Author Topic: Assorted tales of Godric Warbornsson  (Read 5645 times)

BarticaBoat

  • Noble Lord
  • ***
  • Posts: 231
    • View Profile
Assorted tales of Godric Warbornsson
« Topic Start: July 31, 2016, 10:35:53 PM »
The battle raged for quite some time. As the sun rose the foggy plains of Aeng became awash in blood and the screams of men whose days were to be short. The day was notable for the relatively clear skies, though any local would know by midday the clouds would return and leave these lands grey and bleak. At this time one could see the distant forests of Noritor and Enubec. The meandering rivers, swamps, and plains of Aeng offered the feeling of a land but tenuously part of the continent, at any moment able to be consumed by the plentiful waters.

The silence in Aeng is oppressive. Even as his cavalry charged the rebel lines Godric could barely hear the thunder of hooves. It was to be unnerving to his foe, then, for the horsemen were visible through the burning fog but the sound did not arrive until their eyes burned into their foes, hooting and screaming as axes flew and they crashed through the frontline men-at-arms. Godric Warbornsson saw his prey, King Starfall.

As he let loose his axe into their lines and drew his pike, Godric felt him. His armour was unmistakable, but the vita of the men was what truly betrayed them. The guard clustered to protect their lord, Starfall himself claimed to be an archer more than footman, their energies betrayed them. And Godric could feel himself feeding from it. The whispers of an Old God penetrate the fog.

He encountered what could be lazily described as a calm, but more akin to a stillness or emptiness or nothingness. In the moment Godric could feel all the vita of the battlefield, his own vita feeding and oppressing everything around him. His eyes met Starfall's and Godric knew him as if they were brothers, the oppressing stillness of Aeng letting him feel through him. The moment lasted less than a second but it felt a lifetime.

Godric snaps his attention forward as his horse is gored by a rebel spear, his own pike having found the gut of another man, and the cracking ribs of the other man his horse has just trampled. He is half thrown and half manages to aim himself away from flying directly into the mass of rebels, drawing his axe and snarling as he cuts down a man and withdraws to safety. His men retreat to protect their lord.

Godric does not know his father well. Most of his education has been from Toren tutors and opportunities to be alone with his father are scant. He is dark and scary. The Old Toren cuts another slice from his apple and stabs the dagger into the table to draw runes.

"Your thralls. They will call existence líf, or if pious, fjör. To you those words are līf and feorh."

Godric begins to speak but catches himself. His father snorts.

"I know. Līf is life and feorh is where food comes from. But in our old tongue, these words are liba and fehrwo. Liba is líf is līf. But fehrwo is the nourishing tree. A lesser god than Tor. And you can listen to it and as a servant of Tor make the tree kneel and feel the nourishment of all things. Not in your belly but in your heart."

The runes are slowly carved. Godric ponders his father's words intently.

"And this," Warborn Tórrarin points to a final word, "this is libjana. In the old tongue it means to live, but it also meant to cling or persist. Do not forget that. Toren do not die, we endure.