[ The first sensation Enjolras feels is the warmth of light pooling on his face.
Were it not for the heavy, dull aching throughout his body, he might think he was dead. The height of the fall would have been more than enough; Enjolras can still hear the crack of the old, large trunk underneath him, the horrified shouts of his hunting party ringing out as he plummeted into the misty depths below.
He also would have hardly been the first. It was a right of passage of most of the young men of his village to join their fathers, uncles, and neighbors on the monthly hunting expeditions, off to track and slay the wolf-like monsters that haunted the woods lining the periphery of the farmlands. Many families still passed down legends of a favored son's bold kill or daring escapes--but just as many traded tales of sons lost to the darkness of the trees, of long-dead brothers and uncles presumably devoured by the same beasts they had hoped to destroy.
Enjolras had believed himself an exception. When his parents had handed him his thick woolen coat on the eve of the hunt, dyed a dark, almost blood red despite the extra expense, he'd promised them he would come back with a kill for them. It seemed too fool-hardy now; all the extra time studying the older mens' snares, practicing shots with his bow out by the stables, asking the more seasoned trackers for the best signs of the wolves' presence. What had it gotten him? Over-eager, crashing far ahead of his party after the beast over a decaying log and on to his doom.
He tests the waters of his newfound not-afterlife by creaking open his eyes, wincing at the unexpected brightness. What is also unexpected his location: he in not at the bottom of a ravine, body broken and bleeding, but laid flat on the floor of a cave mouth, wounds cleaned and carefully wrapped with what looks like some sort of cloth.
Enjolras has been saved, but by who, and why? His hunting party would have tried to take him back to the village, even with his body as broken as it felt. Dying en route from the pain was still a far better prospect than what awaited anyone who stayed in the woods overnight.
Gingerly, he tries to push himself upright to get a better look his surroundings, but his clearly broken right arm gives way almost immediately, slamming him back against the cold, rocky floor with a groan. ]
no dialogue for u, only fluffy exposition
Were it not for the heavy, dull aching throughout his body, he might think he was dead. The height of the fall would have been more than enough; Enjolras can still hear the crack of the old, large trunk underneath him, the horrified shouts of his hunting party ringing out as he plummeted into the misty depths below.
He also would have hardly been the first. It was a right of passage of most of the young men of his village to join their fathers, uncles, and neighbors on the monthly hunting expeditions, off to track and slay the wolf-like monsters that haunted the woods lining the periphery of the farmlands. Many families still passed down legends of a favored son's bold kill or daring escapes--but just as many traded tales of sons lost to the darkness of the trees, of long-dead brothers and uncles presumably devoured by the same beasts they had hoped to destroy.
Enjolras had believed himself an exception. When his parents had handed him his thick woolen coat on the eve of the hunt, dyed a dark, almost blood red despite the extra expense, he'd promised them he would come back with a kill for them. It seemed too fool-hardy now; all the extra time studying the older mens' snares, practicing shots with his bow out by the stables, asking the more seasoned trackers for the best signs of the wolves' presence. What had it gotten him? Over-eager, crashing far ahead of his party after the beast over a decaying log and on to his doom.
He tests the waters of his newfound not-afterlife by creaking open his eyes, wincing at the unexpected brightness. What is also unexpected his location: he in not at the bottom of a ravine, body broken and bleeding, but laid flat on the floor of a cave mouth, wounds cleaned and carefully wrapped with what looks like some sort of cloth.
Enjolras has been saved, but by who, and why? His hunting party would have tried to take him back to the village, even with his body as broken as it felt. Dying en route from the pain was still a far better prospect than what awaited anyone who stayed in the woods overnight.
Gingerly, he tries to push himself upright to get a better look his surroundings, but his clearly broken right arm gives way almost immediately, slamming him back against the cold, rocky floor with a groan. ]