The Darthon

Chapter I
The boy from the other land

Arnold was in a bad mood. He and his group of scouts had been travelling inside the Darthon forest for days on end, and the gloomy, suffocating atmosphere was taking its toll on all of them. A dull, unmoving purple mist surrounded everyone and everything completely, blocking out most of the sunlight. So much so in fact, that he was hard-pressed to see more than twenty steps in any direction before the mist engulfed his vision. Though, depressingly, Arnold knew from his many years of experience travelling throughout the Darthon's vast land that even if his eyes could pierce further into the mist only more of the same continuous dull landscape would reveal itself, whichever direction he chose to tread. The same tall trees with hard black bark and grey ash-like leaves. The same dry patches of purple moss that he'd stepped over countless times before. And the same smothering mists that refused to move.
As if that wasn't bad enough, fate had sent yet another hardship for him to endure. A large, nasty looking cut spread itself across the top of Arnold's right thigh, a wound that was just as annoying as it was painful. Lukewarm blood had already saturated the inside of his trousers, and he could feel more body fluid gush out of the wound with every step, helped along by the extra weight of a large sack full of gold, ink and other various valuables he'd been carrying for days. He supposed it was what he deserved for attacking a beast that was as tall as he and three times as heavy without the help of his fellow scouts, though the thought didn't console him.
"It's not life-threatening, so stop thinking about it and keep walking" he muttered, scolding himself. Yet he gritted his teeth in pain as he took another step and he parted with a little more of his body fluid a moment later. For a moment he considered stopping to patch the wound, but quickly decided against it. Time was of the essence with the sun slowly closing on the horizon (though it was hard to see through the mist), and he wanted to be back in the town of Homestead by sundown. It wasn't hard to choose a sleeping spot between the cold, hard ground of the Darthon with all kinds of creatures lurking about, or a warm straw bed which lay waiting for him back in the town of Homestead. Besides, it was his own fault he'd gotten himself injured. However, his willpower quickly faded.
"After we get to the top of that hill over there, we'll stop for a short break" Arnold announced to the rest of the group, loudly, pointing to the top of a small hill that was just visible over the top of the mist despite the low visibility.
Some of the other scouts under Arnold grunted in reply, especially the men, who made up a greater part of the group. Clearly, their mood had been taken a sharp turn for the worse as well, not that that was particularly uncommon. It was expected of people to be affected like so when travelling in the Darthon forest, especially for lengthy periods of time, as they had been.
How many days had it been since they'd left the town of Homestead? Fifteen maybe? No, it was probably closer to a month. It felt like several millennia.
"Arnold."
Someone tapped his shoulder, disrupting him from his thoughts. Arnold didn't bother to look behind him. He would have recognised that voice anywhere- he'd had to listen to it for years after all. Alfred, his highly trusted second in command, healer and good friend was undoubtedly going to ask him about his injured leg.
"Your leg. It's hurt."
"S' fine" he muttered, trying to keep his voice low to avoid attracting the unwanted attention of another creature.
Arnold didn't need to see Alfred too know that he had raised an eyebrow. "People don't limp when their fine, Arnold. Nor do they bleed."
"I told you its fine, just a flesh wound," said Arnold, lowering the sack further down his back to hide the stream of blood that had now made it into his shoe.
"Have you seen the amount of blood that's on the back of your pants?"
"I'll see too my leg when we get to the top of that hill to have a break. You can have a look at it then."
Alfred stayed silent, satisfied for the moment. Arnold knew that it was only his job as a healer to keep everybody in good health, but he could get a little bothersome at times.
Before long the group reached the base of the cliff.
The large rocks forming the base of the jagged, rocky hill were covered in chunks of the same soft-looking purple moss that Arnold was all to use to seeing over the years, which made them look fluffy and comfortable to sit on. The rocks, however, looked rough and were almost vertical- very hard to climb. Even with a scouts strength, which was a few times that of a full grown man's, he doubted he could get more than a few feet up the rock by climbing.
"Has anyone else got any idea on how to get to the top of the hill? I can't be bothered climbing and transporting takes up to much mana" said Arnold.
"Why don't we just rest here? There's no reason to go up there" said Gret, one of the only two females of the group, squinting at the top of the hill.
"I want to see the village. It will give us our bearings back."
"I've already got plenty of bearings," she said, but Arnold ignored her. Instead, he focussed at the top of the hill, squinting. The rest of the group took a few steps backwards.
