Helayne Ilirum She’d left the sanctuary of the Wilds hours ago, and with each heavy step of the horse beneath her she dreaded it more and more. It was not Valthira, with its cold snowy peaks and hidden warm valleys, but it had become a home in a way. Too soon the heavy canopy of trees gave way to the worn roadways of man and stench of the city. Sweat, smoke and piss. The salt of the sea far beyond. The sight of the boats and their heavy sails bobbing in the harbor a marvel. There was nothing like it where she’d grown up, tucked high in the mountains. She’d learned to swim in the hot springs and in the darkness of caves, but it was nothing like what she’d first seen here. Freya’s ears lashed back and forth, her nostrils quivering as she breathed in the strange scents. Hel laid a calloused hand against her dappled neck to try and settle her, but she tended to agree. It was the noise that unsettled her the most. In the mountains everything was careful whispers to avoid the mountain's wrathful avalanches and practiced steps to avoid ice fissures in the glacier. Here voices were loud, even from outside the gates, she could hear them bartering, laughing, and yelling. Begrudgingly, she made her way towards the gate house. The guards hardly seemed to notice a single soul. The market opened up before her, stands of every size and possibility lined the crowded roadway. She slipped down from the saddle, taking hold of the reins she maneuvered them through the thickest part of the crowd towards a familiar stand. She could see the heavy plumes of smoke curling above its thatched roof. The sight of it brought a small smile to her lips. That was until she heard the shouting. ”Oi, you try and cheat me again I’ll be quenching my next blade in your guts!” Helayne watched as Halfdan, even at his old bent age, whipped out a large dagger from his sleeve and pointed it towards his offender, his peg leg giving him no trouble as he lunged forward. The man was well dressed, his attire adorned and jeweled. His hair was clean, his hands soft. Most likely someone with enough status that shouldn’t be so directly threatened. She came up behind him, shoving her own blade into his ribcage. ”You heard the man, pay what you owe and move along.” With a fluster he did as he was told and hurried along down the road. Laughing, she looked over at Halfdan who gave her a stern look with his one good eye. It quickly slipped into a smile as he reached for her, his strong arms nearly breaking her in half with his embrace. Her own was just as fierce. This old man was all she had left of home. He had been her father’s closest friend. He had missed the slaughter traveling to places like this. Selling his wares and collecting more supplies for their small village. There wasn’t a memory of her childhood that didn't have him in it, watching over her and her brothers with her father gone. "It’s been awhile lass, you doing alright out there?' She could tell he was trying to hide the concern in his normally gruff and hoarse voice. "I’m fine, Halfdan," she smiled gently, tying the mare close by as she came to sit beside him. ”I’ve just come to sell my hides and to see what you know… Are you missing another finger or have you always not had that one?” She teased, reaching out to grab his hand and what fingers he had left. ”What kind of blacksmith will you be without fingers?” She laughed, letting him pull his hand away from her with mock irritation. ”Oh, I could use that stubborn hard head of yours, aye?” his big smile had her laughing again. His manner changed though, his one clear eye downcast, his hands wringing in his lap. ”There is something…” He reached under the counter and pulled out a small satchel. It was worn and weathered, but she recognized the symbols on it at once. ”What? How?” Opening it she could still smell the herbs her mother used to carry inside it. Her small journal was there, faded and worn. She was almost afraid to touch it. Holding the small leatherbound book in her hands she flipped through the pages to find her mother’s familiar handwriting. Notes on herbs and their uses, different remedies she was trying for a variety of ailments. A love note, hidden in the unused pages from her father to her mother. She’d never met him, but she knew his writing the moment she saw it. Tears stung at her eyes as she looked back up at Halfdan. His face was softer than she’d ever seen it. ”Aye, I know… Some have made it back… None of your kin I’m sad to say, but some names you’d know.” She could hardly believe what she was hearing, her body felt cold all over. ”I have been sending what I can, I’m too old to go back now. There is more though...” He handed her a very official looking letter with her father and her eldest brother’s names written there… There was no hesitation as she opened it, reading the contents of the letter. A draft. They were calling her dead father and brother to fight a war. Hel sat frozen for a moment. A humming current seemed to be boiling her blood, buzzing in her brain, thundering in her heart. She could taste her lightning on her tongue, threatening to strike everything around her.  How could they? How could they ask this of her family, the ones they failed to protect, the one’s they had failed to save. An entire village, hundreds of years, thousands of generations bled out and ended in the snow. This countries leaders were so shallow she believed they’d command the dead to serve if it were possible though. She looked at Halfdan with a burning rage. ”I’ll be back for the supplies.” It was all she could manage to say. Before he could speak or reach for her, she was astride the mare and racing through the city blindly, ignoring the angry shouts from those she nearly trampled. ooc: this is ridiculous and long, so sorry, this won’t happen again lmao open for whoever!

art by annteya

The Ranger

A harmless man is not a good man. A good man is a very, very dangerous man who has it under voluntary control.

