp eyes keenly observing the boy's every move, as if weighing his resolve against the encroaching weather.

He trudged forward, each step a struggle against the biting cold. Mist spiraled from his lips like ethereal serpents, his breath weaving through the forest gloom, each puff painting his face in the air — transient yet haunting.

Wrapped in a tattered cloak dulled by relentless winter, a necklace of wooden beads rested against his chest, peeking out from the folds of his fur-lined scarf.

His slender, pale fingers clutched an old lute, its worn frame marked with scratches and scars, each telling a tale of survival and hardship.

His eyes, verdant pools like emerald fire, reflected the turmoil within his soul — a riddle lost in a labyrinth of fragmented recollections, hinting at a past too painful to fully remember.

The boy seemed startled, his ears tricking him, and instinct telling him that something was preying upon him.

In his skinny hands, he held the lute firmly, its first string trembling as his bloodied finger slid over it. His frown deepened, and then, with a sudden burst of energy, he started to run. Unknowingly, his fingers brushed over the strings, and a melody was born.

He ran through the forest, each step a note in a haunting symphony. The first note spoke of his hunger and thirst. The second note told him to keep running, a whisper of hope that something, somewhere, would help him.

As the third note emerged, tears were summoned to dance upon his face. His thoughts alternated between acknowledging and denying the pain in his chest, something within him breaking, as if the domes around his heart were bound to crack, releasing a torrent of unknown feelings that threatened to drown him.

Fear seized him. The unknown, the poets once wrote, drove countless men to cover their heads with blankets, sheltering from mysteries that simultaneously lured and repelled them with curiosity and doubt.

He neared a rock formation and a row of trees. A branch fell nearby, startling him into playing the fourth note. With it, something whispered in his ear, his name, "Asdras."

His eyes widened. That name evoked a sense of self, a reminder that he was someone. It brought with it a fire that warmed his body enough for him to continue.

Approaching a landslide, he noticed movement in the corner of his eye. His body screamed for him to roll left, and he did, sliding down the slope as the sound of a low growl reached his ears.

The crow flew overhead, its wings cutting through the cold air as Asdras found himself face-to-face with a beast. A snow leopard, its eyes glowing like icy blue flames, stood before him. The boy's breath caught in his throat, his lute's strings trembling in his hands.

The leopard's growl rumbled through the forest, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. Moonlight cast a silvery halo around the creature, its sleek fur merging seamlessly with the snow.

Asdras stood his ground. The beast's muscles tensed, ready to pounce. Snow leopards, masters of stealth and ambush, relied on their agility and strength to overpower their prey.

The beast lunged, a blur of white and gray against the snow. Asdras sidestepped, the lute in his hands becoming an extension of his will. He struck a chord, the sound reverberating through the forest, momentarily startling the beast.

But the animal was relentless. It circled him, calculating, looking for an opening. Asdras could see the intelligence in its eyes, a predatory cunning that sought to exploit any weakness. He played another note, the melody rising in a crescendo of defiance.

The leopard struck again, claws outstretched. Asdras raised his lute, the wooden frame catching the brunt of the blow. Splinters flew, but the instrument held. The boy swung it in a wide arc. The leopard hissed, recoiling from the unexpected resistance.

The leopard feinted to the left, then sprang to the right. Asdras anticipated the move, pivoting on his heel and bringing the lute down in a powerful strike. The strings cried out, the sound merging with the beast's roar. The impact drove the leopard back, but its eyes burned with unyielding resolve.

Snowflakes swirled around them, the forest an arena of ice and shadow. Asdras felt a strange calm wash over him, the melody in his mind shaping his actions. He strummed a haunting tune, the notes weaving through the air like a spell. The leopard hesitated, its ears twitching as if caught in the web of sound.

Seizing the moment, Asdras pressed his advantage. He played faster, the music a relentless torrent that battered the leopard's senses. The beast shook its head, trying to dispel the enchantment, but Asdras would not relent. He advanced, each step a declaration of his will to survive.

In a trance-like state, Asdras heard whispers, guiding his movements. A crow appeared, pecking viciously at the leopard's eyes, using its feet like daggers. Asdras noticed the broken state of his lute, claw marks marring its once smooth surface. The voice in his head intensified, igniting a fiery anger within him. Streams of cold air swirled around him, fueled by his rage.

He kicked snow into the beast's face and leapt forward, emotion driving him. He wrapped his arms around the leopard's neck, trading bites as the beast's fangs sank into his shoulder. His fur collar protected his vital points, and he mimicked the crow, relentlessly attacking the leopard's eyes with his fingers.

The leopard howled, shaking its body violently. Asdras was flung against a nearby tree, the impact jarring him. As he regained his footing, his lute struck a stone, sounding the seventh note, signaling the final act of the battle. The forest seemed to hold its breath, the moonlight highlighting the combatants.

The crow's gaze locked with Asdras's, and he dashed forward as the leopard advanced. He offered his left flank as bait, and the crow blocked the creature's eyes. Asdras delivered a chop-like fist to the leopard's neck, every ounce of his strength behind the blow.

