Mountainwanderer
Member
- Messages
- 9
The journey from the Astenvale Monastery to the Spine, the land of his forebears and the place he had once called home, was an arduous one. The woods at the base of his rugged homelands were full of Orchish tribes, and only few of these were welcoming to a Goliath such as he.
Taking care of the paths he chose, and keeping to areas with vegetation so dense and trees so ancient that even his large frame could be hidden by them, he had made it through unaccosted. As much as he relished the fight, he was no fool, and he knew these tribes would be more than a match for him alone. Besides which, he couldn't help but be distracted by the thought of home, or the feeling of having a home.
Mountainwanderer had always been nomadic, even more so than is common for his people. Never content with staying in one place he was always out travelling the world and seeing what battles he could have there. It's what caused him to seek out his lifestyle as a mercenary in the first place, the promise of travel, and of enemies to conquer.
Yet now, things were different, his wanderlust had abated and he could not ignore the insatiable urge to return. He thought of the last job he had taken, and the artefact he had to recover from atop a mountain, far away. Originally he had thought that it was the sight of the mountains themselves, the feel of the cold air as he stood at the summit, that had led to his homeward trek but after thinking of it, perhaps that was not the case. He had crossed mountains many times since he had left and while he appreciated their beauty more than some of the comrades he had travelled with, none, not even the most spectacular, had caused such feelings to stir as they stirred now. Perhaps it was the artefact that had caused it? He had thought it just another useless trinket; a crutch that other species are so want to have and to need, and had barely considered its purpose, however perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps….
He was snapped out of contemplatory state by the sound of a twig snapping in the undergrowth, somewhere out ahead. He stopped, dead still, and listened. Had he been discovered? He tightened his grip on the handle of his axe and looked around, scanning for any indication of life and hostility among the foliage. After a long moment, he concluded all was clear and that the source of the sound had been nothing but an animal. He continued to make his way forward, now careful not to let his mind wander when his body ought to be doing so.
After reaching the base of the mountains, he began his ascent. Off the tracks as he was, he took his directional cues from subtle differences in the rocks, the shapes of the crevice, and the feel of the air. His journey took several days, climbing near vertical cliffs and spending time sleeping on ridges above sheer drops to the valleys below. Eventually, Mountainwanderer began to enter the area that his tribe called their home.
Immediately, he sensed something was wrong and drawing his axe, almost on instinct, he approached a camp in the distance. The smell of blood seemed to thicken as the air seemed to thin, and the air that remained was stale, almost choking him as its mustiness forced its way through his lungs. As he drew closer to the camp, he saw that it had been raided. Tents lay flattened and items were strewn carelessly about the place. The twisted and bloody remains of his kin, left where they fell, weapon still to hand, assailed his senses and attacked his sensibilities. Among them he saw his parents, both proud warriors, strong and fearless, now lying lifeless among the ruins of the camp. Upon seeing them he sank to his knees, his legs withering beneath him, and let out a howl, visceral and guttural, one of pure rage and grief, as if to let the gods themself know that warriors now resided among them. The scream echoed and reverberated across the great peaks, their great height carrying it farther and farther, and the sound carried on long after he had ceased to make it, diminishing with every passing second.
Suddenly, a movement. Jumping back to his feet, axe at the ready, he stood ready to face down whoever had done this, whether he was destined to win or not mattered little to him now. Mountainwanderer would avenge his tribe or die alongside them. Looking around with ferocity, he could see no enemy, none who could dare stand up to the might of a goliath.
More movement, this time within his line of sight, what he had thought was a body of the slain was a survivor, bloodied and clinging to life. He ran over and knelt by the broken form of his tribesman and with a barely constrained rage spat the words.
“Who did this?”
No reply was forthcoming, but the stricken looked at him, and in his eyes Mountainwanderer saw something he had never seen in the eyes of his kin, fear. Again he asked the question, louder this time.
“WHO!”
The stricken did not speak, instead he handed him a broken off talisman and placed it heavily in his hand. A metal disk and on it was a symbol of a bear on its hind legs with a sword in its belly. Closing his great hands upon it. He clasped it so tight that blood began to seep through his fingers, steam emanating off it in the frigid mountain air. He turned to again speak to the fallen warrior, seeing his life slip away before him. With his spare hand he grasped the warrior's weapon hand, and looked upon him with white hot intensity.
“I shall avenge you,” Mountainwanderer spoke now in a hushed tone, spitting words through gritted teeth. “I shall avenge you all,”
With that the last vestiges of life left his tribeman, and his hand sunk back to the ground, limp and lifeless. After what was just a moment, but what felt like an age to him, Mountainwanderer rose to his feet. Moving to where his parents now lay, he took their weapons for his own, feeling an attachment to them he had never felt to any weapon he had slain with before, and purposely strode back down the mountain to seek those responsible.
