09-21-2012, 06:25 PM
The caves were quiet, Einarr had not seen it, but he knew that it was night outside,. The breeze that wafted through the halls was a little cooler, a little more damp. Summer was ending and giving way to a cool autumnr, which would only be short and then winter would hold the land in its thrall once more. Perhaps it was lucky he’d found a home when he had, but why here? Einarr was still not sure, but then why not? The grey wolf, only three summers old, was grizzled, his body criss-cross with scars, some visible, some not so clear. He had seen the grey in his own muzzle and hadn’t been shocked, he couldn’t even remember when it had appeared, it wasn’t important anyway. Einarr knew that when many looked at him they only saw an old wolf, but under-estimation was a fine weapon. He could still move like a phantom and his reflexes were quick, but war had aged his spirit and his body.
The tactician knew he was once again indulging his melancholy, but there was no one here and he was tired, so he saw no reason why he should not. He was tired, he wanted to sleep, but it seemed that every time he closed his eyes he heard the sounds of those lost, and smelt the blood that had been shed. Never would he forget using the corpses of companions as a bridge to escape an impossible force. He wouldn’t be a warrior here, he wasn’t sure what he would do, but he would not fight. Of course the sentiment was easy to fix in his mind, but he had chosen to sit in the training rooms. Practise dummies before him and weapons discarded against the walls, but he would not fight, that almost brought a smirk to his lips.
Some might have thought it sad that he derived comfort from being in a place of combat, but it’s all he had known for two years, and doubtless there were those who had known conflict for far longer, but those years had stretched out like twin eternities. So now Einarr sat, the enormous and well-muscled Secui remaining silent, listening to the sound of his breathing and the strange sounds of his new home, sitting with his memories and his nightmares and pondering if this new present would last.
The tactician knew he was once again indulging his melancholy, but there was no one here and he was tired, so he saw no reason why he should not. He was tired, he wanted to sleep, but it seemed that every time he closed his eyes he heard the sounds of those lost, and smelt the blood that had been shed. Never would he forget using the corpses of companions as a bridge to escape an impossible force. He wouldn’t be a warrior here, he wasn’t sure what he would do, but he would not fight. Of course the sentiment was easy to fix in his mind, but he had chosen to sit in the training rooms. Practise dummies before him and weapons discarded against the walls, but he would not fight, that almost brought a smirk to his lips.
Some might have thought it sad that he derived comfort from being in a place of combat, but it’s all he had known for two years, and doubtless there were those who had known conflict for far longer, but those years had stretched out like twin eternities. So now Einarr sat, the enormous and well-muscled Secui remaining silent, listening to the sound of his breathing and the strange sounds of his new home, sitting with his memories and his nightmares and pondering if this new present would last.