The hood rode high and low over his brow, shadowing his countenance from the eager light of the summer's day. It was warm and bright, all of the things wasted and wanting upon the city streets. Here, the unease and the tension hung the heaviest. People rushed to and fro, disregard given plainly to the neighbors they crossed paths with. Of this, he was used to in the swollen crowds that accented the walk ways and the cobbled roads. Wagons roared their own paths, the rattle of goods and dishes, the mournful sound of folk uprooting the entirety of their lives in the name of the draft posted all over akin to the flapping leathers of the flags they flew proudly from their spires and citadels. Dark eyes would wander up the sturdy basin of a watch tower. The battlements were already littered with guardsmen, and shouts could be heard from the training yard some few yards away. Farmers. Squires. High borne. He considered just how well any of them would fare, though in the end, he supposed he cared not. It was difficult to form an attachment or interest in the lives of those around him when he so infrequently graced civilizations with the shadow of his presence. Let alone when they were so starved for conflict that they would set a whip at the backs of their people. That was always how it was with wars. People that had no stake in the spoils were always called upon to serve as a means to an end. Their blood would indulge the roots of the trees, nourish the ferns and make fodder for the fungi. It would stain the soil and draw about fiends that were not unlike the vampiric ilk. Some things were worse than they. True demons of ancient origin, great and horrible in their nature. Gateways sealed were better left that way, and yet death was ever eager to open the rifts. Should the whispered stories of his father be believed. It was all inherit of their curse, he had claimed. Westir had been raised in the wilds, trained from the tie he could first recollect how to recognize the signs and warnings. 'Though it was on different land, the rifts and those abominations within it can crawl anywhere.' He would instruct, often times while fletching his arrows or oiling the sheathe of his blade. The sound of him drawing it was just as deeply engrained upon the mind of the boy now grown. 'When it happens. You cannot flee. Just as I could not flee. We must face it. We must fulfill our oath, Baradion. None of us will rest until the pact is fulfilled. It may not be you, but your blood. Our blood.' He didn't know if it was the faint feeling of the whispers nipping the nape of his neck in reminder of his old man's mad ramblings, or if it was the disgruntled cry and shout of those at his back that drew his attention, but he soon became acutely aware of his surroundings. Of the thundering of hooves rapidly approaching. He barely sidestepped in enough time to avoid being trampled by the dappled blur. A sharp, piercing whistle left him, lips peeled from teeth. A thief, perhaps, given the quick and careless pace, or perhaps something had happened to the rider that he had only caught a glimpse of. Regardless of the mounted person's interests, it wasn't necessarily them he sought the attention of, but rather that of the horse itself. A means to halt the rampage before someone got hurt - if they hadn't already.

I am not a good man - nor am I harmless

Helayne Ilirum The mare thundered beneath her, her foul temper coming out in deep trumpeting bellows as she made her way down the cobbled path. Despite the crowd and quick turns, the mare gained speed easily, her strides lengthening, eating up the ground beneath her. Helayne held her seat like she’d been born atop her. A woman mad with pain, grief, and almost all consuming rage. She could hear her pulse thundering in her own ears, drowning out the cries of those she nearly trampled in her path. The lightning that lingered just beneath her skin dangerously close to burning. A frightening urge to let it go pushed its way to the front. Somewhere deep within she knew she should care about the mayhem she was causing, but all she could manage to do was run from the memories threatening to overtake her. She could feel them on her heels like a specter, familiar dead faces with glassy eyes looking up at her from the blood soaked snow. She nearly gasped at the image, but before she could dwell on it a shrill whistle broke her concentration. It suddenly brought everything into focus. Freya balked beneath her at the shift of her rider’s weight, her dark ears swiveling to the sound. She turned to find its maker, a tall man, his face and features concealed in the shadows of his hood. The mare tossed her head, eager to continue her mad dash, but Hel reined her in, her eyes never leaving the stranger before her. Sudden realization dawned on her as she peered around at angry faces passing her by. Never one to lose control, she felt the heat of shame and anger paint her tan face. Heimdall’s voice echoed his annoyance in her head, this was not the careful hunter he had trained. Her gaze found the stranger again, sliding down from the mare’s back, she shook her head again. ”I’m sorry.. I never.. I…” She tried to find the words, but nothing seemed to make sense anymore. Nothing that she could say that would make sense to a stranger at least. ”Are you hurt?” wincing she moved towards him, as though she may be able to help in some way. Her hand hovered as though that pulsing electricity may still snap between them, her other still gripping the letter. ooc: I am so sorry for how long this took me :c

art by annteya