Are
Tales of warriors from Miklagård reverberated in his mind as the not-dead man donned the black that had come to symbolize his yoke. Stories of great men covering their faces as to show no fear, no remorse, and no weakness. Black linen, hung over a pale visage left hollow by yet another issue left festering. A warrior hiding the face of his weakness to pay proper respects to gods and mortals alike.
A black ship with black sails set out on a seemingly perilous journey, not because of the seas, but the state of the limping vessel that traveled them. An imposing figure left shuffling out of his self-imposed prison as the nights drew ever colder. Wading through projects left half-finished and a yard in as haggard a state as their supposed caretaker. Not a single straight stitch in weeks, and not a single good product in months. What little goodwill had been earned in trickles here and there had been paid in full. At first the visitors had been many. Neighbors, customers, even a few surly farmers left wondering why the cobbler hadn't been coming around like he ought to.
Each question left with an answer most disappointing, if left with any answer at all.
Still, the man had managed a meager offering for where he stumbled. Handiwork a mere shadow of what hi knew he was capable of, yet it had taken every ounce of perseverance to see it through. It was this silly little excuse of a lantern he held in shaking, gloved hands. Silent as a ghost, a shell of a man, he passed the people gathered. A festival by all means, and one he so wished could bring a little closure.
"Closure." Are whispered as he dragged himself over to the tree, stopping just short to for one last time try to find words to color what the crooked lantern represented.
Closure, death of what was. A world left behind, a man dead in all but body, but that was soon to come if his aching bones where to be trusted. Pale greenwood coaxed into a frame upon which taught hide was nailed. A square of nearly opaque, thin hide covering the flickering light inside. Crooked runes painted with care adorning the whole pitiful creation, every stroke of the brush placed with intent so lost in the misty depths of an addled mind left mute for just a moment too long.
"For Are, may he dine with the gods."
A black ship with black sails set out on a seemingly perilous journey, not because of the seas, but the state of the limping vessel that traveled them. An imposing figure left shuffling out of his self-imposed prison as the nights drew ever colder. Wading through projects left half-finished and a yard in as haggard a state as their supposed caretaker. Not a single straight stitch in weeks, and not a single good product in months. What little goodwill had been earned in trickles here and there had been paid in full. At first the visitors had been many. Neighbors, customers, even a few surly farmers left wondering why the cobbler hadn't been coming around like he ought to.
Each question left with an answer most disappointing, if left with any answer at all.
Still, the man had managed a meager offering for where he stumbled. Handiwork a mere shadow of what hi knew he was capable of, yet it had taken every ounce of perseverance to see it through. It was this silly little excuse of a lantern he held in shaking, gloved hands. Silent as a ghost, a shell of a man, he passed the people gathered. A festival by all means, and one he so wished could bring a little closure.
"Closure." Are whispered as he dragged himself over to the tree, stopping just short to for one last time try to find words to color what the crooked lantern represented.
Closure, death of what was. A world left behind, a man dead in all but body, but that was soon to come if his aching bones where to be trusted. Pale greenwood coaxed into a frame upon which taught hide was nailed. A square of nearly opaque, thin hide covering the flickering light inside. Crooked runes painted with care adorning the whole pitiful creation, every stroke of the brush placed with intent so lost in the misty depths of an addled mind left mute for just a moment too long.
"For Are, may he dine with the gods."