Crack!
Suddenly Arnold disappeared; the mist where he had been prior to vanishing was blown in all directions. However, he re-appeared at the top of the hill in almost no time at all, clutching his cut up leg.
"If he wasn't injured too badly before he is now" muttered Alfred, before also disappearing in similar likeness to his injured leader.
Crack!
Crack!
Crack!
Soon all eight scouts in Arnold's company were atop the hill, filling their lungs with fresh air and admiring the surrounding area. Now that they were above the mist, anyone could appreciate the beauty of the Darthon. The mass of the purple mists below had felt dull and smothering at close quarters, but from a height, anyone would be amazed at the sight. It had changed colour from its usual purple to a shade of pink, which he knew was caused by the suns slowly weakening rays beating down on it. Also, the tops of the trees which were just visible above the mist had changed a greyish/purple colour with pink leaves were shining faintly because of its highly reflective bark. It was hard to believe that something of such beauty meant danger and a possible death sentence for anyone who wondered inside without prior training and the appropriate knowledge.
Though the Darthon didn't take up all the land. Multiple columns of grey smoke rose up from the land to the East, and a patch of mostly dirt and cobblestone that was not purple but a mixture of grey, green and brown was still present, resisting the mass of purple that surrounded it. It looked as if a Colossus had replaced part of the Darthon with a massive section of earth from another land. It certainly appeared out of place. Yet for all humans that lived that Arnold knew of, it was home. There was simply no other place to live without being constantly attacked by the creatures of the purple. Nor would the crops grow inside the Darthon.
"We need to keep moving if we're going to make it back to the village by night," said Alfred, bringing Arnold back to reality.
"I know Alfred. We have brains as well" said Gret, who was still in a sour mood.
Her shield had been broken a day before, and she was still annoyed with herself for letting it happen. Arnold knew she didn't mean to be unpleasant, but Gret always had trouble letting out her emotions and he knew she'd come out of her mood eventually. She always did.
The group spent the next few minutes taking in the scenery and talking quietly to each other, to Alfred's obvious displeasure- not that Arnold could blame him. He too had had enough of the endless creatures that tried to eat him, the weight of the sack over his shoulder and pain of walking on his injured leg.
"We should get going again soon," said Alfred, for the second time.
"Nah, let them rest. They deserve it. And my leg needs fresh bandages as well. That'll take time to put on" said Arnold.
"So you lied before. Your leg is bothering you, isn't it?"
"It's just a scratch. My shield stopped most of the blow."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "Arnold, I've known you way too long for me to believe that. It cut into your muscle."
Arnold was starting to get frustrated now. He hated being fussed over. It made him feel like a young boy again, just as he had been the day he'd met Alfred.
"Maybe a little. It's nothing major, just a flesh wound."
"Just make sure you get it treated when we get back to Homestead. It might get infected otherwise."
"Fine" grumbled Arnold, rummaging in his sack for a spare bandage, but he knew that he was going straight to bed of soon as he arrived back in town.
Time passed as he wrapped the bandage around the wound, ignoring the pain and blood.
He hadn't noticed how late it was getting. Alfred was right, as usual. The sun was no longer high in the sky, but edging towards the horizon. If they didn't set off again soon, they'd have to make camp inside the Darthon and settle for the uncomfortable ground instead of nice warm straw beds. Though every scout in Arnold's company was the best of the best, it would be too dangerous to travel at night, especially considering the tired and battered state they were all in.
"We have to get moving again soon!" he yelled over the top of everyone else. "Night is coming, and I want to be sleeping in a bed tonight."
Slowly everyone took the cue, finished their conversations, got to their feet and hoisted their sacks over their shoulders again, grumbling all the while. Arnold took one last look at the untouched patch of land to the East where Homestead lay, then set off towards the edge of the rocky hill, but stopped and waited for everyone to catch up. He'd discovered over the past days that this group of scouts tended to take their time when setting off again after a break.
"Look up! Suffura! Suffura in the sky!" cried a voice full of alarm from somewhere behind him.
Instantly the feeling of calm and relaxation was washed away. All it took was one word, ‘Suffura,' and a wave of fear hit the group faster than the bold of a crossbow. Arnold's hand immediately reached to the space behind his left shoulder, where his hand closed on the cold surface of his sword hilt.
