A Sigil Is Remembered.

[Andartus Orvar 20]

A splash of water from the well, into the mortar. A few petals from Andarta's Grace, freely given and carefully taken from Her shrine, bathed in moonlight. The pestle grinds them down, tearing and weeping and spreading in the small stone bowl.

 

The steady hum of Gorund's shrine, the gently pulsing light, gives him all that is required for his work. A thumb dips into the mortar, and comes out paler than it had ever been. The paste spreads across his canvas, curving a gentle bend. It spreads well. Beneath a white, braided beard, a smile spreads.

 

The horsehair brush, 'borrowed' like so many of his possessions, takes the paste far better than his thumb could. It spreads cleanly, evenly, as gentle as a mother's caress. His own mother's pendant lies beside him, his muse and his reference, and the paste forms yet further curves.

 

Outlined, the hare leaps ahead of its brethren, overlying the leaves expanding from the bukl, the central boss. The white paint begins to fill it, the hand that of a precise warrior, but never a craftsman. Time is taken. Patience is had. He finds the mind concentrated by the simple act. The voices of his Ancestors, the voices of the Gods, return to him, even if they are only in memory. 

 

White forms a circle, spreading an inch from the iron rim of his canvas. The brush gives the gift of moonlight, the hares forever dancing beneath Gorund's crescent eye. A touch of paste leaves even the most bloodstained part of the flat, leather-covered skjǫldr almost as pristine as it had been in the Saavar. His hands take his work by the iron-bound rim, lifting it, tilting it. The ironwork glints, glistens as though it had been submerged under Draug's fountains. The boss's dome retains a patina of the blood given to Ancou as sacrifice, yet has suffered no damage to disrupt Oknar's blessings upon its craftsmanship. The solid wood beneath is light, comfortable to carry, the life of Lagara and boon of Andarta giving the strength of the living forest to its bearer.

 

He slides his arm through the enarmes, his fist clenching the foremost grip. It is light, wide enough to be practical even on a hunt of Belanus. Overhead, Argal begins to weep for his brother, as he so often does, the rainfall striking the campfire with a hiss, pattering off the structures of the encampment. A candle guts out, birds take shelter beneath the vast canopy of trees, but the paint does not run. 

 

Andartus Orvar stands, the shield strapped firmly to his left arm, his mother's pendant hanging from his closed fist, the matching shapes overran with rivulets, as Argal's grief reaches new heights, his turmoil shattering the skies with blinding flashes and withering crashes. The rainfall hits hard, but the paint does not run. The three chasing hares will forever adorn the shield, for they have the Gods' graces within them, and from their blackened eyes, Gorund's gaze is unrelenting.

 

 

(The image of the pendant comes from thecelticheart.com, and it is this that covers the shield of the Orvar Clan-Priest Andartus. Thank's for reading.)

[Birdwhisperer 1174]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.