Are
Black somehow seemed fitting. At first he didn't even know why he'd got it, but as the iron fist slowly closed in it became apparent the finer garment would find it's place after all. At least it wasn't a funeral, although it was for the dead he wore his inky garb, just not the ones he got it for. Paired with all black leather he felt like an ominous pale-faced raven sweeping in on Leafchange winds to ask permission instead of forgiveness for once. He stood before the doors to the bear's den and found himself hesitating, closed fist hovering an inch from the polished door as if waiting for a sign that never came.
A quick rap on the door, a sigh and a moment of patience was rewarded with a a stiff greeting answered with a curt bow and a statement of name and business. Gone was the usual cheery voice carrying the Northwind's gale, in it's stead was the hollow whisper of a better man. One set aside his childish notions of justice in place for a devotion to a greater good, a quest from above demanding a loyal servant.
His body followed the doorman through the lavishly decorated halls and into a grand hall that should had had Are's jaw by his knees, but he was not wholly there. No the shoewarrior was in his mind still defiantly fending off the final assault of all that opposed his goals, a stoic hero on his way to victory, and a heroes death, to finally be lifted to the halls by the hands of Valkyries and to take a seat earned.
A moment went by and his body halted before the one he had came to see. It offered a deep, but stiff bow and from his mouth resounded a flat voice of a harsh dialect. "Heil ok sæl, your grace Zariah de Launcelyn, Queen of the Hollowed grounds. I am Are, son of Jorm, hailing from Aros of Midgård." Are said, careful to not let his voice dip or stutter. Cold and steady as the glacier, and growing in power as his mind seeped back into his body, taking in what was instead of dwelling on what could had been.
A quick rap on the door, a sigh and a moment of patience was rewarded with a a stiff greeting answered with a curt bow and a statement of name and business. Gone was the usual cheery voice carrying the Northwind's gale, in it's stead was the hollow whisper of a better man. One set aside his childish notions of justice in place for a devotion to a greater good, a quest from above demanding a loyal servant.
His body followed the doorman through the lavishly decorated halls and into a grand hall that should had had Are's jaw by his knees, but he was not wholly there. No the shoewarrior was in his mind still defiantly fending off the final assault of all that opposed his goals, a stoic hero on his way to victory, and a heroes death, to finally be lifted to the halls by the hands of Valkyries and to take a seat earned.
A moment went by and his body halted before the one he had came to see. It offered a deep, but stiff bow and from his mouth resounded a flat voice of a harsh dialect. "Heil ok sæl, your grace Zariah de Launcelyn, Queen of the Hollowed grounds. I am Are, son of Jorm, hailing from Aros of Midgård." Are said, careful to not let his voice dip or stutter. Cold and steady as the glacier, and growing in power as his mind seeped back into his body, taking in what was instead of dwelling on what could had been.