His blood rushed like a torrential sea, fueling his final attack. The leopard gave a final strike, tearing the fabric of his sleeves, then collapsed, drawing its last breath.

Asdras's palms glowed with a pulsing symbol, burning briefly with fire. He muttered a single word, "Chapters," before collapsing to the ground. In his final moments of consciousness, he heard the crow cawing softly near his head.

Asdras felt the soft brush of crow feathers against his face, gently urging his eyes to close. The snow around him began to evaporate, revealing the dark, rich soil beneath.

The forest resumed its symphony of life: the chirping of insects, the distant howl of beasts, and the wind rustling through the rows of trees.

When Asdras regained consciousness, he felt a sensation of movement. He lay still, listening as clarity returned. The sound of wagon wheels creaking along a rough pathway reached his ears, accompanied by the occasional bump as the wheels hit small rocks.

Above the noise of the wagon, he heard someone murmuring a song. The voice was old but warm, its tone calm and comforting. It sang a tune that carried the essence of simpler times, a melody that farmers might sing in a pub to brighten their day.

"Well, young lad, sit down, I'll tell ye a tale, 'bout a farmer and his cow, and how they set sail. They left the barn early, just before dawn, with a plan so grand, it was hard not to yawn."

"The cow took the rudder, the farmer held the sail, off they went to market, to sell milk by the pail. The waves were made of hay, the wind was a breeze, the cow mooed a shanty, the farmer just wheezed."

Asdras let the soothing song wash over him, the gentle humor and warmth of the lyrics helping to ease the lingering pain in his body.

His eyelids, heavy with the burdens of a nightmarish dream, strained against the desire to remain closed as pain throbbed behind them. With weary determination, he forced his eyes to part, their trembling struggle evident in the slow blink of lashes as they fluttered open.

The interior of the wagon unfolded before him — a rustic, weathered chamber of old, pallid wood. Coarse blankets were draped haphazardly, their corners curling over makeshift covers and bedding. The scent of hay and earth permeated the air, mingling with the faint aroma of dried herbs.

He heard a boy's voice, but the words were indistinct, a murmur on the edge of comprehension. He tried to raise himself, but his body refused to obey. With a slight turn of his head, he faced the entrance of the wagon. The entrance was shielded by a blanket, but through its cracks, he could glimpse a twisted pathway, the trees and deformed terrain leading to a harsh road.

The wagon came to a sudden halt. A sharp yell pierced the air, the old man's voice commanding, "Boy, there's a deer ahead! Go on and catch it."

Asdras strained to listen. The boy's voice followed, light and teasing, "A deer? You sure it's not another tree stump?"

The sound of the boy's feet hit the ground, a rapid patter against the earth. The old man shouted back with a sarcastic tone, "Just make sure your face doesn't scare it off!"

The boy's laughter was infectious as he retorted, "It's your scent that does it, old man!"

Asdras heard the boy's footsteps nearing the wagon entrance. His heartbeat quickened with confusion and apprehension, unsure of his situation and these strangers. The boy's voice rang out, "Old priest, he's awake!"

The blanket was pulled aside, revealing the priest and the boy. The old man's visage spoke of a life well-lived, dressed in pale gray vestments that carried an aura of reverence and wisdom.

Beside him stood a boy of about eleven, with tousled dark hair and a mischievous gleam in his eyes. His brown skin blended with his leather vest adorned with cloth patches, and a wide grin stretched across his face as he regarded Asdras with curiosity.

The priest stepped closer, his eyes narrowing with concern and interest. "Welcome back to the land of the living, lad," he said, his voice a soothing rumble. "You've had quite a journey, it seems."

"I'm Priest Joe," he introduced himself. "Are you okay, lad?"

Asdras felt a wave of confusion wash over him. Unsure whether to nod, speak, or look around, he remained silent, his mind struggling to piece together the fragments of his memory.

Priest Joe continued, his tone softening. "You have a good fate, y'see. If a crow had not played my good assistance to his anger, we wouldn't have found your body lying down."

The boy scratched his head, trying to hide his embarrassment. "Yup, that's right," he drawled, spreading his arms wide. "We were gathering herbs when that crow stirred up a ruckus right above my head. I gave chase, and behold, there you were, sprawled out with a big ol' leopard over you. Did you kill it?"

Asdras tried to sit up, but the stress and weakness in his burned arms caused him to fall back. His eyes darted slowly as his senses faded again.

"Brian, fetch the bag in the corner!" Priest Joe hurried the boy.

"Not the right corner, you idiot, the left."

"Gosh darn it, old priest," Brian muttered, sidestepping to get behind the old man and opening the bag. "He's gonna be alright, ain't he?"

Priest Joe knelt beside Asdras, examining his scars and wounds with a practiced eye. "Place your trust in Saint Rose, and all shall be well," he assured.

Brian fixed his gaze upon Asdras's palm, his eyes widening. "Hey, ain't that more like a crow drawing on his hands?"

Priest Joe turned his head to see, his eyes widening and his breath quickening. "By the grace of Saint Rose, this unfortunate child is cursed..."