A Suffura was one of the most deadly creatures that lurked in the Darthon, and many inexperienced scouts had had their lives taken by the claws or beak of the beast. Though everyone in his company was an expert when it came to combat, Arnold knew that if they had a fight a Suffura, someone would most likely be injured, or perhaps worse. He had no doubt that there was danger in the skies but checked anyway in case of a mistake. There was none. Even though the giant bird was still far away, Arnold couldn't have mistaken those speckled brown feathers, large pointy claws and curved beak for anything.
Immediately he sprang into action.
"Mark, Adrian, Gret, form a shield wall next to that rock," he said calmly, pointing to the boulder he'd transported too before. "Formosa, Dig, listen to Alfred. Archers go behind the Front liners."
But he needn't have said anything. The scouts had trained for years and knew exactly what to do. Everyone was already rushing about in a flurry of movement. Someone even almost bowled him over in an attempt to get past, most likely a front-liner judging by the thump of a shield clanging into his undrawn sword, but Arnold wasn't concerned. Within the space of a short moment, everyone was in position. The short range attackers included two heavily armed men, Mark and Adrian and one woman, Gret. They all formed a line and raised their shields in preparation to ward off an attack. A few feet behind them were the archers, who also consisted of two men, Rofan and Freed, and a woman, Helaspsi. They were busy trying to obey Alfred. They normally needed a moment or two to string their bow. Thankfully, the Suffura was still some time away. Alfred, who wielded two smaller blades and a dozen throwing knives stood next to the front liners, as did the group's only spearman, Konan. Arnold himself stood in front of the group, hoping to draw the beast's attention.
It was a lethal line up, even for a creature as deadly as the Suffura.
A few seconds later, Alfred called; "The archers are ready."
"There's no point telling me that, Alfred. You command the archers, not me" said Arnold under from his breath, but he knew he was trying to get rid of his battle nerves.
He then realised he hadn't drawn his sword yet. Feeling stupid, he gripped the leather hilt tightly and tugged at it. The blade slid out of the sheath with a slight hiss. He looked away from the Suffura for a second to check the sword was in good condition, a habit he'd had since his younger days. The blade stood a foot shorter than he did and was slightly less thick than his forearm. A few small nicks had been cut into both sides of the sword, but that was no major problem. He had no doubt that with enough force and technique behind it he could cleeve a creature like a Suffura in half.
"Archers draw back! Aim!" shouted Alfred, but Arnold knew he wouldn't give the order to fire until the Suffura drew closer flew closer.
Then Alfred realised that something was off. Very off.
The first thing he realised was that the giant rooster was completely silent like it had accepted defeat. Normally, a Suffura would shriek a piercing cry as it attacked its foes to temporarily immobilize them. Though every scout in the company was already highly resistant to the shrieks effects, the bird didn't know that. And one of its legs was hanging loosely and looked to be flopping about, while the other was tucked up under its belly, as normal. Though Arnold couldn't tell for sure, it almost looked as if it was carrying something.
"What's with its leg?" muttered someone from behind him, which Arnold thought was a fairly pointless question.
"Maybe it's injured?" replied someone else, sounding hopeful.
"Archer's, prepare to fire!" ordered Alfred, ignoring the bird's abnormalities.
Arnold hesitated, a battle between caution and curiosity raged inside his head. He was curious about what the Suffura was carrying, of course, anyone would be. But messing about during combat could be fatal; more than one scout had been killed by carelessness.
Curiosity soon won.
"Archers, hold your fire! I want to see what it's carrying!" he ordered.
Slowly the Suffura drew closer, now just over a hundred steps away, well in range of bowshot. Arnold squinted, trying to make out what was wrong with it. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary, except for the lowered leg.
Then, a dull flash of sunlight reflecting off something in the bird's claw caught his eye. And he zeroed in on it. And what he saw made him freeze in fear. Arnold's face paled and he almost dropped his sword. "It… It's got a child in its claws! Don't shoot, don't shoot!" he shouted.
Alarm spread throughout the ranks of the Scouts. Someone's bow hit the hard rock with a loud clatter and Arnold heard several sudden intakes of breath.
"A… What?" said someone.
"A child. It's got a child!" yelled someone else.
A chorus of voices rang throughout the air, and from the corner of his eye Arnold saw the shield wall break down. He cursed.
"Everyone quiet!" yelled Alfred, bringing an end to the short burst of confusion. "Don't break ranks. Archers, don't shoot unless you sure you won't hit the child. But if it starts flying away, take a shot."
