It was late. That time when the sun was on its way but had a forest of night to wash through first. He was just a child then, between the ages of four and six. Zane woke up to another nightmare, one that was a foretelling of doom. Death lingered eerily close to the boy?s home.

Crash.

It was here.

There was a heavy thud, the sound of mother?s china breaking as it hit the floor, a grumble from his father a couple of rooms over slipping out of bed to investigate. He heard their bedroom door open, heard the quiet padding of his father?s feet as he sleepily ambled through the small home.

?Oi! What?re ya doin? in m?house?? asked his father, shouting in outrage.

Zane winced as another loud crash suddenly sounded.

?I said, what?re ya doin? in m?-? the question was cut off by a gurgling sound. Quickly, the boy moved, bolting up to scramble toward the door.

It was yanked open and he slid into the hallway. He was too late. On his floor, in a quickly growing pool of blood was his bastard drunk of a father. Zane?s gut churned. It wasn?t sorrow, it was the sight of so much blood, the fact that all that was left as him and his mother, and they weren?t strong.

A lumbering man with a wicked, bloody knife stomped past his father?s dying body, toward the bedroom where his mother screamed. His mother was different from his father, kinder, but mean in her own right. Neither of the boy?s parents were very admirable.

Zane rushed forward, peering into the room at the large man?no, beast. It couldn?t have been a man, too large, too quiet for something its size. It towered over his scrawny mother, raising its knife.

?Which room is he in?? the thing asked with a growl.

?H-h-?? she stammered, paralyzed with fear.

His mother?s eyes slowly lowered from the knife to Zane hiding just outside of the doorway. A hand lifted, index finger extending toward him.

?T-there,? she choked out, looking up with pleading eyes at the creature to spare her.

She received no such mercy.

The town of Ossicwater was home to mostly fishermen and minor craftsmen. A small, humble community with little crime, little problems, but little money as well. A man by the name of Chuck Van'Drok lived there; Zane's uncle. The young boy was sent to live with the man after the death of his two good for nothing parents.

The wagon jerked and bounced restlessly along the narrow dirt road, the squeak of joints, turning wheels, and clopping horse hooves all meshing together in a symphony of monotony. Zane sat huddled up in the back of the wooden vessel, wrapped in a scratchy wool blanket while staring blankly at the back of the driver's head.

The driver was a young man by the name of Henry Caldwell. A strong fellow, a good man, tall, dark, heavily built. He was heading off in Ossicwater's general direction, meaning to go and speak to a group of cattle drivers about a possible business transaction. The man opted to leave early so he could give Zane transport to his uncle.

It was a long trip, quiet, uneventful. And after a week of traveling, the wagon creaked to a halt and Henry hopped down.

"C'mon, Zane, we're 'ere," he said as he reached up to help the boy down.

Quietly, the dark haired child clambered from the wagon, shouldering his bag while looking down at the dirt under his feet. He was always a quiet one, but since they found him curled up, he'd gone mute, they hadn't been able to get a word out of him.

"Cheer up, Zane. God's got a strange way o'workin' things, but it's all part o'his plan for ya in the end. C'mon, let's go find Chuck."

Dropping a hand to Zane's shoulder, Henry turned, walking up to the closest man to ask about Chuck's whereabouts.

"S'cuse me, sir? Y'wouldn' happen t'be able t'direct me t'where Chuck Van'Drok lives, would ya?" he asked in a friendly, chipper tone.

The man was tall, light haired, dark skinned, with coal black eyes. He was overall, an intimidating sight with his duster, those boots, the wide brimmed hat and the .357 at his hip. But Zane found solace in the man's presence, something was reassuring about it.

"Yeah," the man said with a jerk of his thumb down the road. "Just a bit o'ways that way. I'd tell ya which house, but they all look the same," he stepped over toward the wagon. "I c'n show ya the way, if ya'd like."

"That'd be nice of ya, thanks," said Henry, walking over to join the man.

After Henry had helped Zane back into the wagon, climbed up and grabbed the horses' reigns, and let the man climb aboard, they started off.

"You know Chuck, sir?" asked Henry.

"Yeah, been a friend for a few years. Good man, hard workin'," his dark eyes turned down to Zane.

"You're Zane, aren't ya? The one who's s'posed t'be movin' in with 'im?"

Zane nodded silently to the man, staring up with a mixture of fear and awe.

"Zane hasn't spoken much in the last couple of weeks. Saw somethin' awful happen, only a few folk really know what."

"Hrm..." the man turned up to Henry with his explanation, but eventually returned his attention to the silent boy sitting next to him.

"This place'll get 'im talkin' in no time. May not be much, but the folk're friendly n'helpful. He'll be in good hands, s'pecially with Chuck lookin' after 'im."

"That's what we were hoping for, sir," Henry replied as the wagon crawled down the dirt streets of Ossicwater.