The sun shone high in the sky over the grand city of Roseview on the first day of the Summer Festival. Only a few wispy clouds floated lazy against the otherwise undisturbed blue of the sky, promising good weather for the event. People milled about in droves on the streets of Roseview, perusing the colorful stalls that lined the streets, and gleefully watching the acrobats, dancers, and illusionists that competed for attention in the crowded market squares. People lounged and picnicked in the sun amidst the blooming flowers of Roseview's famous garden. The festivities even extended beyond the strong stone walls of Roseview and into the fields and farmland beyond. Here, events that required more room were held, from foot races to archery tournaments.

Within the walls of Roseview, towards the center, was another, higher wall. Enclosed within it was a majestic castle made of pale stone; its many towers capped with a polished metal resembling rose gold. Just within these secondary walls, people bustled about, preparing for one of the main events of the Summer Festival. The Choosing was an important event for the entirety of the Kingdom, for it was there that the newest generation of Slayers would be selected from among the common people. No matter one's background, if they had the talent could rise to become one of the Kingdom's greatest protectors. It was considered among the highest honors, and all common folk respected the Slayers, be it out of admiration or fear of their strength.

Everyone knew the order of events for the Choosing. First, any applicants would be put through a series of basic combat drills by instructors from the normal army. The goal was not necessarily to win, but rather so that the instructors could measure one's physical fitness, reflexes, and potential. Many failed quite readily at this part, and it was always rather amusing to watch. The crowds especially liked some of the less soft instructors, who would taunt and embarrass easy foes. This behavior had the practical benefit of identifying the more hot headed participants. This event was usually held for the entire day, as anyone could come from the audience to challenge an instructor. Those who pass this test are then instructed to go into a special pavilion. Those who have done so would tell you they were sat down in front of some geezer who told them to hold a rock and stared at them for several seconds. The majority of people would be turned away at this point, though few commoners knew why.

At the end of the day, towards sunset, any who were chosen would be gathered in public and announced by the senior Slayer in attendance. They would be given two days leave to enjoy the festivities, but would then be whisked off to Grouburn for training under the tutelage of Slayer Drill Masters; men who make even the army's equivalent shudder in fear.

This year's senior Slayer in attendance was a man by the name of Robert Wispels. He had served long as a Slayer, 25 years this day if you counted his Choosing. His short hair was grey, though still thick, and his green eyes had an almost feral look to them. His face is weather-worn and wrinkled, and one need not look long to find a scar anywhere on his skin. He lead the Slayer legion known as the Lanterns for many years before taking up a less physically demanding job in semi-retirement.

__________

Robert sat quietly at a table erected under a small shaded pavilion, where he would observe the Choosing. It was a little too warm for his liking this far South, at this time of the year, and he found himself longing for the cool clime of the Everautumn as he wiped sweat from his brow with a handkerchief. Must be going senile to remember that beast ridden forest in a positive light he thought. Before him, a clearing had been made and several instructors had already taken up posts within it, many of them stretching and warming up. They would rotate out with others whenever they became too tired, but it was still going to be a strenuous day for them. Robert knew none of them would have passed up the opportunity, though. Perhaps they lacked what was needed to be a Slayer, but each of them was honored to be the measure of those who may one day guard their Kingdom from the beasts of the North.

It would be only a short time before the gate to the courtyard was lifted and general public allowed to enter and participate in the choosing. Robert found himself playing with the hilt of his sword out of impatience. He'd attended last year's choosing as well, though not in this official capacity, and had been altogether unimpressed. Sure, those few who showed promise may become fine Slayers in their own right, but he'd seen no one who had truly stood out. He was reminded of his own Choosing, years ago, where he had witnessed the first appearance of many who would go on to become truly legendary Slayers, chief among them Kenath Hall, who would go on to become leader of the prestigious Outer Guard. Perhaps the time of legends was over, however. The Lycans appeared to be in disarray nowadays, their attacks less frequent and less effective. Perhaps the Kingdom had no need of extraordinary Slayers anymore. At the rate settlements were expanding into the Everautumn, he may himself live to see the day when the Kingdom of Aauron spanned the whole of the continent. Unlikely, though. These old bones are liable to give way any moment he mused.

