text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, serious, fantasy, dystopia]
  
  The Elken's massive hoof slams into the snow-coated ground. The tired beast lets out a massive snort. You lean forward in the saddle and scratch just behind its antlers.
  
  "Good beast," you murmur. You give it a kiss, right in its furry mane. "Not too further boy, promise."
  
  The beast comes to a stop. It stands on the edge of the snowy, switchback trail that you'd been following for weeks. Beyond mountain, lies nothing but thick, snow-covered forest. You let out a sigh of relief. You've found the spring hunting grounds.
  
  You've ridden ahead of the rest of the tribe, searching for this very forest. While they make the difficult trek over the mountain (exacerbated by the presence of women, children, and the elderly), you've ridden ahead in search for a camp sight for the tribe.
  
  You drive your heels into its sides, and the beast begins to carefully plod down the mountainside. It stops only once, to leave a steaming pile of manure in the snow.
  
  You wince as you hop out of the saddle, and the drop to the ground sends a jolt through your body. Taking a moment, you briefly insure that your spear and satchel of provisions are still on your back. Satisfied, you drop the reigns over the Elken's head, and lead him into the forest...
  
  The clearing is in the same spot it's in every year. You know from experience that it can easily house the entire tribe and their huts; the Gods certainly know that this unusually harsh winter has not grown the tribe.
  
  It takes a hours to find dry wood for the signal pyre. Eventually, you assemble a pyramid of dead wood and dry brush and set it ablaze with your flint and knife. The flames lick greedily at the cold winter air, and a thick, black plume of smoke reaches up in to the sky.
  
  [Author's Note: A second entry in the Broken Chains universe. Also, an entry to Bucky's 2017-2018 Prompt Contest.]
  
  > The tribe arrives
  On the fifth day, the tribe arrives. Being the advance scout, you have the honour of setting your tent up first. You unrolled the furs that you stored on the Elken's back, and strung them over a framework of thick branches. The tent will be able to house five or six of your tribe, easily. You leave a hole at the top to let the smoke from the life-saving fire out.
  
  You're standing in the middle of the clearing, cleaning the Elken with a coarse horsehair brush when the rest of your tribe approaches.
  
  Some are walking, some are riding Elken. Mothers clutch their babes to their breasts, while fathers look cautiously to the woods; Fell Bears and wolf-packs have been known to hunt these woods. Disturbingly, gangs of legionnaires have also been stalking the woods. Those taken are presumably fed to whatever foreign gods lord over the Marble City.
  
  Caelan, the most elderly man of the tribe, and the chieftain since before you were born, spots you immediately. A youthful grin splits open his aged face. He shivers in the cold, and lets out a cloud of smoke from his mouth, which rapidly dissipates in the frigid winter air. The old man wraps his fur cloak around him.
  
  "You've done well by the tribe," he says, as he approaches, "Your father would be proud."
  
  You dip your head in gratitude.
  
  He presses his middle, index, and ring fingers into your forehead. "I release you from your duties as Torchbearer."
  
  "It's good to see you, Caelan." you say as you press your forehead into his — a salute as old as time.
  
  "You as well, my boy."
  
  "How was the journey?"
  
  "It was hard. The old paths were snowier than usual, there were some who thought you'd died, and we wouldn't have a camp-sight to come to."
  
  "Still alive," you say with a smile.
  
  "And I'm glad to see it. Still, I shouldn't complain too much about the journey. We only lost one, this year."
  
  "Who was that?"
  
  "Waiola. Tacitus' newborn daughter. The cold was too much for her."
  
  "That's a shame. His first child, yeah?"
  
  He nods, and gives you a wan smile. "He's been taking it hard. When you see him around, be kind to him and his wife."
  
  You fall silent for a moment. Before you can speak, another approaches. Wrapped in furs with a bow strung across her back. She's missing her left ear, and there are scars running from the tips of her mouth up her cheek by a few inches. Even still, she's wearing a broad smile across her face.
  
  "You're the Torchbearer?" she asks jovially.
  
  You glance at Caelan in confusion.
  
  "This is Enya. She's a tribe-less we picked up on the journey; didn't feel right to abandon her."
  
  "It wouldn't have been," you agree, before turning back to Enya and extending your hand. She takes it; her grip is firm.
  
  She purses her lips and nods as you shake hands. "I'm glad you feel that way."
  
  You snort.
  
  "I'm fucking tired," Caelan says frankly, "we should see to setting up those tents."
  
  And so you do, for the rest of the day. All of the tribe works together erecting the massive tents that will be their home for the coming months. Thick frameworks are nailed in place, and cured hides are set on the floor so as to avoid sleeping on the snow. Furs are strung from the oak frameworks to trap in heat and act as walls. Firepits in the centres are also constructed, for cooking and boiling water. You work with remarkable efficiency; at the end of the day, your campground resembles a tiny, bustling village.
  
  > A morning hunt
  It's before dawn. Tired of the rations brought by the tribe, you've decided to bring down the first hunt of the season. You grab your bow, arrows, spear, and satchel, and step outside the warmth and pressed-together bodies of the communal tent.
  
  You see Enya outside the tent. She's sitting cross-legged on a large rock, scraping a piece of flint over a bone knife.
  
  "Morning," you say. You eye her with a slight amount of caution.
  
  She returns the greeting, not looking up from the knife.
  
  "Planning on going out for a hunt?" you ask.
  
  "Aye. Gonna bring down the first buck of the season, I'd reckon."
  
  You raise your eyebrows. "I think you should reckon something else, because I'm about to bring down the first buck of the season."
  
  She snorts, and stands up. "Sounds like we have a competition on our hands, then."
  
  > hunt alone
  "And a one-sided competition, at that," you say with a sneer as you lift your weapons off the ground and set off into the forest. You privately savour the look of frustration on the newcomer's face as you stalk off into the woods.
  
