A Dreamer...

Quote #1: “There is no man more fearful in action than a dreamer.”-Victor Hugo (Les Miserables)
((OOC- Okay, first off: OOC means Out Of Character. Second off: This is not the typical blog, this is a role play. My friends and I will be alternating as authors of each entry and in that manner will create a story. Each of us will be assuming a character, of our own unique choice. Before I begin, let me introduce myself a bit better—I’ll let my ‘colleagues’ introduce themselves in their own entries— My name is Ishack, of the group I have been described as the “cynical pessimist”, in truth I just have a very dry (desert dry) sense of humor. I am interested in political theories (all things ending in ism—collectivism, communism, individualism, fascism, socialism…you get the point). That’s all I can think to say about myself, now to the fun part, the writing!))

Dark clouds hung over an empty forest. Rain fell from leaf to leaf. Thunder split the night. And yet, there it was, still just an empty forest. No one was there to see the howling wind. No horse sludged through the mud that foul night. No drenched cloak weighed heavily upon a traveler's back. Quite simply, the forest was empty. This is why our tale takes place elsewhere, on a different night, in a different forest. Our character now is no tired traveler, but a nimble lad of seventeen, with unkempt black hair and a bow in hand.
Erik wandered through the trees, towards home. He had had a good hunt, resulting in a rabbit for supper. His father would be proud. He began to whistle a tune from his boyhood.
CRASH.
“Darn tree!”
Erik quickly readied an arrow and, pivoting, looking for the speaker. It was quite apparent, a foreigner lay fallen on the ground, surrounded by broken tree branches and autumn leaves, rubbing his bottom ridiculously. Still, upon closer examination, Erik found that that was the only thing ridiculous about this man. He bore scars upon his arms and face, a patch covered one eye, and a two-inch wide broad sword was tied, in a hilt, to his back.
“May I help you, Monsieur?” Erik figured that, after comparing his lean size to this man’s broad shoulders and strong build, it was best not to anger or embarrass the man.
The man looked him over, “What is your name, boy?” He spoke in a heavy accent, hardening the “t” and growling the “r”.
“Erik, Monsieur, but if you don’t need help, I’ll be on my way. My parents are expecting me.”
“I wonder if you would show me the way to your village.” The man turned a light pink and Erik realized why he had been in the tree in the first place.
“Yes, Monsieur, just follow me.”
They began to walk, Erik leading the way, the traveler moving quietly behind him.
“What country is this lad?”
Erik stared at him, “Dunlin, of course.”
“Ah yes, and which village are you taking me to?”
“The Village of Sowburry. Have you been here before?”
“To Sowburry? Not even to Dunlin, not that I knew, that is.”