Alaric Brackwood slowly came to, the voices shouting at him becoming increasingly clear. "Alaric!" They called. A female voice: Prunella's, his blasted aunt. He groaned mentally, realising only a second later that that had in fact manifested in a physical groan.
"Alaric!" Prunella called more sharply, shaking his shoulder hard. "Get up, for goodness' sake, else we won't be gettin' any today." Alaric huffed, rolling to the side and, as his aunt pushed him, out of bed and onto the floor with a smack.

"Ow!" He exclaimed as his forehead hit the wooden floor, now jolted awake. He scrambled up, staggered, stumbled for a few moments, then focused on Prunella, who was peering at him through narrow grey eyes, hands on her hips sternly. "Alright, yer succeeded in yer mission, woman. How high is the Sun?" Prunella raised an eyebrow in reply, looking pointedly towards the window - or rather, the small square hole in the wall. A little sunlight was shining through, illuminating the room just enough to warrant the foregoing of candles. Alaric followed her eyes, rolling his in turn. "Well, can't be noon. You're too damned strict to wake me up then. Must be dawn." He rolled his shoulders and stretched, mouth opening in a huge yawn.

"Too right, it's dawn. Time for you to get out there and get us some food," Prunella snapped at him. Alaric looked back at her for a moment. With her short figure made only smaller by malnourishment, clothes hanging off her like rags and rapidly greying hair, she looked like she belonged in the witch's role in fairytales of old.

As she walked out, he began to dress. This was not any great procedure, as he slept in full clothing: a plain white shirt that too hung off of him, a pair of tough brown trousers with multiple stitchings throughout and a pair of leather boots. This was completed, as he added more to the outfit, by a leather jerkin that he bound into place with straps over the chest. His appearance bothered him very little: an advantage, he had decided. His dark, unruly hair was somewhat long, nearly shoulder-length while a stubble adorned his face. Slinging a short-bow and quiver laden with bodkin arrows over his shoulder, he picked up his trusty spear and ducked outdoors.
Outside, the usual sights greeted him: cloudy sky interlaced with golden patches of sunshine, a huge forest surrounding the village on all sides, and small shacks acting as houses. They seemed to deteoriate more and more by the day, becoming part of the earth that was largely used to build them.

 Alaric did not even need to sniff, for the stench of death and decay hung in the air and filled his mouth with its substance. His nose was desensitised to it for the most part, but his mind was not. He moved over to the village hall, glancing dismally at the fresh body on a table inside. He could not recognise who it was. The skin was laced with sickly green lines of sorts throughout, melded with a brown not unlike the ground outside. The fingers and toes were decayed, bent at unnatural angles. The face, however, was the worst part. The mouth was open, the teeth completely rotted and jagged. Bulging red, dead veins pushed against the skin. Nearly all the hair was gone from the person, showing the skin. The eyes were open, too: an unnatural colour of yellow and shaped like a reptile's, like slits.

Everybody who had died so far looked something like this. A horrific plague gripped the village by the throat, yet no cause had been identified. The village healer had studied the corpses for a while, trying to find a solution. Then he too had caught the plague and died; there was a grim irony to it that put a small smile on Alaric's face. He stepped away from the hall with a shudder, trying to think of other matters. Another came to his mind, and he looked towards the trees, as though expecting to see someone. Still not back, he muttered to himself. The elder's son, Reynold had gone missing a couple of days back. Only a day ago, a search party was sent out to go and find him. They had not come back yet, either. People around the village liked to be outwardly hopeful, but Alaric thought differently. Behind their eyes lay their true thoughts on the matter: that they were all dead, and weren't coming back.
Going out into the woods was perhaps the only solace he had from this nightmare. Though finding substantial wildlife was rare nowadays, and the village rationed its food heavily, there were still plentiful supplies of berries to eat. He picked up a fair few along the way, depositing them in a pouch on his belt, keeping a wary eye on the trees at all times, for none truly knew what lay in the deep gorges of the woods. Folk claimed they saw things, but most were either mad or drunk. Alaric presumed the sane ones were dead. After all, he thought, you have to be mad with joy to survive in a place like this.

After roughly forty-five minutes of foraging, a small bump in close proximity to him made him jump up on alert, the adrenaline starting to race through his veins. Taking up his spear, as quietly as he could, he moved through the woods towards where the sound was. Another bump sounded, followed by a couple of barks. Alaric paused, trying to quickly run over the possibilities in his head. Maybe someone and their dog was under attack by something big! Maybe... maybe...

He peeked round a tree and saw a woman perched by the side of a cart, seemingly tugging on its wheel. A dog stood beside her, watching. He raised his eyebrows for a moment; had the dog really not caught his scent? He had heard dogs could be dumb, but perhaps he truly was masked by the mud he had picked up on his clothes. She seemed pretty from behind: slim, lithe, long red hair, nice, clean clothing. He heard her muttering to herself, and, taking a wary look around at the surrounding trees, moved forward.
"Hello?" He called loudly.