Quividet shot upright. "Just another dream..." he said to himself, knowing it was almost definitely a lie. He'd seen the "dream" at for the last week straight- something that had only happened one other time. That dream had included him burning as the ceiling of his house collapsed around him. The week after he'd had that dream, a rival tribe had attacked and burnt most of the village. This dream was far worse. Trying to distract himself from that dread, he focused on the lesser evil of the chance of his immediate death.

  This midnight would mark the end of the year and the death of himself or another 14-year-old who would've become 15 in the next year. It would be decided by a set of cards, one of which would be only a skull, showing who would die.

  The boy was short, scrawny, with a glint of intelligence and possible malevolence in his piercing, rich dark green eyes. He had scruffy brown hair and the scraggly mustache of youth. This was clearly a boy who would mind his own business and enjoy solitude and learning, but would go to the end of the earth to spite you for annoying him, and would never forget a grudge.

  Quividet donned his finest clothes, and walked to the centre of the village. There, there was a horde of approximately two hundred people- the entire tribe, it seemed, has showed up- split into a group of fifteen to twenty adolescents- the possible sacrifices- huddled together nearby the stone slab of an altar, and the crowd of onlookers gathered on the other side. Feeling embarrassed by his seeming lateness, Quividet joined the crowd of fourteen-year-olds.

  After another twenty-odd minutes of waiting, the tall, emaciated, grey-bearded and bald priest spoke. He was a vulture-like man, with a hooked and cruel appearance and attitude, speaking with a condescending and callous voice. "Welcome, all. It is time for the selection of the sacrifice- we must appease the blood god." And with that he pulled out a small deck of cards, shuffling them and handing them out, face down, one by one to the teens. Quividet suddenly had a feeling of dread and a vision of a card showing a skull as he received his card. When they were instructed to reveal their fates, sure enough, this damned card- a piece of paper- was pretentious enough to demend that he die. Suddenly, he heard nothing but the beating of his own heart. Then he heard the rasp of steel on leather.

  He looked up, turned around- no exit. The priest had a wicked, curved dagger, inscribed with ceremonial sigils with a foot-long blade in his hand, and was approaching slowly. "So the gods have chosen you. Come here and you may not suffer as much." That was a lie- Quividet knew, as did everyone else, that he would die in pain and dread as this happened.

  Suddenly, Quividet saw a ghostly green outline of the priest lunging towards him, causing him to dodge back, just in time to avoid the real dagger. Feinting to the right, Quividet ran left to get further from this- he now realised- zealot and madman. As the priest swiped at him once more, Quividet grabbed his arm, forcing it back towards him and attempting to twist it towards the priest's neck. Surprised, the emaciated man jumped back, letting go of the blade, allowing the teen to grab and inexpertly point it at him. "Give that back!" Screamed the insane priest, lunging back towards the adolescent. Taking the advantage, the boy aimed and stepped forwards.

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  Blood spurted. A scream. Silence. Everyone was stunned. The boy ran.

  Several hours later, Quividet finally stopped running. He collapsed. All around the boy was a vast expanse of rolling fields, with a wall of forest to his left. Knowing that there was no way to hide in these open plains, he began to walk, as fast as he could, towards the green barrier.

  Trudging through the forest, Quividet was unable to hear the slight rumble of carriage wheels on gravel roads. He could not hear the whispers of people preparing for something. He did not listen when there was a faint yellow, followed by threats, and- finally- a reasonable thief debating and conversing with the owner of this carriage. He did, however, hear this as he approached further- "Come now, we can be honourable thieves- we have no benefit in killing you. So, give us your valuables and we won't have to- we are simple folk, and your greed gives no value to those in need- for example us. We need to live too, you know." The voice was kind, reasonable, and measured, not seeming to be threatening anyone's life at all. Cautious, Quividet decided to try to stay out of sight, attempting to creep between trees (rather unsuccessfully, as he would find later).

  There was a snap of a twig, and- with no more warning- the boy was hanging upside-down from a tree branch by his ankle. It seemed there had been a rope wrapped around that twig in such a way that, should it be broken, the rope would tighten around the ankle and then lift them into the air.

  "Well, well, well. What have we here?" This voice was surprising, as it seemed to come from all around the hanging boy, yet from nowhere at all. Then, a short, thin figure, shrouded in shadows and a cloak dropped down from the canopy. "Hi, I'm Stabby Joe." Spoke the man amicably.

  "Stabby? I presume you like knives?" The boy responded.

  "No, it's a joke- I prefer hammers, maces, et cetera. That tends to be a pattern in our little band."

  "I see... Um... would you mind helping me down?" Retreving a small pocket knife, the slight man carefully cut the ropes, allowing the boy to safely stand upon his own feet.

  The boy and thief walked onto the road, where a large wooden carriage, pulled by a pair of regal white stallions was being surrounded by a couple dozen leather-clad bandits, seemingly led by one- the reasonable and friendly thief who's voice Quividet had heard first. The boy carefully lurked in the edge of the woods, still holding the ornate blade he had taken, still splattered with blood.

  The thief quietly walked up to the seeming leader and whispered something into his ear. "Give me a second- need to sort out this deal," the leader quietly responded. "Now, now, all the gold, I said." He said louder, as he saw a glint of a coin slip into the merchant's pocket. Grumbling, the man handed over the jingling bag, then commanding the horses to continue.

  Following this, the leader and Stabby Joe paused, then walked over to the boy, who knew quite well that there was no way for him to escape this. "I don't have any gold," he preempted.

  "I'm Steve. They call me Steve the Weasel, but my friends can just call me Steve. And that's kind of obvious, given the torn and bloody furs. Nice knife though." He added cheerfully.

  "These are my nicest clothes..." muttered the boy, hurt. "Well, not that I have any more anymore."

  "How come?"

  "My tribe tried to sacrifice me. Hence the bloody ceremonial dagger." The thief could only say "Ah...", then pat the boy's shoulder, trying to comfort him. "If... if you need a home, we have a camp. We don't tend to take in new people, but we do sometimes, and I'm sure that it'd be more comfortable than the undergrowth to sleep in."

  The bandits turned out to be a small group, consisting of no more than thirty, a part of the Anarcho Syndicate- arguably the most powerful group of revolutionaries, disagreeing with many of the societal structures of many lands, attempting to take them down from the inside by using small bands of thieves, bandits, pirates, and other possible criminal elements to prevent unchecked destruction of the citizens and life.