The Fox and the Path

[Malaise 1570]

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In a cave once sojourn to a bear,

 

 

The Aeldinic Elf pondered his timeless existence, as he so often did. The being of mottled, brown hair, fair skin, and impressive height sunk into a myriad of furs and cloaks to keep himself warm, battling constantly the biting winds of Aardwen outside of his resting place. He thought of his home, now farther away from him than ever.  He remembered his Daeynn'tael brothers, exhaling sharply as he caught himself instinctively toying with his commando insignia. He thought of the expansive sands, and the Sparrows that played host to them. He thought of the Hexicanum, and the trials he undertook there, studying the hunt, and that which he hunted. 

 

 

 

On the trail nearing home, 

 

 

The Aeldinic Elf marched beneath the shadow of the towering, sovereign pines of the frozen hills, giving way to nothing but his own breath. He looked around himself wildly, as if the past were stalking him, ever mindful of his shortcomings and failures. He paused, swiping at the steady fall of snow in his face. Pausing, he thought to himself. He thought a lot about the past, gathering a conscious, single consensus with himself that he longed to recover something. Perhaps some idea of himself, or some fading ambition that once spared little attention to doubt. 

 

 

Kaer Aardwen's peaks pierced through the grey horizon, serving as beacons for which to guide him. For so long, he resumed in thought, his life had been confused and disordered; his purpose was altered so very long ago, yes. He stopped again, this time astonished by the frigid, clear water of the pond his boot had disturbed. A resounding 'crack' and 'splash' was carried with the wind, only painting further the mysterious excitement of his lonesome trek home. The quiet lights of Aardwen's hearths sung silently ahead of him, akin to the stir and bustle of the stars decorating the night sky. Out of the corner of his eye, the elf saw the first of the stepping stones (long fallen to the glutton of time) that served to lead wayward hunters and initiates to the ancient keep of the Marked Men. He climbed the steps home.

 

((Credit to Anadenel, on Deviantart))

 

At the gates of Kaer Aardwen,

 

 

Two initiates of the School of the Fox stood vigilant atop the ramparts, looking down upon the approaching being. His outfit was foreign to them in all things but depictions of old. They were telltale to most veteran hunters, easily identified as a commando's garb, belonging to the Daeynn'tael of Aeldin and Caed Belleteyn. The Foxes, they were called by the Imperial regiments who combated them often. "How ironic," the elf thought. "To think these initiates of the Fox recognize not a true Fox." 

 

 

The elf hailed the two men. The portcullis heaved, lifting the heavy, rusted gates of the once derelict structure. He sighed, stepping beneath the shadow of the peaks surrounding him and into the warmth of his home. He shrugged off a collection of unutterable visions, immediately finding comfort in the familiar stone walls and faces of the keeps halls. His every perishable breath slowed as the elf relaxed, resting in the safety of the Scarlet Hall (duly given its moniker for the red walls and bricks that constructed it). A figure approached him, asking for his name and business. The elf acquiesced to stand and provide for the man.

 

 

"I am Glaeddwen aep Belleyn - and I have returned from the path."

 

 

 

 

Edited December 15, 2015 by Matt_dew

[Will (TauFirewarrior) 2466]

"The Legendary Fox....they said he was dead." Abelas would say in awe of the Aeldenic Elf that had risen in the Marked so long ago.

[Sarcof 98]

Oan looks up from where he had been pitching hay to the few horses in the stables, having heard the steady clank of the gates being risen. Stepping out over the forge, the man looked down, clothes being whipped by the wind flowing from the entryway. He recognized the elf that strides into the courtyard, raising a hand to him in greetings, muttering to himself, "So, one of the Veterans have come home."

[Slic3man 484]

Kepri unraveled the bloodied and used wraps around his head; tossing it aside while sitting upon the bedroll in his room. Ebony ichor dotted its once-white cloth, long aged blood gone dry. The hulking man tossed it aside carelessly, retrieving what would soon be its replacement. The gauze soaked in alcohol went as easily on as it had the first time, with the usual stinging pain that equated to a migraine. With word of the arrival of an older member he was prepared to learn what he could. The linen clung to his head as if it had become his true face, bloodshot eyes and green discolored irises half-lidded with a mix of numbness and frozen pain. With that he rose, walking out and into the courtyard to continue his training. 

[lawnmowerman 3040]

Rheinallt brings his hammer down to meet his anvil, wiping a sleeve over his sweat-hued forehead. He'd gaze at Abelas standing atop of the wall, beads of sweat sliding down his forehead. He'd then shout towards the 'Ame upon the wall.

"Oi, Abelas, who's by the gate?"

He'd lay the hammer onto the anvil, clambering up a ruined wall, folding his arms and swiveling his neck down at the returning Marked, scrunching his nose, tilting his head at Abelas.

"Is that really him?"

 

[tilly 5115]

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