Just as this thought occurred to him, Robert heard the sounds of the gate's ratchet being operated. Slowly it rose, to reveal the streets beyond, bustling with activity. The Choosing was open. The instructors in the clearing brandished their training swords and began to beckon the crowds to come through.

As the great metal doors of Roseview swung open in all their majesty, Ilya walked in among the crowd that came in to witness the Choosing. She trained herself for this day, and to be here in the capital was nothing but an honour for her. Her feet tapped lightly on the stone tiles as she swerved away from the main stream of people, and opted to crouch near one of the stone pillars around the arena. In her line of work, stealth and anonymity were key concepts if one wanted to stay under the radar of death; and Ilya mastered that art quite nicely. The girl nimbly rested herself on the ledge near the pillar, whilst one foot dangled while the other bent near her chest. The traditional ebony hood of the Erekon Forager Squads still covered her facial features, and hid much of her identity, leaving her free to watch as the onslaught of challengers filed in to the centre. Her eyes observed the battle-hardened proctors, wooden weapons in hand. All of them looked intimidating as their posture gave nothing away. Their stoic faces remained passive even if their would-be opponents towered over them. All of them deserved the title of Slayers from their posture and demeanour alone. The challengers and their matching proctors circled each other like prey and predator, death glares being sent left and right. The people's voices quieted as the deep, long roar of the bell signalled the start of the test.

A ferocious sequence of terrific battles began! One of the burliest contenders, Tanrou, smashed against the slayer with a resounding roar as both men fought for dominance. Then, the proctor whipped around and locked Tanrou's arm over his shoulder before using his hands to slam the challenger outside of the ring with a resounding crack. The crowd was sent into a frenzy as another challenger flew out when a sword broke against his skull-- the offending slayer raised his hand as another shout emanated from the wall of people. "Come on, ye bebies! Dun hide under yer mum's skerts, bawlin' and cryin' yer wee eyes wid lady tears! Dun just be prancin' 'round 'ere if ye ain't up to de test! AR' YE A SLAYER O' NOT!?" Yelark taunted to his writhing opponents, heaving his wooden axe over his head. The crowd answered with frantic cheers as bones broke and muscles swelled.

Ilya rolled her eyes to these challengers. Sure, it seemed honourable to fight an opponent at full strength, but, in the woods, honour is worth nothing when you're dead. Timing is of the essence in the field, and so in the art of marksmanship. A single wind, a single leaf bore the potential to change the trajectory of a shot-- costing the entire mission to fail. So, in this arena of battle, timing also became significant. And, so did stealth. Ilya had prepared her weapons and tools for this; she asked around and inquired as to the rules. And, there were only two rules: use wooden weapons, and try to not get trampled upon by the proctor. So, as the Choosing went on, and more and more people were humiliated and thrown around, Ilya decided to make her move. It was now or never. All her life led to this moment. She would not run away, because those who run from death stood still in life. And, by the gods, never did she stand still.

Ilya rose from her position, and fitted a blunt, wooden arrow into the nock of her bow. She aimed down the recurve at one of the arrogant proctors, and steadied her heart and mind. After all, steady heart, steady aim. The winds blew to the east, whilst leaves kept falling in an erratic sequence. If so, the perfect shot should be from the west. She pulled back the string, and breathed. "Through this shot, you will transcend." Ilya mumbled under her breath as her fingers let loose the arrow. The missile darted above the crowd, fanned by the eastward wind as it slammed into Yelark's left temple. The proctor crumpled to the floor for a few seconds, giving Ilya enough time to dash towards the arena as the awe-struck crowd made way for the challenger. As soon as the slayer regained his balance, he roared at the hooded challenger. His dizzy state made it difficult for him to even make a fist, but his training as a slayer still intimidated the ambusher.

"Why, you... dirty...!" Yelark mumbled, brandishing his axe in front of him.

"You talk too much for a slayer. I believe that if this were the real field, you'd have had an arrow through your head." Ilya removed her hood, shocking the crowd to a female's presence in the ring. "Shouldn't a slayer be more on guard?"

"I don't normally hit females, but for a tramp like you," Yelark licked the edge of the wooden axe. "I'll make an exception." The crowd roared in support of the slayer as Ilya fitted another arrow into her bow.