The Suffura was almost overhead now, but its altitude had risen, unnoticed amongst the chaos. It was almost like the Suffura was trying to avoid them. The archers would have little chance to land a hit at that range and the arrows wouldn't have lost too much velocity to do much damage. Not to mention the bird was also using the infant as a shield, unintentionally or not.
Again, Arnold cursed but stopped halfway through the word. A plan had formed in his head.
It was a mad plan, but a desperate situation required desperate actions. It was simple really. All he had to do was chase the bird down and kill it when it landed, then rescue the child.
The idea would have seemed ridiculous to the average person back at Homestead, but Scouts weren't your everyday normal people. Those who had completed their two years of training possessed a physical strength that was up to four times that of a grown man and could rival a racing horse in speed, though only temporarily. Arnold knew that he couldn't match the bird in speed for more than a quarter of an hour, but he could keep track of it for some time. And Suffura's had to take frequent breaks when flying because of their small wing-to-weight ratio. Given plenty of luck, he reckoned they had a large chance of rescuing the child.
Sheathing his sword, he took off at a fast rate towards the edge of the mountain.
"Two of you lot stay here, I don't care who. And protect the loot. Everyone else follows me. We're chasing that bird!"
But he then almost fell off the side of the cliff as his injured leg give out beneath him.
For the third time, he cursed, spitting out some dirt he'd eaten as he did so. There was no way he would be able to keep up with his companions with his wound.
"Arnold… What?" stuttered Gret from somewhere behind him.
"Follow the bird. Alfred's in charge. My leg is troubling me, I can't keep up. And make sure you have a compass."
"S-sure" she stuttered, nervously.
And with that, Arnold watched Gret set off in the direction the bird seemed to be heading towards, most of the other party members trailing in pursuit. He lost sight of them soon after they slid down the hill into the purple mist below.
"Good luck, my friends" he muttered, rolling onto his back.
He lay there for a few seconds, re-calculating the chance of Alfred and the others rescuing the child, but gave up quickly. His heart was racing too fast for his brain to work properly.
Light footsteps sounded behind him, almost inaudible.
"Would your leg be troubling you?" asked Formora, the other scout that had stayed behind. She'd returned to speaking in the tongue of the rich folk, which she only did when she was upset, and her voice sounded shaky.
"A little. Help me up would you," he said, raising his hand.
She pulled him to his feet with apparent ease, despite his large amount of bulk.
"Thanks."
Together, they made their way back to the where the sacks lay- Arnold leaning heavily on Formora.
All he could do now was wait, repatch his wound, have faith in Alfred and hope for the best.

After worrying for what seemed days and trying to remain as positive as the situation allowed, the birds now black figure on the horizon dropped below the mist, disappearing from sight.
Arnold grinned at the sight, and he heard Formora sight in relief.
Judging from the direction Alfred set off at, he would soon catch up to it. At least Arnold hoped that was the case. It was hard to keep your bearings inside the Darthon, even if you had a compass. The many metals that were stored beneath the ground would often throw the needle of the compass off, which often led inexperienced, younger scouts astray. Though Alfred was no novice when it came to the Darthon, it would be hard to use a compass when running at high speeds. And it was also likely he would run into something unpleasant along the way. That would be the worst thing that could happen.
Formora let out a cry of dismay, distracting him from his thoughts.
Looking up, he saw the Suffura flew out of the mist again, only seconds after landing. Again, Arnold cursed loudly, for what seemed the hundredth time today. Alfred couldn't have caught up to it in that time. That was for sure. So, the bird must have...
Then, for the second time, Arnold noticed something different, or un-different to be closer to the truth. The bird seemed to be back to flying normally again. It was hard to tell at such a distance and it could have been a trick of the light, but he thought he could see the bird's other leg tucked against its chest again, as per normal.
Confusion filled him, closely followed by dread. The only reason that the bird would have stopped that briefly is if it fancied a meal. Arnold let his head fall to his chest. He could already picture himself explaining to the dread-filled parents how their son or daughter died when they got back to Homestead. He hated the thought.
Formora beside him had obviously come to the same conclusion that the child had died. Arnold heard her moan from beside him. He'd known her for since he was fourteen and knew she had a soft spot for children. The sadness he was experiencing was probably nothing compared to what she felt.
Acting instinctually, he wrapped an arm around her. She didn't respond.
"I'm sorry. I know how much you like children. But there was nothing we could have done, even with Alfred's skills."
