Pulling his furs closer around himself, Sumar reflected on the strange path his life has taken.
He was not like the others outside his clan, fearful of magic and the danger it brought in years past. Growing up with the ancient stories, when men wielded the power of gods, he learned early on the need for careful control and training. Born with the spark of talent that identified him as a shaman he had a far different path in life ahead of him than he realized. He tried applying himself to the studies and intense practice the elder shamans demanded. He learned of magical aura, the defining Arche, and even components to powerful spells. Like most of his tribe, Sumar was an aggressive youth, wanting to prove himself in strength and endurance. He was a blunt fellow, prone to approaching problems head on, rather than using deception or trickery. Eventually it was this straightforward nature that brought him to the choice. The elders allowed him the choice to abandon his studies and pursue something more suited to his basic attitude. With no resentment or anger in their eyes, the teachers he had lived with during his training, handed him a long, broad bladed greatsword wrapped in black fur. Your path is long young one, and do not expect to ignore the spark inside youuse it to make you strong, and the blessings of the tribe go with you.
His training began in earnest with the warriors of the village. At first they were wary of him, but he proved himself by devoting every ounce of energy into it. As if to atone for his perceived failure as a tribal shaman, he worked day and night to become the best at his chosen path. He excelled at swordsmanship besting even the greatest young warriors in contests of skill. He wielded the blade he was given as a gift, a finer blade than the axes of his friendswhich he grew to see as clumsy instruments, more suited for chopping trees than battle. His straightforward manner made a shield unnecessary and the village rang with his steel shearing through pells during practice. He hunted, learning the ways of the wilderness, augmenting his herbal knowledge with survival skills. He learned where to hunt, where to find shelter, and how to build a fire in harsh conditions. Alongside him he gained a staunch friend in another young warrior by the name of Yenadar. This youth was training as a tribal hunter, and warrior alongside Sumar. Alongside they would trek for days through the wilderness, living off the land and vying to prove themselves.
As was tradition since memory, young men in the clan would reach age and leave the village to go on a spirit questa time to prove themselves. They would confront the terrain and weather, the beasts of the northern wastes and the beasts inside themselves. Returning from such a quest victorious with stories to add to the oral tradition of the clan would be a time of great celebration. A warrior returning with the tokens of a fearsome beast, and a dangerous tale of adventure became a man, and could stand with the elders of the clan.
A grim smile came unbidden to Sumars lips as he looked down at the severed horn of a great frost beast tucked into his furs. Costing him much pain, and nearly his life.. it was worth everything, for he was now a man, and had redeemed himself from his failure as a shaman. Soon he would be home, and greeted by friends and family. Would Yenadar be there waiting for him, or still out in the cold wilderness he wondered briefly. Where had his quest taken him, and what stories will he have to tell?
Snow drifts rising up around his feet, and he begins moving quicker recognizing the area as the furthest edges of his tribes land. Soon, very soon he would be spotted by the warrior guards and they would inform the village. A feast would be prepared, like so many he had attended as a child celebration and joy, music and dance. Warmth coursed through him as he thought about the drums heralding his arrival. Any minute now they should start pounding in rhythmic joy.
The drumswhere are they? As accomplished as Sumar felt, he was not surprised at having not seen the warrior guards. They are very skilled at hiding and navigating the terrain, far more so than himself. They should have alerted the village by now though. Where they unhappy to see him return? Surely they would be proud of his accomplishment and not revile him for leaving his shaman training. Old fears sprung up inside, worse than any beast in the north. Part of his quest was confronting those fears though, and he had faced them head on. He knew he was a worthy warrior and that his former teachers respected his choice. His feelings of failure would not stop him or hold him back any longer. With a grim face he reached back to draw his massive gleaming blade, the Frostreaver. Only one thing could have stopped the drums from beating, and that is war.
Charging through the drifts of snow, it took him a moment to clear his eyes as he crested the hill to look down upon the village. The palisade surrounding it was shattered. Burned. Where he had left a village teaming with warriors, children and wives he returned to a black stain on the snow. Not even smoke lingered over the ash. A frozen mass of blackened timbers and fur nestled in a small valley, waiting for the world to cover it forever with a blanket of ice and snow.
They had tried to be discrete, to hide their tracks, but there were too many of them an arrowhead retrieved from a burned timber, a footprint turned to ice his peoples bodies heaped in the center of the village. Stacks of warriors bones mixed with their familiesthe small childrens bodies causing tears to form only to be frozen to his face. Teeth ground together in raw fury, hopelessness and anger radiated out from himand for a moment his eyes kindled in flame with his forgotten talent. Sheathing his blade, he began to arrange the bodies of his tribe in positions of honor, until the sun went down leaving him cold and alone.
Girding himself in furs and studded hides, grasping the Frostreaver in cold fingers he left the burial ground he once called home and began to walk.
