Valen Runestrider

[Aarsyn]

1369 DR​

You see before you a man, taller and of lighter complexion than some of his human kind; hoarding the balanced expression of an inexperienced youth upon his fair face - the almost timeless eagerness for adventure. Lengthy strands of hair blacker than soot flank his starry blue eyes, trickling all the way down to the fur perching on his shoulders before coming to a polite pause and settling, as if content on nature's shoulders.​

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It is clear to your sight that he is geared for light travel; for he wears a leaf-green attire of cloth and a leather vest of the same colour, held together by several metal buckles all the way down to a belt that houses only a few pouches. Around his waist descends a half-skirt with a free-flowing pattern on each side, joining just below the knee a pair of fresh, durable boots of leather that stand ready to tread many lands with its wearer.​

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To this end, his armaments amount to an oak-brown longbow and quiver on his back and a rather unimpressive, long dulled knife that is sheathed on his mightily packed belt. For indeed, in its several pouches are held the many necessities of a hunter, along with a poor, cloth-bound journal. One in the front, however, seems to be padded in a rather bulky fashion. It is shielding what is, at times, revealed to be an elegant ocarina of wood, crafted most likely by Elvish hands, bearing in four different texts - some of which the People might know, but which are otherwise entirely unknown to Valen - the following runes:​

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"Over Moon's silver haze,
Among Oak's wise embrace,
Beneath where Land doth rise,
Therein Jollity thou shalt find."​

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[Aarsyn]

1370 DR​

Over the quiet months and into the present, the man has now mostly outgrown his leaf-green attire of old. In its stead, he has adopted two – one for the warmer seasons: a tan-brown shirt and pair of pants, over which is set a simple, brown and dark-green leather vest, to which an olive green hip-quiver with some yellow embroideries is fastened. No longer does he wield a dull knife, having exchanged it for a long and sharp iron sword; his boots are darker and sturdier. At times, he wears dark-leather gloves and vambraces – having yet to master his archery – and a large green cloak shields him overall. For colder seasons, he wears a much sturdier, lamellar cuirass and tasset with brigandine spaulders and a padded shirt and pants underneath, all warmed further by a brown-fur cloak. At night, he also wears a mask of bark to compliment the outfit’s camouflage pattern. ​

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A staple of both, aside from the dark-green mask, is his increasingly cascading hair and growing stubble which he began to fashion around his mustache and chin. Furthermore, he is now accompanied by a mighty – albeit yet to be named – raven, who scouts through blizzard and thunderstorm alike, and viciously disorientates his friend’s foes before returning to his shoulders as a sentry of vigilance, poising an immensely curious gaze towards all. The majestic animal loves a great many berries, and is certainly not afraid to peck away at the Weald’s gigantic insects, either. ​

 

[Aarsyn]

NELIN’S BIRD
The old raven of his late father, the creature now flies with the son it had grown up alongside. Even in its advanced age, it is mighty among its kind; for it bears great, sharp claws and a fearlessness to rend any foe. Yet it flies with vast, regal wings that spread proudly and soar through the air, oft gliding into battle in leadership, leaving the young Runestrider slacking for pace. Black and dazzling dark blues are its cloak of feathers, with hints of deep purple, blending into the night. Sharply intruding on its beauty, a long scar – almost across the bird’s whole front body – extends; saved only by the will of nature and the timely intervention of its handler. This does little to deter the avian from displaying it without care as a curious, jovial tilt of its head signals a friendly, appraising look to all worthy of it. On extremely rare occasions, it may even repeat certain words in a surprisingly pleasant voice. There is the capability for coarse caws and shrieks with that furiously pecking beak, however… So long as it hasn’t had its share of treats, of course. ​

 

[Aarsyn]

PART I. - GRATITUDE
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High rose the morning sun above the land when the raven and ranger alike wandered over to the cliff's precipice, stopping shy of the sharp fall into the Sangrue's rushing rapids. Sheltering the delicate parchment strapped against its keel, the bird floated aside the second it had come to truly know.

