Your life was perfect before. For generations your family ruled over the land stretching before your eyes.
It endured long forgotten wars. It endured cataclysms of epic proportions. It had even endured your own mistakes in your youth.
It was here that you were born and raised. Your childhood was a happy collection of bygone memories, your adolescence bitter of strife and uproar. This land molded you into the man you were supposed to be. Its stark streams taught you caution; its rolling hills forced you to become more perceptive; the people infected you with their stoicism.
This all made you into the man you are now. As you stand up from your seat, you look onwards, onto your land. The calm skies glace over mortal matters peacefully, the tall trees croak their ever enigmatic song and the rolling hills lie peaceful in their eternal rest. They are all indifferent to your hardship.
"Sir, we have found the den!" An overeager young page runs up. The excitement is practically dripping off his face. You force yourself to smile.
"Well done boy. Go to Garreth and tell him to prepare the dogs."
"Yessir, at once sir."
You watch the boy, a decade old page now, run back into the forest. Life hadn't broken him yet.
"Alright lads," you yell. "You heard the boy. Mount up and let us catch the bastard. By tonight I want my belly filled with tough meat and my head full of cheap ale!"
Around you a group of sixteen knights perk up, yell their approval and jump on their horses. The action forces your worries away. Moments later you feel the cold wind of air passing by your face as you gallop onward. You leave the hills behind as you enter the forest, through the road your ancestors paved so long ago.
Onwards, onto the hunt indeed.