There was a time when this place was a world of solace and comfort, adrift in a vast ocean of confusion and loss.
The weapon racks sat along the wall, naked and bare for the first time in a decade. Those racks had been the cradles for arms that would eventually lead armies, defend kings, and put ends to tyrants. Now they stood an empty and aging cradle, a reminder of children never to come home again.
The far corner, where Fenris would bed himself. That old hound had been a companion in years when no others would, and perhaps knew his master's heart better than any other. Had... had. Last winter's chill had proven too much for the fifteen year old wolfhound. At least in that, the old watchdog had not lived to see those he guarded killed.
Outside was the old forge that the master blacksmith had shared with his apprentices Jart and Erga, the grandsons of Benoria- the woman who had all but raised him after his mother was thought dead. No more would their hammers echo through the field. Nor would the smells of her cooking bring them home from the forge.
The small river ran along the edge of the valley. Some things were stronger than time itself. However, even that seemed changed in some way. Perhaps too many had fallen to their final deaths upstream for it ever to be calming to him again.
Once, this valley had been the only place in the world he could feel at home, the only place he could truly be at peace. Now, it felt more a graveyard, and the longhouse standing within it a mausoleum. It held the trapped memories of a lifetime now gone- memories so vivid that, if revisited, threatened to rise from their grave, choke out the future, and condemn one to an unending unlife of past days.
They had passed through Jagrild, the village of his birth, to get here. If any there had survived, they had already fled to the winds. Nothing living was found. Only bodies. So, so many bodies. As it was there, so it was in the river valley. Had some fled here, hoping the Warchief would be home and would rescue them? Failing that, had they hoped the arms and armors of the master smith would steel them against the foe? Both hopes had been false, their contorted and broken bodies lay discarded in murderous rampage as proof.
The longhouse that had once been home, had once been a place of comfort, offered only one remaining respite- to allow its owner the final stroke in ending a lifetime. within its walls were all that remained of a childhood as a Valiant One, a coming of age as an Adventurer and Warrior in a world foreign to him, and a successful career as Warchief and Hero of the tribe. And all within those walls would burn.
As the flames licked higher up the walls of the longhouse, his mind fancied sounds his reason knew were not there. The growl and snarl of the Bear. The laughing of a man consumed by fire, and his whispered command of "burn"... The mind is the most dangerous enemy a warrior will ever face, and without this act, it would have tried to return here.
Flames reached the roof as the sun set, and the Baron of Nordenn, one of the last of his race, turned to leave. There were other battles that needed to be fought, and for the safety of the Kingdom, he was needed elsewhere.
The weapon racks sat along the wall, naked and bare for the first time in a decade. Those racks had been the cradles for arms that would eventually lead armies, defend kings, and put ends to tyrants. Now they stood an empty and aging cradle, a reminder of children never to come home again.
The far corner, where Fenris would bed himself. That old hound had been a companion in years when no others would, and perhaps knew his master's heart better than any other. Had... had. Last winter's chill had proven too much for the fifteen year old wolfhound. At least in that, the old watchdog had not lived to see those he guarded killed.
Outside was the old forge that the master blacksmith had shared with his apprentices Jart and Erga, the grandsons of Benoria- the woman who had all but raised him after his mother was thought dead. No more would their hammers echo through the field. Nor would the smells of her cooking bring them home from the forge.
The small river ran along the edge of the valley. Some things were stronger than time itself. However, even that seemed changed in some way. Perhaps too many had fallen to their final deaths upstream for it ever to be calming to him again.
Once, this valley had been the only place in the world he could feel at home, the only place he could truly be at peace. Now, it felt more a graveyard, and the longhouse standing within it a mausoleum. It held the trapped memories of a lifetime now gone- memories so vivid that, if revisited, threatened to rise from their grave, choke out the future, and condemn one to an unending unlife of past days.
They had passed through Jagrild, the village of his birth, to get here. If any there had survived, they had already fled to the winds. Nothing living was found. Only bodies. So, so many bodies. As it was there, so it was in the river valley. Had some fled here, hoping the Warchief would be home and would rescue them? Failing that, had they hoped the arms and armors of the master smith would steel them against the foe? Both hopes had been false, their contorted and broken bodies lay discarded in murderous rampage as proof.
The longhouse that had once been home, had once been a place of comfort, offered only one remaining respite- to allow its owner the final stroke in ending a lifetime. within its walls were all that remained of a childhood as a Valiant One, a coming of age as an Adventurer and Warrior in a world foreign to him, and a successful career as Warchief and Hero of the tribe. And all within those walls would burn.
As the flames licked higher up the walls of the longhouse, his mind fancied sounds his reason knew were not there. The growl and snarl of the Bear. The laughing of a man consumed by fire, and his whispered command of "burn"... The mind is the most dangerous enemy a warrior will ever face, and without this act, it would have tried to return here.
Flames reached the roof as the sun set, and the Baron of Nordenn, one of the last of his race, turned to leave. There were other battles that needed to be fought, and for the safety of the Kingdom, he was needed elsewhere.