Warrior, hirdman, Einhärj, hero...
Follower, cobbler, coward, dog...
Eyes aglow with the gloom of dying hope, hope for childish insubordination to triumph, for obstinate disregard of any and all mortal masters, for a stoic shield wall against any and all oppressors. Yet there was nothing. No crack of thunder to split the sky, no sign from the gods that the better man had finally made the better choice.
From the God of silence came only silence, a mission far greater than any vain attempt at insurrection and revolt. A truth that, once it dawned on Are, was harder to swallow than anything to that very day; the last day, the day before all he had worked for could be undone due to apathy and pride. Who was he to put his own goals above those that ruled life and death?
No, he was just a cobbler. A cobbler that without a word gazed upon the decree, scribbled with names, a seemingly never ending list, names ranging from barely legible to the most elegant scriptures decorated the vellum. The small empty space teasing him, edging him on to do what was brash, what came naturally to the stubborn cobbler. To resist and bite, and to never lay down the spear.
The pen hovered above the empty space as the cobbler felt the wings of the ravens already fading away, leaving with messages of a coward selling one's soul, of a better man putting his own will at rest in favor of the greater good.
Acolyte, pupil, husband, better man...
ᛅᚱᛁ•ᚢᚬᚱᛘᛋ•ᛋᚬᚾ•ᛅᚢ•ᛅᚱᚬᛋ
Are, Jorm's son, of Aros. 23. Accepted.
Follower, cobbler, coward, dog...
Eyes aglow with the gloom of dying hope, hope for childish insubordination to triumph, for obstinate disregard of any and all mortal masters, for a stoic shield wall against any and all oppressors. Yet there was nothing. No crack of thunder to split the sky, no sign from the gods that the better man had finally made the better choice.
From the God of silence came only silence, a mission far greater than any vain attempt at insurrection and revolt. A truth that, once it dawned on Are, was harder to swallow than anything to that very day; the last day, the day before all he had worked for could be undone due to apathy and pride. Who was he to put his own goals above those that ruled life and death?
No, he was just a cobbler. A cobbler that without a word gazed upon the decree, scribbled with names, a seemingly never ending list, names ranging from barely legible to the most elegant scriptures decorated the vellum. The small empty space teasing him, edging him on to do what was brash, what came naturally to the stubborn cobbler. To resist and bite, and to never lay down the spear.
The pen hovered above the empty space as the cobbler felt the wings of the ravens already fading away, leaving with messages of a coward selling one's soul, of a better man putting his own will at rest in favor of the greater good.
Acolyte, pupil, husband, better man...
ᛅᚱᛁ•ᚢᚬᚱᛘᛋ•ᛋᚬᚾ•ᛅᚢ•ᛅᚱᚬᛋ
Are, Jorm's son, of Aros. 23. Accepted.