North-bound they shared their common stare, climbing the ageless treetops of the Weald with their gaze until, in the far distance, the insurmountable Teeth jutted above and threatened to swallow them whole. Yet much like before, no jaw of doom - be it of beast or man - forced their resolve crushed. The same could not be said for the rather large worm, the gentle gift of a mutual friend, as the space-bellied raven swiftly devoured it from the ranger's hand.

Having had its fair share, the raven expressed thanks through a strange sound: not quite a caw, sounding indeed something more like a twoop and a bwoop. And, with the fog's steady rise, its mighty wings stretched against the sky, slowly flapping to join the passing clouds. For a moment, however, it stopped; the creature turning to meet its companion’s eyes.

None too different from the Sangrue, a great many tempests swirled in them: fear and worry vying for recognition over his love and longing, laden already by the distance that was soon bound to fully descend unto him. Only the countless, both dangerous and adventurous forays into the unseen shared between them primed the young hunter to steel his trust. For he knew that if he could not let go now, then he never could; and the first step that led him down such a path would have been for naught.

And truly, the raven looked no less worthy of trust, mighty even amongst its kind and the survivor of many battles that it was. To it, fear was an inconvenience in the way of its loyal purpose - and to food, of course. It sought now only to do as both knew had to be done; to bear a stranded man’s hopes home and return a vestige of remembrance to the muse it had once known. Its beady eyes saw the boy that had now grown, and twinkled then with the promise to their father it had kept since it knew to fly.

Gently escaping the woodsman’s eyes, a tear escaped and was lost all the same, unable to wholly accept his new reality without hearing his past life’s pleas. He reached for the sleek, cloth-bound instrument of wood that once sounded so harmless and full of beauty; now a bearer of jagged notes from choking breaths.

It was in this desperate excuse for music that any answer now vested; a final, agonising request would cast them into their most crucial battle. A sweet tune, a short tune it was all the same, despite the shaky lungs it was born of; and it sung of winds familiar to them both. A note from beneath bough and atop hill, by river and its will to carry far the message and the raven, and for both to be returned to its sound.

Emboldened, the avian’s wits were not bested by this request. One last time before breaking its gaze, it regarded the boy, the man, with a cant of its head - almost smiling if its beak could have allowed it. Rising and rising, the note-winds propelled its wings further and further, marching far as it chirped the voyage of home. The night-painted wings, clipped by age and the iron of many foes, cut through the air and fog younger and swifter, passing betwixt branch, over bank and all else, challenging the very skies it was born for.
Then, it was gone.

Almost naked against the cold air, the ranger’s pallid face was warmed little. For out of sight was now the last living memory of his home and father, gone to an end that he felt clouded by the very fog enveloping him that day.

Cautiously, he wrapped the wooden instrument and held it to his heart as he looked up before putting it away. His handwraps soon flanked to rub at his eyes, letting out a breath he held for too long. And as swiftly as he did, a fresh one replaced it - that of the Wealdath, the Balance he had oathed to protect. The sway of its many long grasses against him was his present.

Once upon his shoulder as he walked the many paths of earth, the weight of a year had flown; though his lament did not. For he still felt that which knowledge and experience brought upon him - the dreaded and inescapable possibilities he witnessed in such a world. Yet he knew, too, that it was bound to him no more. So, with slow steadiness, he stepped back.

“Thank you,” he simply remarked. It was almost to the few present who had witnessed such a moment, but equally so to those who had long passed. There was much to ponder on as he began to return to woods that had embraced him, taking no words greater than the weight of his steps along the way.

