My mother used to tell me stories of the Brothers, of their valiant deeds and holy order...protectors, she used to call them. They sounded like great heroes, and every night I would ask her to regale me with tales of their adventures, dreaming of the day when I may cross paths with one of these Brothers, to hear of his heroic deeds straight from his own lips.
Until the day they actually came. I was so excited when I saw them crest the ridge, the sun rising behind them as if to ignite them in a holy glow. But their looks were stern, and their bows were drawn. My father and the other leaders greeted them with open arms, knowing of their great reputation. But the Brothers were not here to protect. Oh no, they were here to hunt. So many of our precious halla, elegant white stag, peaceful creatures that had for centuries roamed these forests, were cut down and stripped of their antlers, leaving their bloodsoaked snowy white pelts scattered throughout the forest. Eventually our leaders drove out the Brothers, but the damage had already been done. They had already achieved their goal. Dozens of halla killed, a noble race brutally destroyed, and no one but us to mourn them.
That day, I knew our halla were not safe, not from anyone, and especially not from the Brothers. The name alone left a sour taste in my mouth, and their ruthless betrayed fueled each and every one of my trainings with my father, pushed me to my limits, until I was sure I could loose a bow with lethal accuracy, and track as stealthily as the wolves of the forest.
They tried a few more times, those fallen Brothers, to get our halla, but we learned our mistake in trusting them the first time, and we would not make such a mistake again. That's why, now, I trail behind a lonely figure, loping along the forest path. A Brother, clearly, given his attire, though obviously not a very well-kempt one. His clothes are tattered and filthy; I have to suppress a snort of disgust at seeing just how far these men have