  All thoughts of competition are lost once you enter the woods, however. You become one with the forest, once more; a spectre, silently moving over roots, branches and patches of grass. A finder of secret paths and animal tracks.
  
  Perhaps you're there for minutes. Perhaps you're there for hours, days, or weeks. Time is ephemeral and meaningless when you're in the forest. Soon, you find a handsome buck; skittish, along with all of its kind.
  
  Over hours, you learn the animal's personality. He's cautious and smart, and will be a challenge to bring down. You don't even knock an arrow until your second encounter with him. Finally, on the fourth meeting, you manage to creep up on him unawares.
  
  You see his hot breath evaporating in the winter air. You become aware of his place relative to yours on the food chain. You are hunter, and he is prey; this is the way things ought to be.
  
  You let go of the bowstring.
  
  The arrow flies true, and the bolt tears right through the deer's vitals. It stumbles for a few paces, before falling face-first into the snow. A crimson puddle seeps out from under him as he breathes his last.
  
  You feel a twinge of guilt as you approach him. You slit the deer's throat for good measure, causing it to leak even more blood out onto the snow. You tie a thick rope around its neck and antlers, and then begin the difficult task of dragging it back to camp...
  
  > return to camp
  You smell smoke long before you reach the camp. Without thinking of it, you drop the deer in the snow; if this is a false alarm, you can come back for it later. Then, you sprint off towards the camp.
  
  Your intuition is correct. The camp is in ruins. Three out of the four communal tents have been razed to the ground, and the fourth is smouldering. Bodies litter the ground; killed indiscriminately. Women, children, infants, and a few men all lie in puddles of their own blood.
  
  You see Tacitus lying spread-eagled in the snow. It would appear someone has taken pity on his recent misfortunes, and has taken it upon themselves to give him a bright-red smile, just below the chin.
  
  Without thinking, you draw your bow and loose an arrow. The arrow embeds itself in the tower-shield of a legionnaire.
  
  He shouts something in a language unbeknownst to you, summoning three of his comrades out from the burning tent; one is dragging a half-naked woman along with him.
  
  He draws his shortsword and begins to charge towards you. You drop your bow in the sand, and withdraw your spear.
  
  Your first thrust is deflected by the shortsword; he retaliates by pushing forward with his oversized shield, sending you scrambling through the snow. You narrowly dodge an overhead swipe from his blade.
  
  Seizing an apparent opportunity, you leap to the left, and stab wildly at him with your spear; the blow strikes true, but your stone spear tip uselessly slides off his plated chest armour. You look on his face and see a cruel sneer.
  
  With breathtaking speed, he dashes forward and kicks you square in the chest. The blow sends you reeling, and knocks the air clean out of your lungs. You try to regain your footing as he drops his shield and charges at you.
  
  The two of you tumble to the snow. You fling your spear aside as you fall. He grabs your neck in one of his gauntleted hands, and begins to crush your throat in an iron grip.
  
  Panic grips your world as you frantically look around for options. Your hand closes around your hunting knife. As black spots dance across your vision, you notice something; his armour only extends halfway up his arm, and the rest is covered merely by fur. You seize the initiative and shove the dagger into his exposed forearm. He curses as blood gushes out from the wound, and releases your neck.
  
  You greedily inhale as much air as you can. The legionnaire punches you in the face, and his metal knuckles easily break your nose. Blood pours down your face and into your mouth. He punches you again, knocking a tooth down your mouth.
  
  Time slows to a halt. His fists glance off your face, mangling it into a bloody ruin. You see your own clouds of hot breath seeping out into the air like a gushing wound. The legionnaires eyes narrow inside his helmet, and a cruel smile splits his face from end to end.
  
  Before you're submerged in darkness, he speaks two words in your language:
  
  "Elf scum."
  
  > Taken as a slave
  You can't stop throwing up. Even the nutrition-less gruel they serve the slaves is too much for you to handle. As the procession of soldiers and slaves travels South, you leave pools of vomit as a trail.
  
  The conditions are harsh. Every day at dawn, you're loaded into a wagon with a few dozen other slaves. You ride this way for fourteen hours, before a guard distributes furs to wrap yourselves in for the night. You're given six hours to sleep. When you're woken, you are let out to relieve yourself and collect water for an hour; then, it's back to the cart.
  
  This is exacerbated by the fact that you are having a hard time remembering your own name. There are other elves on the cart, some of whom you feel like you should recognize; but you find yourself unable to respond to their feeble attempts at conversation. Nothing more than a mewl escapes. You feel heavy and trapped in your own body.
  
  On the fourth day of your imprisonment, a legionnaire takes notice and notifies the Centurion. You dimly remember him as the man who broke your head open and let your memories spill out.
  
  He approaches. This time, his helmet's off. If you squint against the painful light, you can see his square jaw, his scowling features, and the scar running the length of his right cheek.
  
  "Walk, can this one?" his mastery of your tongue leaves something to be desired.
  
  You finish vomiting, and wipe your cheeks. You stagger backwards, and shake your head. He looks disgusted. You barely have time to flinch before he kicks you in the chest, bowling you over in the snow.
  
  "Get up."
  
  You comply. He shoves you. The force of the blow sends you sprawling again. You moan feebly.
  
  "Get up."
  
  You stagger to your feet once more. He kicks your leg out from under you, laughing as he does it. You feel a forest-fire raging just beneath your skin.
  
  "Get up."
  
  > give up
  He exchanges a fast salvo of words with another soldier, who nods affirmatively. The Centurion withdraws his shortsword, and slits your throat. A slurred plea for mercy dies in your throat, as your lifeblood seeps out into the snow, and steam rises from your wound.