12-30-2009, 03:18 AM
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O, to return to the blasted tundra.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much choice for Svartálfaheim. He had been told by the elders that he must leave, punishable by Odin, on a journey. They had neglected to give him any details at all, instead following vague lines of dialogue until he conceded with their wishes, but he was oddly suspicious nonetheless. It wasn't as if they had ever liked him much, and he could expatiate pages (to a scribe, for he knew nothing of reading or writing; the Volundr Fenrisúlfur had no use for it, and he was incapable of writing anyway) on the many signs he noticed amongst his white kin of unease in his presence. So he had black hair; so he had keen, sharp blue eyes.
But culture and tradition was enough to explain to him the reason behind everything. Long before he had ever left on his "journey", the sharp canine had accepted that he was being cast out, thrown remorselessly away from the religious Volundr under the guise of importance. Similarly he knew there was importance to him — he was Ásmundr, he was under divine protection from Odin himself and he was a puppet for the highest seat of Asgard — and that was what had assured his continued travel.
His paws now followed the snowy line of a broken and barren horizon with all his senses on high alert. He fully expected to find nothing of importance on this seemingly barren wasteland. The rising sun even seemed weak and watery, giving light but little heat to the heavy morning world, and there was a haze over the distance that made Ásmundr wonder what kind of place he had found himself in. To the south lay the ocean, cool and stormy blue today but deceitfully so, for it was tranquil and kind in low tide. And before the ocean, set like a gem into the cliffs, was the vague figure of a house.
That was the first indication that he had come across lands populated by Fenrisúlfur, and though it may have been false — a remnant from the human times, he had been told, their scattered existence often drawing the two-legged canids but not necessarily containing them — he was spurred onward nonetheless.
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O, to return to the blasted tundra.
Unfortunately, there wasn't much choice for Svartálfaheim. He had been told by the elders that he must leave, punishable by Odin, on a journey. They had neglected to give him any details at all, instead following vague lines of dialogue until he conceded with their wishes, but he was oddly suspicious nonetheless. It wasn't as if they had ever liked him much, and he could expatiate pages (to a scribe, for he knew nothing of reading or writing; the Volundr Fenrisúlfur had no use for it, and he was incapable of writing anyway) on the many signs he noticed amongst his white kin of unease in his presence. So he had black hair; so he had keen, sharp blue eyes.
But culture and tradition was enough to explain to him the reason behind everything. Long before he had ever left on his "journey", the sharp canine had accepted that he was being cast out, thrown remorselessly away from the religious Volundr under the guise of importance. Similarly he knew there was importance to him — he was Ásmundr, he was under divine protection from Odin himself and he was a puppet for the highest seat of Asgard — and that was what had assured his continued travel.
His paws now followed the snowy line of a broken and barren horizon with all his senses on high alert. He fully expected to find nothing of importance on this seemingly barren wasteland. The rising sun even seemed weak and watery, giving light but little heat to the heavy morning world, and there was a haze over the distance that made Ásmundr wonder what kind of place he had found himself in. To the south lay the ocean, cool and stormy blue today but deceitfully so, for it was tranquil and kind in low tide. And before the ocean, set like a gem into the cliffs, was the vague figure of a house.
That was the first indication that he had come across lands populated by Fenrisúlfur, and though it may have been false — a remnant from the human times, he had been told, their scattered existence often drawing the two-legged canids but not necessarily containing them — he was spurred onward nonetheless.
