WARNING: This story is not intended for children. It contains gore, violence, and other mature themes.You must be at least 14 years of age, or have express permission from you parent or guardian to read.

Prologue

A red sunrise. Old Hanson leaned back in his rocker, his whiskers twitching. He knew from his long abandoned days as a sailor that meant the winds would be high. He lived his days in the same weather-beaten house, watching life go by in the old, dented rocker that sat on the tiny front porch. His own appearances matched that of his favorite seat, once a handsome, strapping buck that spent his days in hard labour on the seas, now left to slowly wither away into a shadow of what he once had been. Sure, the fire in his eyes and the tenacity of youth was still present in him, but now it had become tarnished with age and disuse.

As he looked out over his humble piece of land, he pondered his own story, from all the days that he had spent in childish play, to now, where he sat, a bent old buck who rarely saw rabbits on a regular basis, and was slow of tongue yet quick of temper. He knew that it would be his downfall, as well as his other faults, like so many times before. But he did not care. He met his failures with the same quiet dignity that he met each day, as the one with the red sunrise this morning.

Hanson shifted his gaze back to the brilliant sky. He had heard rumors before, during his days upon the seas, about how the Red Sun at dawn was a sign of trouble. The very sky would be in a rage about their existence, and pull every ploy possible to bring them misfortune. In the midst of the frightening storms that would come of it, one would almost believe the tales to be true. Now, stretching forward in his rocker to get onto his feet, Hanson snorted and ground his teeth. Baseless superstition! He grumbled inwardly. He chose to not believe such foolishness, as worrying over signs in the sky filled no one’s belly, he said.

As he turned towards the house, he thought he saw a flicker in the corner of his eye. He couldn’t say what, but it almost appeared to be gray. He turned his head slowly to identify the object, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. He shrugged it off as his failing eyesight, and pushed open the tattered wooden door of his home. He got inside and closed the door so quickly behind him, that he didn’t hear the low, steady growl that came from the underbrush nearby.