"I'd like to see you try, kid." the girl replied with a smug grin.

Yelark roared, charging forward before spinning his axe horizontally. In a flash, Ilya tumbled to right before shooting the wooden arrow towards the slayer who deflected it with the backside of his axe. The slayer bolted once more as Ilya leaping towards the farthest side of the ring, and continuously shooting arrows at the maddened slayer. Each time, Yelashov weaved and spun around the arrows, dodging them as a skilled slayer would. Then, Ilya aimed to the skies, letting loose an arrow before fitting another whilst aiming for Yelark, who, once again, smashed it with his weapon. By this time, the slayer got close enough and heaved his axe like a guillotine. Ilya, surprised by his speed, stumbled sideward, barely avoiding a wooden chop, and tumbled forward. Relentless, the slayer rotated his axe, and swung it behind him, forcing Ilya to use her bow as a shield, just enough to give her time to bend her head to the side, and avoid the axe's edge whilst her bow was riven in two. The woman flipped backward and pulled out her wooden dagger, duelling the slayer in a frenzy of slashes, parries, lunges, and swings.

Then, Ilya sprinted for the other side of the ring, causing Yelark to pursue. However, she quickly spun and slid towards Yelark, passing beneath his legs and slashing her dagger against his heels. Quickly, she got up and threw her dagger at him before sprinting towards her opponent. She knew Yelark, when caught by surprise, would opt to block with his axe, and in this case, he would be open to her final ace. As the dagger sped towards the slayer, indeed, he swung his axe to deflect the dagger aside before focusing his eyes in front-- only to witness the visage of Ilya floating towards him whilst right hand was extended to the air, a wooden arrow dropping between her fingers. The slayer was in utter disbelief as this woman's skill and as she swung the arrow straight at him, an intense desire to win fuelled his next actions. Yelark gritted his teeth, and swung his axe in an inhuman speed. However, the axe barely nicked Ilya's body-- only a few millimetres remained between her skin and the axe. But, after a fraction of a second, Ilya's eyes opened in pain. She was blown backwards, rolling around the arena until half of her body dangled over the edge.

She could have sworn she didn't get hit by the axe, but why was she blown away? And, why couldn't she move?

Her eyes weakly trailed to the slayer who approached her-- who beat her fair and square. At once, Ilya knew that she failed in her mission. Gone were her days of dreams and happiness... she would go back to the Erekon Squads, forever shamed and disrespected for her arrogance. However, before she could consider leaving, Yelark grabbed her hand, and helped her up. She came face to face with the slayer, a gentle smile plastered on his lips. "Ye passed, child. Here," he tucked in her hand a parchment with instructions on where to go for the next part. "Well done, sister. What is your name?" the slayer inquired as the crowd now began to clap and cheer. Ilya now began to regain her balance, and focused on answering the question.

"... I... Ilya." she answered before staggering back.

"Sister Ilya... go forth. Your essence of timing is... impressive. I believe you will achieve a lot in your path." Yelark spoke in a different tone and voice as he bid her on.

A smug grin invaded Ilya's lips as she lifted her head high, and clicked her tongue. "Of course. You're looking at the best archer in Erekon, kid. Ain't no way I'm not going to be a slayer. My arrows always hit their mark." she winked before spinning around and hopping off the stage. Although she displayed an air of confidence and arrogance, her core trembled and quivered in joy within. An idiotic smile tried to force its way to her face, but Ilya kept it down and played it cool. Still, she did release a relaxed sigh and a gentle smile, looking at the outline of the city's buildings. "You're worth something Ilya... you're worth something." she chuckled, and opened the parchment. Soon, she would step into the next chapter of her life. The timing of it all was impeccable.

Throughout the festivities many men had found a rather cute yet shy young girl. This was Alex, she didn't much like the attention and she was finding it hard to get any kind of food with all of these men trying to approach her. Even a few young girls as well though atleast they were more interested in being her friend. Eventually Alex found his way to the Choosing. He took part in the training at the start. Many people couldn't believe the kind of stamina she had. Some had managed to even peak up her skirt during some of the trials but only to be disappointed by a pair of bloomers that were being worn.

