Blood of the Slayer

[Sham404 518]

 

BLOOD OF THE SLAYER

þeir koma

 

Deep in the wild North there is a gathering. Pale tents disguised among snowdrifts, marked in the fading light by bright bonfires that warded from shadow. They were protected by borders of wood, aurum, salt, and iron. Beyond the palisade was darkness, but it could not pierce their protection. The Long Dark had no sway at this camp, and any servant of darkness that attempted entry would be a fool.

 

The largest tent sat central, plain as any other, marked only by the two souls guarding its entrance. Their left hands glimmered in the firelight, each wearing a ring of aurum which Darkspawn would find intolerable. Upon their armour was emblazoned a hammer. The Witchslayer’s Hammer.

 

The tent was lit by a central flame, around which were sat a number of armed and armoured figures. They all bore some form of resemblance, with matching noses or hair or eyes, and sat upon stools in a circle of equals. Bar one, who sat upon a true chair, high backed and sturdy as any throne might be. But the man who sat upon it was a Chief, not a King. This camp had no interest in Kings, though that was soon to change. It had taken years to gather this number together, scattered as so many of their blood had been for the last century and a half. Still more remained in the wilds, fulfilling the legacy of their ancestors. But they had all tasted change upon the wind, and soon would flock back to civilization.

 

The man of note was young, perhaps too young for his position. He sat in ancient armor, with faded reds and golds and the telltale dents and marks of years of use. It was the armor of the Northguard, that long defunct military arm of Norland which had been the successor of and succeeded by so many other armies. It represented a legacy and heritage that they could all lay claim to - that of a warrior. But on his lap rested an item that only he possessed, only he could claim. It was the selfsame Hammer that they bore images of upon their chests. The head of the ancient weapon was black steel, made darker by the gore of darkspawn it had destroyed, while the base of the haft ended not in decorative pommel, but rather a purifying aurum spike. Their ancestor had needed nothing more than this one hammer to forge a future for his clan, and take the future from the Unworthy.

 

Flagons of half finished ale and mead rested in hands or upon knees, and platters of dried meat lay at the side now forgotten. For some hours they had chattered and bragged, reminisced and caught up, allowing the day to run long and late in the fading sunlight. Now, their leader had raised a hand to bring silence.

 

“My kinsmen, I once again welcome you to my flame.” Began the Chieftain. He was met by murmurs of response and nods of respect. “It is poor that we should unite in these circumstances, but change is upon us.”

 

“Word reached us some years ago of a dispute in our homeland. That the mighty Vykk Volaren had abandoned the realm, along with some of our own Clanfolk. The Kingdom itself is almost rudderless, guided by a figurehead that belongs to the Faith, not to the Rurics. They splinter, they argue. To hear of the ills that have befallen Norland in our absence, it pains me, and those that lurk in the Dark would take advantage of this dispute.”

 

There are further murmurs from the group, discontent clear in frowns and the shaking of heads. The man raised his hand again, summoning silence.

 

“Make no mistake, cousins. It is not our place to lay blame, or take a side in this divide. This is a wound upon our people, and we must aid in healing it. A king must sit on the Ashwood Throne once again. The people of Norland must stand strong against the Long Dark.”

 

The man curled his hand about the haft of the hammer that lay in his lap, lifting it slightly and drawing reverent gazes from his brethren to the weapon.

 

“With my father’s death last winter, the Hammer has passed to me. With it comes stewardship of our people. The Clan Vildr was once a newborn child surrounded by giants. It grew to match them. Two hundred years on, the name remains. The reputation remains. Our great aunt was the mother to Kings, our progenitor was a battle brother to Royals and High Keepers alike. For decades our blood served as the shadow of the old Kings of Norland. Once, the Clan Vildr were as close to royalty as any Clan beyond the Rurics could hope to be.” 

 

There is a quiet thundering of thumping fists upon chests at those words. The legacy of their name, the deeds of those that came before.

 

“I, Uhtric Vildr, Son of Brand, Son of Aelf, Son of Rune, Son of Edric, the Slayer of the Witch, will take us home. That is where we belong, where we are needed.”

 

The thundering rises.

 

“And there, we will remind the Darkspawn why they fear this Hammer.”

 

 

[Qaz_The_Great 1394]

Ægir raises his cup to the newly returned Chieftian.

 

     "May the Allfather guide the Clan Vildr to glory!"

[ichigomaster98 966]

Smiles the Sun's smile.