The Unforgiven
"Alfather, why hast thou forsaken me?"
Hrafn was a raven without a murder; punished, exiled, banished and relegated to oblivion. He was not a Skovgaard anymore, now he was a Serpentis, but an outlaw could not use the name without giving himself up to shame, so he was just Hrafn, the hunter or Hrafn, the princess’ slave. As a witcher, his life now was to travel alone accepting contracts to get rid of monsters and undeads without any glory associated with it. His services were paid in silver, bronze or food; the once abundant gold was now as rare as a bath. His black wings now ripped apart, his mind an empty, silent vessel. The elegant regalia he “borrowed†from Avamar were replaced by a battered armour covered with hardened leather straps. Instead of the turbans and prestigious ornaments of a ring-giver, now he had only a bronze bracelet and a necklace with a boar tusks and monsters claws. Maybe the only thing that would differentiate him from the peasants was the wolf’s hide over his shoulders, a sword and a thief’s hand swinging in his belt as a warning to those who crossed his path. His only protection was the intimidation, a dread first impression: so he must look like a Hell-Brute; a Corpse-Maker. Hrafn, the Shadow-Stalker.
His oath had been delivered in the most recent ruins of Oligarch, in the temple erected to the people of Xavax that had already been abandoned without the due care. There he knelt down and placed a silver goblet on a decayed altar stone, letting his blood pour from an open cut. He offered honey, a coloured feather, a rare woodland flower and left there a wooden statuette he had found along the way and carved himself into the voluptuous shapes of the Lady with fiery hair that burned his dreams. That was his offering and his oath. There he prayed for her as for a goddess and that was all he could do, because the shame still prohibited him to meet with her.
Behind Hrafn’s eyelids, Erik watched his little bastard in silence. Yes, he was there as he had always been. There was no shame for him to accompany his young crow in that ungrateful life, but it was only for him to overcome the fear, shame and guilt. He had fought a lost war against a nobler adversary. He had bet everything and had lost. Erik was not silent for Hrafn, but for Sigrid. She'd led his son along a path without return: the Silver Dragon wanted his compensation. Of course, Erik might just be a schizophrenic construct of a sick mind, but even so, when this construct was set to be Erik, he set out to be the best.
(The RP was set using the items in his inventory)