Taking care of the paths he chose, and keeping to areas with vegetation so dense and trees so ancient that even his large frame could be hidden by them, he had made it through unaccosted. As much as he relished the fight, he was no fool, and he knew these tribes would be more than a match for him alone. Besides which, he couldn't help but be distracted by the thought of home, or the feeling of having a home.
Mountainwanderer had always been nomadic, even more so than is common for his people. Never content with staying in one place he was always out travelling the world and seeing what battles he could have there. It's what caused him to seek out his lifestyle as a mercenary in the first place, the promise of travel, and of enemies to conquer.
Yet now, things were different, his wanderlust had abated and he could not ignore the insatiable urge to return. He thought of the last job he had taken, and the artefact he had to recover from atop a mountain, far away. Originally he had thought that it was the sight of the mountains themselves, the feel of the cold air as he stood at the summit, that had led to his homeward trek but after thinking of it, perhaps that was not the case. He had crossed mountains many times since he had left and while he appreciated their beauty more than some of the comrades he had travelled with, none, not even the most spectacular, had caused such feelings to stir as they stirred now. Perhaps it was the artefact that had caused it? He had thought it just another useless trinket; a crutch that other species are so want to have and to need, and had barely considered its purpose, however perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps….
He was snapped out of contemplatory state by the sound of a twig snapping in the undergrowth, somewhere out ahead. He stopped, dead still, and listened. Had he been discovered? He tightened his grip on the handle of his axe and looked around, scanning for any indication of life and hostility among the foliage. After a long moment, he concluded all was clear and that the source of the sound had been nothing but an animal. He continued to make his way forward, now careful not to let his mind wander when his body ought to be doing so.
After reaching the base of the mountains, he began his ascent. Off the tracks as he was, he took his directional cues from subtle differences in the rocks, the shapes of the crevice, and the feel of the air. His journey took several days, climbing near vertical cliffs and spending time sleeping on ridges above sheer drops to the valleys below. Eventually, Mountainwanderer began to enter the area that his tribe called their home.
Immediately, he sensed something was wrong and drawing his axe, almost on instinct, he approached a camp in the distance. The smell of blood seemed to thicken as the air seemed to thin, and the air that remained was stale, almost choking him as its mustiness forced its way through his lungs. As he drew closer to the camp, he saw that it had been raided. Tents lay flattened and items were strewn carelessly about the place. The twisted and bloody remains of his kin, left where they fell, weapon still to hand, assailed his senses and attacked his sensibilities. Among them he saw his parents, both proud warriors, strong and fearless, now lying lifeless among the ruins of the camp. Upon seeing them he sank to his knees, his legs withering beneath him, and let out a howl, visceral and guttural, one of pure rage and grief, as if to let the gods themself know that warriors now resided among them. The scream echoed and reverberated across the great peaks, their great height carrying it farther and farther, and the sound carried on long after he had ceased to make it, diminishing with every passing second.
Suddenly, a movement. Jumping back to his feet, axe at the ready, he stood ready to face down whoever had done this, whether he was destined to win or not mattered little to him now. Mountainwanderer would avenge his tribe or die alongside them. Looking around with ferocity, he could see no enemy, none who could dare stand up to the might of a goliath.
More movement, this time within his line of sight, what he had thought was a body of the slain was a survivor, bloodied and clinging to life. He ran over and knelt by the broken form of his tribesman and with a barely constrained rage spat the words.
“Who did this?”
No reply was forthcoming, but the stricken looked at him, and in his eyes Mountainwanderer saw something he had never seen in the eyes of his kin, fear. Again he asked the question, louder this time.
“WHO!”
The stricken did not speak, instead he handed him a broken off talisman and placed it heavily in his hand. A metal disk and on it was a symbol of a bear on its hind legs with a sword in its belly. Closing his great hands upon it. He clasped it so tight that blood began to seep through his fingers, steam emanating off it in the frigid mountain air. He turned to again speak to the fallen warrior, seeing his life slip away before him. With his spare hand he grasped the warrior's weapon hand, and looked upon him with white hot intensity.
“I shall avenge you,” Mountainwanderer spoke now in a hushed tone, spitting words through gritted teeth. “I shall avenge you all,”
With that the last vestiges of life left his tribeman, and his hand sunk back to the ground, limp and lifeless. After what was just a moment, but what felt like an age to him, Mountainwanderer rose to his feet. Moving to where his parents now lay, he took their weapons for his own, feeling an attachment to them he had never felt to any weapon he had slain with before, and purposely strode back down the mountain to seek those responsible.
