Post by Requiem on Nov 12, 2012 8:11:04 GMT -5
Stepping out of the inn, into the shadows proved just as disorienting as ever for Girard. While the soothing, distorted reflection of the world he knew set the howls at ease until all that remained of them was his own humming of the melody of lose. What had set off the ghostly howling, wondered the minstrel.
The Skald believed you could be so much more.
The familiar, feminine silhouette formed from the shadowstuff surrounding him, drawing his incandescent green gaze to the presence. Girard knew his eyes were set only upon the shaped visage of a shade whose will was held by the entity that held his pact. Where once he'd foolishly prodded as the shadowstuff composing the sight, these days the minstrel knew better.
“And now he's dead.”
How easy to be more than a dead man. He remembered the man well, Oyvind , the Skald, had taken an interest in him upon his arrival in the frozen tundra the warrior-bard and his tribe called home. The first land he'd come upon as a young wanderer, north from his father's dying and delusion barony. A sigh of exasperation played the part of the reply given to his the presence that was as much real as it was illusion. Recollection came in the wake of his sigh, leading to distraction from the shade.
“The strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack. “
Why this old lesson if not due to his choice to join the Obsidian Heart? If not that the shade before him was in part a facet of himself he’d have been quick to wonder how this would benefit the dark. The facts before him made it obvious that the reward and risk of it was without question whether he sought the aid of some of his fellow adventurers in his own problems or choose to go it alone from within a group.
While a minstrel mulled over the answers that bred more questions for him the shade began to lose the influence of the entity that kept it at bay. Until the shadowy claws swiped his way, no recognition of the danger was to be had. Concentration broken Girard jumped back, barely out of reach. What an unpleasant way for the Nightsinger to say her farewells! Little choice in what to do next and nothing to press him into a pointless fight the minstrel chose to flee back to the well-lit material plane, only to be disappointed with the discovery of nightfall upon his return.
Unwilling to return to the Inne just yet Girard chose instead to wander the land surrounding the Obsidian Heart’s apparent headquarters. While the lesson of the wolf proved fresh in his mind, he sought the memories of the man who taught only a song and a single worthwhile lesson before falling in battle.
The man he knew as Oyvind , a man rather close in build to A’kana’s Northerner friend if with a more conversational demeanor, had brought to mind the stories of the triumvirate that had brought revolution to his country two centuries ago. Foolishly at the time he’d found it difficult to believe a barbarian could possibly be an intellectual, much less honorable. The warrior-skald had proved his preconceptions very wrong indeed.
Foolish as he had been, Oyvind held a little foolishness of his own. The skald possessed little in the way of guile, in fact he had found it difficult to deceive even his enemies. As with all those who would fight with honor, he fell to a scoundrel all too happy to slide a knife between his ribs. While others of Oyvind’s clan brought death to his killer, it was a fact the minstrel had learned after the fact.
“Guess I owe it to Oyvind; it is the only lesson he succeeded in passing on to me. “
But where to start.
The Skald believed you could be so much more.
The familiar, feminine silhouette formed from the shadowstuff surrounding him, drawing his incandescent green gaze to the presence. Girard knew his eyes were set only upon the shaped visage of a shade whose will was held by the entity that held his pact. Where once he'd foolishly prodded as the shadowstuff composing the sight, these days the minstrel knew better.
“And now he's dead.”
How easy to be more than a dead man. He remembered the man well, Oyvind , the Skald, had taken an interest in him upon his arrival in the frozen tundra the warrior-bard and his tribe called home. The first land he'd come upon as a young wanderer, north from his father's dying and delusion barony. A sigh of exasperation played the part of the reply given to his the presence that was as much real as it was illusion. Recollection came in the wake of his sigh, leading to distraction from the shade.
“The strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack. “
Why this old lesson if not due to his choice to join the Obsidian Heart? If not that the shade before him was in part a facet of himself he’d have been quick to wonder how this would benefit the dark. The facts before him made it obvious that the reward and risk of it was without question whether he sought the aid of some of his fellow adventurers in his own problems or choose to go it alone from within a group.
While a minstrel mulled over the answers that bred more questions for him the shade began to lose the influence of the entity that kept it at bay. Until the shadowy claws swiped his way, no recognition of the danger was to be had. Concentration broken Girard jumped back, barely out of reach. What an unpleasant way for the Nightsinger to say her farewells! Little choice in what to do next and nothing to press him into a pointless fight the minstrel chose to flee back to the well-lit material plane, only to be disappointed with the discovery of nightfall upon his return.
Unwilling to return to the Inne just yet Girard chose instead to wander the land surrounding the Obsidian Heart’s apparent headquarters. While the lesson of the wolf proved fresh in his mind, he sought the memories of the man who taught only a song and a single worthwhile lesson before falling in battle.
The man he knew as Oyvind , a man rather close in build to A’kana’s Northerner friend if with a more conversational demeanor, had brought to mind the stories of the triumvirate that had brought revolution to his country two centuries ago. Foolishly at the time he’d found it difficult to believe a barbarian could possibly be an intellectual, much less honorable. The warrior-skald had proved his preconceptions very wrong indeed.
Foolish as he had been, Oyvind held a little foolishness of his own. The skald possessed little in the way of guile, in fact he had found it difficult to deceive even his enemies. As with all those who would fight with honor, he fell to a scoundrel all too happy to slide a knife between his ribs. While others of Oyvind’s clan brought death to his killer, it was a fact the minstrel had learned after the fact.
“Guess I owe it to Oyvind; it is the only lesson he succeeded in passing on to me. “
But where to start.