He was not like the others outside his clan, fearful of magic and the danger it brought in years past. Growing up with the ancient stories, when men wielded the power of gods, he learned early on the need for careful control and training. Born with the spark of talent that identified him as a shaman he had a far different path in life ahead of him than he realized. He tried applying himself to the studies and intense practice the elder shamans demanded. He learned of magical aura, the defining Arche, and even components to powerful spells. Like most of his tribe, Sumar was an aggressive youth, wanting to prove himself in strength and endurance. He was a blunt fellow, prone to approaching problems head on, rather than using deception or trickery. Eventually it was this straightforward nature that brought him to the choice. The elders allowed him the choice to abandon his studies and pursue something more suited to his basic attitude. With no resentment or anger in their eyes, the teachers he had lived with during his training, handed him a long, broad bladed greatsword wrapped in black fur. Your path is long young one, and do not expect to ignore the spark inside youuse it to make you strong, and the blessings of the tribe go with you.
His training began in earnest with the warriors of the village. At first they were wary of him, but he proved himself by devoting every ounce of energy into it. As if to atone for his perceived failure as a tribal shaman, he worked day and night to become the best at his chosen path. He excelled at swordsmanship besting even the greatest young warriors in contests of skill. He wielded the blade he was given as a gift, a finer blade than the axes of his friendswhich he grew to see as clumsy instruments, more suited for chopping trees than battle. His straightforward manner made a shield unnecessary and the village rang with his steel shearing through pells during practice. He hunted, learning the ways of the wilderness, augmenting his herbal knowledge with survival skills. He learned where to hunt, where to find shelter, and how to build a fire in harsh conditions. Alongside him he gained a staunch friend in another young warrior by the name of Yenadar. This youth was training as a tribal hunter, and warrior alongside Sumar. Alongside they would trek for days through the wilderness, living off the land and vying to prove themselves.
As was tradition since memory, young men in the clan would reach age and leave the village to go on a spirit questa time to prove themselves. They would confront the terrain and weather, the beasts of the northern wastes and the beasts inside themselves. Returning from such a quest victorious with stories to add to the oral tradition of the clan would be a time of great celebration. A warrior returning with the tokens of a fearsome beast, and a dangerous tale of adventure became a man, and could stand with the elders of the clan.
A grim smile came unbidden to Sumars lips as he looked down at the severed horn of a great frost beast tucked into his furs. Costing him much pain, and nearly his life.. it was worth everything, for he was now a man, and had redeemed himself from his failure as a shaman. Soon he would be home, and greeted by friends and family. Would Yenadar be there waiting for him, or still out in the cold wilderness he wondered briefly. Where had his quest taken him, and what stories will he have to tell?
Snow drifts rising up around his feet, and he begins moving quicker recognizing the area as the furthest edges of his tribes land. Soon, very soon he would be spotted by the warrior guards and they would inform the village. A feast would be prepared, like so many he had attended as a child celebration and joy, music and dance. Warmth coursed through him as he thought about the drums heralding his arrival. Any minute now they should start pounding in rhythmic joy.
The drumswhere are they? As accomplished as Sumar felt, he was not surprised at having not seen the warrior guards. They are very skilled at hiding and navigating the terrain, far more so than himself. They should have alerted the village by now though. Where they unhappy to see him return? Surely they would be proud of his accomplishment and not revile him for leaving his shaman training. Old fears sprung up inside, worse than any beast in the north. Part of his quest was confronting those fears though, and he had faced them head on. He knew he was a worthy warrior and that his former teachers respected his choice. His feelings of failure would not stop him or hold him back any longer. With a grim face he reached back to draw his massive gleaming blade, the Frostreaver. Only one thing could have stopped the drums from beating, and that is war.
Charging through the drifts of snow, it took him a moment to clear his eyes as he crested the hill to look down upon the village. The palisade surrounding it was shattered. Burned. Where he had left a village teaming with warriors, children and wives he returned to a black stain on the snow. Not even smoke lingered over the ash. A frozen mass of blackened timbers and fur nestled in a small valley, waiting for the world to cover it forever with a blanket of ice and snow.
They had tried to be discrete, to hide their tracks, but there were too many of them an arrowhead retrieved from a burned timber, a footprint turned to ice his peoples bodies heaped in the center of the village. Stacks of warriors bones mixed with their familiesthe small childrens bodies causing tears to form only to be frozen to his face. Teeth ground together in raw fury, hopelessness and anger radiated out from himand for a moment his eyes kindled in flame with his forgotten talent. Sheathing his blade, he began to arrange the bodies of his tribe in positions of honor, until the sun went down leaving him cold and alone.
Girding himself in furs and studded hides, grasping the Frostreaver in cold fingers he left the burial ground he once called home and began to walk.