She nodded, raising her head slightly. Arnold saw she was getting misty-eyed, and her jaw was shaking. He couldn't blame her. He too was feeling like someone had stabbed him through the heart with his own sword. He was sort of used to seeing the occasional scout die and that was always an extremely unpleasant experience but for some reason, the child's death seemed much worse. The poor young one had no control over what happened. It wasn't the child's fault that he or she had died.

The lower tip of the sun had almost touched the edge of the mist by the time Arnold bothered to move again. The thick purple mist below the small, rock hill moved ever so slightly, betraying the presence it hid. Arnold slowly got to his feet quickly and peered over the hill.
"Alfred? Is that you?"
No response. Arnold reached over his left shoulder with his right hand and gripped the hilt of his sword, peering into the mist all the while.
"Alfred? Is tha-"
"I hope you're not planning to brain me with that great lump of metal," came Alfred's voice from the misty forest below, sounding almost cheerful.
Arnold frowned. "Did you-"
"Good news; we got the boy. Bad news; the Suffura flew away so I couldn't kill it" said Gret, who obviously had been worrying about the child as much as Arnold.
His heart leapt with joy, and he had the urge to whoop with relief, which he almost did. But there was an edge to Gret's voice that made the hairs on the back of his neck rise. She was angry, that much was obvious, but something had disturbed her more than the fact that a child had almost been killed and that she'd lost her shield. Arnold wasn't sure if he wanted to find out what.
"And more importantly, the interesting news" added Alfred, speaking in much the same tone. Now Arnold was really nervous; it took a lot to unsettle Alfred. "Actually, can you come down here? It's a pain to talk from such a distance away."
Not being sure he wanted to hear the interesting news or not, Arnold quickly slid down the side of the hill, careful not to hurt his injured leg. He landed with a thud, with send pain up his thigh, but he barely noticed. The ground vibrated again as Formora also landed beside him.
"As I was saying, there was some interesting news. I think it's better if I show you what I mean. But prepare yourselves. This might come as quite a shock." Alfred now turned back to face the larger group of Scouts. "Whoever's carrying the boy, step forward and show Arnold and the others! They'll want to see the boy as well" he yelled at them.
Nobody moved for a few seconds, but finally, someone started shoving their way to the front of the pack. Konan stepped forward, an unclothed boy in his arms, who seemed to be asleep. He gipped the child under the arms and passed him to Arnold, who tried his best not to hurt the babe, and fitted him as best as he could into the crook of his arm.
It took a second to see what had the others so surprised, but when he did, he gasped.
A massive scorch mark or scar ran across the boy's chest. It started at his belly button, circling it twice, that continued up to the base of the boy's neck in the unmistakable shape of an ‘S'. It varied in thickness. At some point's the scar was an inch thick and others no more than ten millimetres. It reminded Arnold of a river. Around the outside of the ‘S' was a lighter scar, in the shape of a jagged rectangle. How the boy had survived such a wound was beyond him.
"What is… Why?" wondered Arnold out loud, but he couldn't seem to find the words he wished to speak.
It was against the town law to hurt children, and Arnold saw no logical explanation to why the boy had suffered such a harsh treatment unless perhaps he'd had abusive parents, which he found unlikely. The boy looked perfectly healthy, excluding the scar. And his parents would have to be incredibly foolish to inflict such an easily visible wound where anyone could see it; they would've been imprisoned immediately. It was almost as if…
Then another possibility finally hit him with the force of a Suffura's claw.
He gasped out loud, mouth and eyes wide, and a wave of adrenaline rushed through him, despite there being no danger.
No way… It couldn't be… he thought.
But it seemed to make complete sense.
"Could he not be from Homestead?" he asked quickly, almost in union with Formora, who had obviously reached the same conclusion as he.
"Well that's what I think," said Alfred. "Though I think you may want to take a look at this before you decide what to believe." He removed a piece of parchment from his pocket, which was tightly bound by a string. "I want both of your opinions as well."
He placed the scroll on to Arnold's shaking hand. He studied it for a moment then sliced the string with his fingernail and the scroll unravelled itself as if moved by unseen hands. He found that very odd. Ignoring this, he studied the scroll closely. Small, neat, loopy handwriting ran across the page, only forming one sentence:

Look after my son

Now he had no doubt; this boy was not from Homestead. He didn't know, but he knew. Emotions welled around inside him. Shock and disbelief were most predominant, closely followed by amazement, and then, to his surprise, happiness. He was happy that they'd found someone from another human civilisation, even if it was just a baby boy. For tens of thousands of years, the people of Homestead had lived in only one spot, cultivating the soil and exploring the vast lands of the Darthon. Yet never had there been any sign of civilisation or other human existence. Not in all of history. Until now.
