Hope

[Monkee 7369]

 

 

Trial 1: Birth

Elvenesse

 

It called from the stalks of tall grass, waving in the warm sea breeze. Grating, shrill, desperate; its caws struck an unpleasant chord. He waded among the sea of green, gaze trained towards his sabatons, which flattened the long lime-hued blades underfoot. Hither and thither he tread, until at last he arrived at the source. Upon gauntleted palms, he scooped up a little ball of blackened feathers, lofting it to his visage. Its calls answered, the young raven fell silent. Intelligent eyes stared back, brown to his grey. “Hesin,” he spoke, and it cawed in response. With delicate digits, he nestled it upon the furs atop his shoulders. There, in the coming weeks, it would gorge itself upon many a worm.

 

 

Trial 2: Peace

The Vale of Nevaehlen

 

Sweat clung to his brow, light as mist. It pooled in droplets, torn away with each swipe of the back of his gauntleted hand. He was a man out of his element. Whereas the eastern wind had carried some measure of relief to the Snow Elf during his time in the Vale of Nevaehlen, he now trod through the continent proper, and there he found no respite from the sun’s golden rays. He had come to that settlement of Wood Elves laden with questions and empty parchment. As a result of their hospitality, through lengthy conversations with the Archdruidess Miven and her family, he left with answers - pale pages of parchment sated with blackened ink - that written knowledge held so dear to the ‘fenn.

 

 

Trial 3: War

Rimeveldian Wilderness

 

Deep snows soaked up each heavy step with a muffled crunch, that familiar sound of fresh powder underfoot. Venturing forward, the Snow Elf stalked those barren woods, digits curled around the wooden shaft of a spear. Grey eyes scanned a grey horizon, until from behind a tree, he found movement. Broad antlers crowned the head of a bull moose. Closer and closer he crept, until its snout rose to the wind, picking up his scent. Their gazes met. Simultaneously, horns and spear lowered. Steel met bone as its charge was halted, and there in the snow, a melee ensued. Hoof, antler, and blade arced through the air, and when the powder settled, it ran red. Pierced upon each flank, the moose forced its last gasps, before steel to its throat ended the beast’s misery. A quiet prayer was muttered, and then the process of taking its hide began.

 

 

Trial 4: Death

Rimeveldian Wilderness

 

A thousand points of light mirrored upon a pond’s frigid surface, dulled only by the occasional patch of pale ice. Ripples spread from the featherlight touch of a toe upon water. It alone was enough to make the blood run cold. Foot by foot, he stepped into the cold, and lowered until it surpassed his shoulders. For the unprepared, it was a death sentence. With Kindrel Araaloq over his shoulder, it was a challenge. Enveloped by the cold, it took seconds for his body to seek defense. It began as a quiver in his fingers, spreading up his limbs and to his abdomen. In minutes, it was a violent shaking, played to the chattering of teeth. Pale skin grew white, red lips dulled blue. Darkness took hold of his periphery, pulsing inwards to claim him. Minute after minute, he staved it off, until at last he accepted sleep. Vague outlines of pallid shapes danced in his vision. He awoke next to the fire.

 

 

Trial 5: Hope

The Summit, Southern Rimeveld

Five months earlier

 

Apprehensive digits curled and flexed as Vytrek Tundrak stood upon the ice of another pond, in another time. On the banks formed ranks of his people. For so long, they had surrendered to despair; their nation was dead, and their futures bound to a foreign existence. A nervous glance here revealed sullen faces; there, the hallmarked thin lips of skepticism. And yet, within his chest, a burning. It had begun in years prior as a spark, the mere idea of rebuilding that which was long-lost. Now, in this moment of import, the result of years of hard work, it was an inferno. He dared to hope. Ascending the rock, he would see its flames spread.

 

 

Present Day

 

Flames licked and bit at the frigid air, droplets of the pond burning away to mist upon Vytrek’s countenance. Pulled from the waters but minutes before, he sat cloaked in dry furs, grey gaze lingering upon the orange sparks. There, amidst the final of the five trials, witnessed by Kindrel Araaloq and Aldred Tundrak, he swore his moniker.

 

"In darkest hour, on steepest slope,

When weak distress and bold must cope,

My strength I lend and fray-wards I lope,

To quell despair and give them hope."

 

Thus rises the Vigilant of Hope.