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[Aarsyn]

PART II. - DREAD
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The day had long gone, marching towards the night. Incessantly crackling into the ranger’s ear and shrouding the cloakless back of his leather cuirass, the Menhir of Fire burned on as his only source of warmth. Its embers listened patiently to words that never came; their speaker sitting still, bereft of the old forest’s prints. For deeply dug within his sturdy boots, the stranglehold of the empty shadows long decaying tore at his heels in wake of his venture.

The pointlessly barren waste they had escaped, one that consumed the love-knit cloak upon his back, for no reasons he could understand other than pure indifference for the life it was crafted from remained displayed so ruthlessly in his mind since their return. Lakes and verdant plains once serene were vomited and belched out into cradles of pestilent earth, gathering to the surface as one unthinkable bile, mocking the rotten-rooted, crooked towers of sooty bark to seek to be nourished from them. Whatever leaves proudly used to crown them had long been swallowed; never to attract the rustle of life and birdsong, for there was no wind to carry such meaningless things. No breath, step, joy, death or gentle love was to disturb the eternal tapestry it painted, spreading its baleful seed into everything that disturbed its peace. He saw it now - so clear and so near, even with all the distance they ran from it. Time marched forth all the same.

Each day counted down the decay’s arrival, ticking by with the same indifference its severed world bade it. And with each tick, he had to be ready to uphold his oath and fight beside those who shared it with him. Yet, the fringe possibilities that tend to loom in the corner of such realisations seized their moment to come to the fore; as just a few bells ago, he bore witness to how it shattered even the best. Since then, the Circle was quiet; the tea he held had long cooled. Solitude remained, with only the ill omens intensified by his mind to keep him company. Louder and louder, it rose above the ambiance of elements, circling until it gripped him and could no longer be ignored.

Then, he stood up. Just as he had all those many moons ago, he drew a fresh breath as he rose and set his mind to walk; though this time, there was no familiar rustle in the leaves to whistle to - none to answer his call. None of the steps he took routed him from the forest even in spite of all that he felt as the sun's waning heat melted wholly away, passing to return at the next cycle. The air was colder now, perhaps more than on any other night he could recall. Somehow, the gentle breeze of the old forest felt unusually comforting, and a whisper beckoned him to sharpen his senses. For a while he walked so, aimless and alert, until a branch overhead was struck, torn and felled as swiftly as he could draw breath and turn his head.


As the sun returned to take its place, and as Nature's own took theirs in its demesne, all returned to as it should be. Life continued as it ever did; snakes, rodents and various other critters busied about their survival in the vast grasses, and the wolves, boars and their like prowled await for the chance to ensure theirs. Only a strange, blurred memory remained of the night before: a thrashed patch of earth under an elderly, vigilant tree. Dirt and leaves lay strewn about it in erratic fashion, displaced in part by the vague shape of a man.

The wise and silent boughs absorbed the sweet sobs shed against the world as the forlorn moment had come. Fate as an arrow had pierced the serene airs by the Sangrue, delivering its long-sought message. Dread and hope mingled; yet both fell casualty to their battle, culminating in great sorrow and madness to last for a lifetime. Like many others, it was another sight of sadness for the old land to behold, no matter how small.

Heavy steps envelop the scene, walking to and fro until they meld into the shape with what no longer even resembled a step. Instead, it seemed more akin to a smear against the land - a fall for it to capture. A branch, torn in twain succumbed to the embrace of the soil aside; specks of blood painting its bark. Frozen atop a blade of grass, a droplet of saltwater was held for some time, almost as if it were being examined by the forest itself until it, too, inevitably fell and wept against the ground at the behest of time.

Fleeing elsewhere, through the far reaches of the Weald, the imprints of a jarring, wayward advance led into dangerous depths, only to fade into one indistinguishable from the various inhabitants that could have caused it. Indeed, so precise and natural were the movements that even a few experienced trackers who had come across the scene could not divine much from it. What they did note, however, was the decrease in those who sought to accost their journey with violence.

Swept aside from their sights, in the wake of the scene rested a dark, regal feather - marred by blood.

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