Ayven Wirtsenn
So many things had changed. Barely tens of minutes ago, Ayven was talking about fishing with his parents. And now, a heavy smell of blood and burned flesh hung in the air. His house, in ashes, he limped through his small village. He had nothing left to lose. Shrill screams whistled through this dark autumn night. His clothes had started to catch fire. His flesh was liquefying, inflicting immense pain that he would never feel again. His name was Ayven Wirtsenn, and this is how he died.
He could no longer walk, so he crawled along the path that led to the neighboring village, leaving behind his life, the ashes of his loved ones, and a trail of blood. Why had the Maniri attacked them? He prayed, prayed that they hadn't reached the small hamlet he was heading towards. He hoped in vain, as he tried to reach the houses that appeared in the distance before losing counsciousness. He bit his lips to stay lucid. His thoughts flew like pheasants during a hunt, and his heart pounded in his chest like a war drum. He didn't want to die, not so young. He no longer felt his liquefying legs, the feeling of intense pain had disappeared. He no longer felt anything. A feeling of tranquility seized him. He wanted to sleep, he wished to escape. Escape far from the suffering and the screams, far from the throat-slitting blades, far from the ashes of his family. He could no longer go on, the adrenaline was starting to drop, as were his eyelids. It was time for poor Ayven to sleep, face down. White hair stained with blood, like a rose in winter. The blood on his skin gave him a bronzed look, which contrasted with his pale complexion. Poor Ayven.
Good night.
The rain fell, hitting the young man's open wounds, the crystal beads falling from the sky covering the sound of the fading screams. A puddle formed around Ayven, of blood and water. His sleep could not be peaceful. He opened his eyes. He felt immense pain. His eyes saw only a heavy flash of light, a rainbow of colors, a senseless kaleidoscope. He wanted to call for help too, but something in him forbade him, either arrogance or philanthropy, he couldn't say. Louder and louder noises approached him, footsteps. He wanted to turn around, to see who was going to take his life.
Behind him, a man. A tall man, with inhuman-colored hair and anything but human eyes. The man with pink hair and silver eyes looked at him with pity. He wore a long black cape, and a short blade hung from his belt.
"You... You're not very well, are you?"
He spoke in a confused manner, as if he was unsure of what he was saying. Ayven's doubts were confirmed, he was a Maniri. Ayven gritted his teeth, he wanted to scream, cry, but he couldn't, his ribs were crushed by the pain he was experiencing. The man approached more and more. Ayven felt his heart beating faster and faster, he couldn't die now. The Maniri placed a hand on Ayven's neck.
"Method... Not pain..."
He twisted Ayven's neck, as one would twist the neck of a rabbit. Ayven felt a sharp pain throughout his body, then nothing. He no longer felt anything. The world had come to a stop for him, the marshy ground was no longer there, he no longer felt his battered legs, he no longer felt anything but a vague feeling of emptiness. His ears were ringing. This time it was for good. Ayven slept. A voice in the distance was talking to him.
"Me go... See you..."
The man had left, far away, Ayven hoped.
Ayven was crying, Ayven had nothing left, Ayven was sobbing. He no longer hoped to reach the hamlet, he wanted to die, he couldn't walk anymore, his parents were flying in the wind in a cloud of ashes. Ayven wanted to scream, he wanted to be heard, but his throat was broken, no sound came out.
And thus, our first protagonist appeared.
Ayven Wirtsenn, a 19-year-old albino Huso, former farmer and future handicapped. Newly orphaned, and not proud of it. He lost his sense of touch, along with his sense of family.
