This, the Old Man Knew

[The_Very_Cranky_Varangian 26]

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

 

Sitting somewhere by the dying campfires dotting the ravine, a man pulls his frost-wolf pelt cloak tighter around himself. The man had grown old and gray, just like the land that birthed him. The man knew Atlas all too well, for it was there that his story began.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                            

 

The man plants the haft of his Warhammer into the snow, using it as a support to hoist himself up. His thumb rests over the engraving of two figures fighting a wyvern on the side of the hammer’s head as his other fingers wrap around top of the hammer. He pulls himself to his feet.

 

This winter was a cold one. The winds whipped about the canyon – racing through the crevices in the steep ice cliff faces. Deep gashes through the snow trail the man as he tows along a large box on a sled. His progress was slowed by the snow and the weight he carried, but he knew if he continued through the night he would catch up with the refugee caravan. Perhaps there he could find the rest of his family.

 

As the sun sets a chorus of howls begins to echo around the ravine’s walls. The man mouths a silent prayer as he presses on, using the moon’s glow to light his way. Almost there.

 

As daylight breaks, the smoke of distant fires lazily rises towards the southern sky. The man looks to the north, the land where he had married his beloved and fathered his children. Part of him wishes to turn back, to keep fighting, and to take back his land from the Vaeyl. The man looks to the south, a land unknown to him filled with danger and opportunity. He inhales deeply and takes his first step outside the continent in which he was born.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

 

Sitting somewhere by the dying campfires dotting the ravine, a man pulls his frost-wolf pelt cloak tighter around himself. The man had grown old and gray, just like the land that birthed him. Ser Rolando Castelo knew Atlas all too well, for it was there that his story began.

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

 

Sitting with him are his children, his children’s children, his friends, and his allies. This world was for them to inherit. This, the old man knew.

 

Edited March 1, 2019 by The_Very_Cranky_Varangian