"Wow," he muttered. "There are other humans out there. Just like us."
He repeated his second sentence twice more, trying to make himself believe it. In truth, he'd always believed that there were other humans outside of Homestead when he was a boy, but he'd started to have his doubts after searching inside the Darthon for so long. Yet here was living proof that there was another civilisation out there. He found it hard to believe.
He heard laughter around him. Arnold wrenched his eyes off the scroll to see what had been the cause for amusement. All the other scouts were staring at him. He closed his wide mouth hurriedly and tried to pull his eyes back in. The laughter intensified. But Arnold didn't care. He'd be able to regain lost pride later.
Instead, he sat down on the ground, the boy still in his arm. His knees felt shaky and he was taking in large amounts of air.
Eventually, Alfred stirred him. "I hate to interrupt, but we need to get moving again. The boy might not survive the night otherwise."
Arnold knew Alfred was right. Trying to swallow his shock and surprise, he said; "Your right, we should keep going on. I'm being stupid just sitting here."
Alfred nodded, then yelled to the rest of the party; "Let's get our packs! The boy might not survive a night in here; we need to get back home!"
But either Alfred's loud voice or the loud cracking sound of him transporting back to the top of the hill caused the small boy to wake. He moaned quietly, just loud enough for Arnold to hear. None of the others appeared to notice. They were too busy transporting back to the top of the hill to grab their bags.
Arnold studied him a second time. Yet again the scar stuck out like a rusty nail, drawing Arnold's attention. How the boy had survived such as injury at such a young age was beyond him. Wrenching his eyes away from the remnants of the old wound, Arnold instead focused on the boy's seemingly joy-filled stormy grey/blue eyes. These also seemed out of the ordinary. Though it was hard to see, Arnold could just make out two small black dots in the whites of both his eyes. He frowned. He'd seen something like that before. Often when people entered the Darthon for the first time, the whites of their eyes turned a shade of pink, as if somehow responding to the mist surrounding them. But black? Arnold had never seen that before. Perhaps he'd ask Alfred about that later.
"Who are ya" said the boy suddenly.
Arnold flinched. It almost sounded like he'd said ‘Who are you?' but he knew one-year-olds couldn't talk.
"Who a you?" said the boy again, reaching for his beard and tugging it, as if to gain his attention. It hurt. This young boy was unusually strong.
Pushing his surprise aside, he said as calmly as possible; "Hello. I'm Arnold. Who are you?"
The boy continued to stare at him, not answering.
"Who are you?" repeated Arnold, beginning to feel stupid.
Still, the boy didn't speak.
"Thanks for getting my hopes up" he muttered under his breath sarcastically.
"Willwam!" yelled the boy.
Again, Arnold flinched. The boy tugged his beard again, even more powerfully this time.
"What?"
"I Willyam."
"You're… your names William? You can speak?"
"Uh" responded the boy.
Not wanting to miss an opportunity, Arnold quickly asked the question he'd wanted to know since his early childhood. "Where are you from William? Where do you live?" he said, removing the boy hand from his beard with difficulty.
Young William continued to stare at him with large, uncomprehending, blue/grey eyes. The black water-drip shaped dots had disappeared. That was very odd. Still, Arnold waited, not wanting to fall for the boy's trick of waiting before giving an answer again. After waiting for a few moments, Arnold finally gave up, happy, confused and disappointed at the same time. He was happy that the people of Homestead were not alone in the world of course, but was just as confused. And scared. How had young William managed to learn how to speak in full sentences before the age of one? And was with the scar? It his age, the baby's wound should have killed him. And the black raindrop shaped thing in his eye as well? The confirmation that there were other humans out there raised many questions, leaving Arnold desperate to discover them.
He sighed. If he'd been five years younger, he would have gone to investigate where the child came from. However he wasn't young anymore and the cut on his leg was a sign that he ought to retire soon, even though he was little over twenty-eight. As much as he wanted to go on another adventure to try and discover who this boy was and where he came from, he knew the truth. He was too old.
The other land would have to be for future generations of scouts to discover.