When it came time for challenge an instructor Alex was chosen to fight against a rather knightly looking man. This instructor went by the name of Jacob. "Alright little lady! I'll try to go easy on you since you are so young, but show me what you have!" Jacob said pointing a wooden sword at her. When the fight started though Alex's face twisted into that of someone who harbored bloodlust. Jacob took a step back to ready himself as he saw her face change from a timid little girl into a blood crazed maniac.

Alex had chosen two wooden daggers for this battle. She held one up to his face only to show a look of disappointed at the dullness of the wood. That was when Alex jumped up into a tree from where he was standing. Jacob started to look around hold his sword at the ready for an attack from anywhere. Alex then started to laugh, her voice was even being thrown around the place. It was hard to tell where she even was. A few in the audience found themselves feeling rather unsettled by what was happening. A few even leaving as they felt too uncomfortable to even watch.

Alex finally jumped down on the right of Jacob and lunged at him with a dagger going straight for his neck. Jacob was able to block the attack and kick Alex back causing her to tumble a bit. "That was a good try, but I could hear the trees rustling." Jacob stated as Alex wiped some dirt off her face. Alex slowly got up and then instead of showing blood lust, she showed nothing. She started to calmly walk towards him, as if she wanted to give him a handshake or this were a break in the battle. Jacob knew better though and held up his guard focusing on the daggers in her hands. Alex had put one of the daggers into her belt though as she wanted a hand free.

Once close enough Alex dropped her dagger and in an unexpected movement went for a stunning clap right in his face. Jacob was stunned by the clap as it was unexpected in this battle. Alex then in a single movement grabbed his wooden dagger jumped up onto Jacob then behind him all while having a dagger at his neck. The crowd was silent. What they had just seen was not the skills of a soldier but that of an assassin. "It's my win." Alex said with twisted smile.

Jacob was speechless for a moment at what was just said. "I-I Give." Jacob said as he came back from being stunned. "Your more than meets the eye you know that kid?" Jacob said as was let go by Alex. At this point Alex dropped the other dagger then suddenly went back to be a timid shy little girl. "T-Thanks for being my opponent sir." Alex said with a cute smile before skipping off like nothing had happened. "Gotta keep an eye on her." Jacob said to himself as he saw Alex skip away.

Valentine let out his breath, slowly, at measure. As smooth as stillwater, he released the bowstring.

Thwap!

The arrow shot through the air, only a slight whistle and a moment's flight marking its freedom from gravity, the ground, the bow, the quiver. Only for a moment, could he see it- and then it slammed into the deer's chest, smacking through the buck's side and into its heart, just above its foreleg. It took a step, nearly leaping out of danger, stumbling, as the arrow sprouted from its side. Another shaky step, and then its back legs wobbled and collapsed, the rest of it following just afterwards.

Valentine grinned, and rose from his crouch. He had been wandering the forest, silently, waiting to come across game. Two rabbits were already slung over his shoulder; the deer would top it off nicely. Running over, still in a half-crouch, he placed his hand against the slightly bloody entry wound, feeling the arrow rub against the skin between his index finger and thumb. His other hand curled around the arrow, and... slid it free, straight and clean.

He inspected it, critically, finding it to be bloody, but undamaged. Better yet, not one of his thirteen arrows had been damaged, lost, or bent thus far. Some people eyed his thirteen arrows with distrust, with superstition- but it brought him nothing but luck, it seemed.

He inspected the size of deer, just as critical as he had been with his arrow. A decent-sized mule deer, still young, and with maybe... seven points? A decent catch indeed. Grabbing it, one hand at the top of the forelegs' hooves, one hand at the top of the hind legs' hooves, he hefted it, slinging it over his shoulders, the length of its body resting against the width of his middle back.

And with that, he straightened, and trudged off, heading home.

~ ~ ~

Maybe a couple hours later, he arrived at the outskirts of town. Town is general, of course- the city of somenameortheother was quite a bit larger than most of the largest cities in the nation, absolutely none of which he knew the names of. As far as he was concerned, he didn't need to know the names of anything- he just needed to know how to hunt.

