Solivagant

[someome 2053]

Spoiler

 

 

“You can’t be flight footed forever, Bluejay.”

 

 

The words still echo through his head, as he tossed back a swathe of mead. Standing on one of many cliff-faces of the north, not far from his own Silk Grove, he’d watch the sun rise. Scraping refuse off of the bottom of his boots, he’d begin the trek. The usual one. The words creeping through his mind more so than before, dust kicking up as the winds picked up. A simple movement to pull the collar of his coat to his mouth, he’d continue to proceed. Crossing through the natural formations, shadows crossing each and every way, his mind just wanders.


 

“Don’t all those layers make you hot?”

Another ones words, echoing through his head. He’d glance at Caras Eldar from afar, smiling fondly of the thought of his friends and family among the cities populace. He’d look from there to the mountain of Mother Grove. The sun well within the sky now, as he tightened his gloves up. “Too many layers huh..” He’d laugh to himself. Armed to the teeth, never looking for a fight. Enough supplies to heal a battalion, always prone to injury himself. Walking contradiction, as he propped himself against a sizable boulder. Uncorked, the bottle of mead again, and down it went. All to no avail, his form requiring far more than this for a modicum of drunken stupor, but the taste, the faint buzz. It eased his mind enough to keep on.



“Rise up. You’re a guardian now. A guardian of...”

The words trail off. It wasn’t soon that the tree had encroached his form, and ended his life then to begin anew. He’d glace to the behemoth-sized lily-pads within the Wonkawoods, as he trudged through the thickets. Thick layers help when the jungle very much seemed to love to grasp a hold of him. Branches and vines alike snagging his clothes. How many of his companions make do in such places with nary but robes is  beyond him. He sees the birthing tree, he hears the Wonks, but he steers clear. He pauses at the exit of the large overgrowth, and takes another swig before marching on-wards.



“Vi’ru nomad’ja.  Unae vijane til sja fit allt, eins fadir na modir”

 

Quiet young girl when she wants to be that one. Belvitz in the distance, he’d take off from the roads, the sun meeting it’s close friend the horizon once again. He’d pop the top from the bottle, only to find it woefully empty. He’d crouch down, and bust the top of the glass apart. Filling it with a ample amount of wet soil, he’d place a simple seed, a sunflower, and leaves it perched on one of the many farm fences. Maybe someone will find it and learn to care for it. A wind could blow it over. A crow might decide it’s shiny enough for it’s liking. He won’t know though. He’s already moving on, watching a caravan on the main roads from afar. A family, happily traveling. Children skipping around their carriage as the horses dutifully pulled it along. A sinking sensation fills his chest so he begins his trek, south bound as always.

 

“Did I do the right thing?”

“Yes, little Bluejay. But do you feel it was right?”

He’d rub at his head a little, thankfully it’s been some time since her trademark smacks upside the head. He’ll take it as a sign of growth on his own part. But he still thinks on that time like so many others. He tore away at himself. He tore apart so much. A pariah-complex if ever there was one. Foolish mistakes, as many as the footprints trailing behind him. He glances at the high walls of Sutica from the frozen woods, as he leaves a apple atop an unmarked grave. The suns warmth has faded, and night has encroached into every nook and cranny of the woods. No need for tents, no need for blankets. Plopping his arse into the snow, he’d sit next to the mound, and produces a fresh bottle. And drinks.



“I will walk the forests with my new kin”

He’s long passed Arberrang now, glancing from the trees to see how they’ve been. A few injured, maybe a visit soon to heal and teach. But for now, the blizzard. Even to this body the winds and snow sting his skin, his coat buttoned up tightly, scarf pulled over his mouth. No kin to walk with him today. Not most days. He wonders if he’s lost that right, dragging heavy footsteps through the ever increasing snow. He catches the movement of figures in the corner of his eye, and steers away. He feels the cold, but they. They do not. They thrive in it, and he knows not how to speak to them. Not all conflict need be had, but he’ll do what he needs to do. Whether or not they walk with him, they are his kin. He’ll take the risks. This chill pales to the one brought on by Axios’ storms..

 

“What are you?”

So many peoples voices enter his head. So many answers. He stands a breadth from the Wall, other structures before him crumbling. The winds coalescing and swirling about, his body caked with snow. What is he? He’s a druid. A strange one, but he is. He’s a father. Not the best, but he’ll bleed for his children until he doesn’t stand back up. He’s alone, a mess, a wreck that cannot stay still. He is himself and nothing more, with the potential to exceed it all.

 

What is he? He’s simply a Hareven.

 

His violet gaze latched onto the wall, he doesn't know what is coming. No one ever knows for sure what’s coming. But he feels it. The tug between Septembers rampage across the North. The Walls blizzard overtaking the south. He feels a greater threat, and so he continues to move. Across this landmass, time and time again. Wearing his own, quiet walkways into the soil and dirt as he moved back and forth. It’s his duty.

What is he? He is his work.



“You can’t stay flight footed forever, Hareven”

He’d say it out loud to himself this time, sitting among a small reprieve of some rocky inclines days later. A fresh bottle of mead in hand as he watched the skies, waiting for birds. Waiting for work. This was not him pitying himself. He’s just decided to stop hanging onto the past. He’d start taking a large swig as a familiar bird rounds itself over one  of the hillsides, and a grin reaches his face. After all, if he cannot stay on his feet forever, he might as well do what he can now.

The bottle goes off a cliff, tossed aside, and he scrapes his boots off again. Gloves pulled tight, and everything is stocked, ready, strapped up, and prepared.

It’s time to work.

 

Spoiler

This has been just me trying to get some frustration off of my chest, so I figured to write out my mains current mental processes right now. I hope it’s an enjoyable read. Thank you very much.


 

 

[Suxals 529]

(( Just beautiful.

[LaffenOutLoud 355]

Lovely, sweetie. I’m inspired.
 

[Archipelego 2188]

(( Read it this morning, but was on phone. Thought I’d comment now about how I enjoyed it. +1 ❤️ ))

[Lark 2227]

Derrick stands stalwart atop Caerhays, thumbing a small journal as a gentle southern breeze whips across the tundra below. His coat billowed quietly, dancing around his silent form as grey eyes watched, a spark burning within them. “Back to work.” He’d glance down at the journal, the symbol of the Library of Dragur emblazoned upon it. As he made his way down the steps and into the warmth of the keep, he cast a glance to a long faded sketch above the mantle, of a family he once had, wondering if his plans would bring them back.

[osumanduas 1442]

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

 

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