His house- one he shared with his sister, and one that he would've shared with his parents, if he knew them- was near, just inside the city walls, in one of the poorer districts. Thankfully, the not-so-upstanding-and-honorable guards accepted the bribe of thirteen copper coin, to let him in through a small, secret 'gate' in one of the less cared for sections of the wall, where someone had dug their way out, and it had become a tunnel guarded by soldiers, who accepted bribes to not throw the trespassers in jail.

A couple of the more predatory younger guys in the area eyed him, judging whether or not the risk versus gain- go against Valentine, and come out with a deer, or come out cut up. Based on how nonthreatening the guy was, Valentine figured that the predator had figured him to be too big a fish to eat and come out ahead.

Three minutes later, he was on the doorstep of The Boarshead Inn. Instead of going inside, however, he went around back, where he passed on the deer to his father, who had noticed him through the windows and was waiting outside for him. He took care of the deer; he had paid his time for the evening.

Time for some fun... and prove that old drunk that Valentine wasn't afraid to try and be in the Choosing.

~ ~ ~

He drew his arm along his face, wiping the blood from his nose. He eyed the trainer in front of him murderously- the man, in return, grinned cheekily, and asked, "Whatcha gonna do, boi? Stand der all dey and waste me time?" His accent was thick, but oddly lilting and singsong, foreign but not entirely unpleasant.

"Naw, ye old drunk. I'ma just bash yer face in wityer own sword."

Reply launched, Valentine darted forward, feinting, before throwing himself to the side and rolling. The man had stabbed, just as he expected him to- the man stabbed, slashed, and then kicked. So, Valentine kicked out as he was rolling, connecting with the man's knee and forcing him back, snapping the joint back painfully so. He cursed, and here came that slash.

He brought up his knife, swinging at the wooden sword, connecting. But he didn't just try to block the slash and hold- no, he continued moving his knife, relying on its hilt to throw the sword over his head, missing entirely. Here came that kick- but again, he moved too late. It smashed into his face, knocking him to the side and snapping his head away from him. Feebly, he threw the knife in his other hand at the trained- it didn't land so well, the crossguard hitting first, and then the 'blade,' but it was enough to surprise the trainer.

He didn't move fast enough, though. He felt the sword's wooden point graze his back as he rolled to the side again. Dashing to his feet as he came out of the roll, he turned back to the trainer, his left eye swollen and hindering his eyesight. Naturally, the swordsman trainer took advantage of it, going on the offensive. He jumped forward, again stabbing at his left side. He spun, the stab again just barely grazing his side as he moved, before he had closed the distance, 'spinning' around his blade and using his new close quarters to bring up his knife.

His knife grazed the man's chest, as he stumbled back to regain the sword's reach advantage, and he surprised Valentine with a knee. It struck his crotch rather forcefully, sending the air out of his lungs as he suddenly struggled with the unbearable pain in his manhood. Dropping to his knees, he gasped, unable to get a breath around the pain pulsing from his lower torso.

He vaguely noted the trainer getting some distance, stepping away and wiping at the sweat at his brow. He dropped his sword, and stepped forward, waiting for maybe half a minute as Valentine regained himself. He reached down with a hand, and Valentine took it, swaying as he tried to steady himself and not fall over.

"Ye fought well, mate. I think ye passed, thuh ye'd prolly bled out buh now. Kudos to ye, hunter. Head up yonder."

The man switched out with someone else, and Valentine held his stomach, suddenly overcome with the urge to gag. After maybe two minutes, and the new trainer's hand on his shoulder and him babbling about how good the fight was and how he could've done this or that better, he straightened, pain dulling.

He straightened his shoulders, and maybe a dozen or two people whooped and hollered as they saw him recover, giving him a cheer for his good work.

Satisfied with his handiwork, though certainly looking forward to kicking that trainer's manhood himself, he turned, laying a hand on both of the two large knives, which were more akin to shortswords, that hung on both his hips. He mounted the stage, up to the other three or four others successful candidates, and stood proudly up there.

Then he realized that he had been considered good enough. He's got a chance at being Chosen.

Which means that he'd be leaving. For quite some time, really. Why was he here? Did he really want to be Chosen? But he couldn't possibly have any magic in him. The thought left him both disappointed and relieved, for some reason.