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Post by Lord Ainvar Hrothgarsson on Feb 17, 2014 21:42:01 GMT
Still covered in the blood of the slain Beastmen, Ainvar tiredly makes his way into the Grove, removing his weapons before crossing through the ring of oaks. Approaching the largest, and most sacred oak in the Grove, he kneels and sings the song of the Sun as twilight approaches, giving thanks for one more day of light. Afterwards, lowering his head, Ainvar begins to ponder the wheres and whys of the Beastman warbands that have entered his native lands. Letting the crisp winter air fill his lungs, taking his spirit to the Otherworld for possible answers, Ainvar drifts into a deep meditation.
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Post by Lord Ainvar Hrothgarsson on Feb 18, 2014 23:33:52 GMT
Grotesquely shaped figures rampage through rural villages, large, putred half man, half goat creatures with great rusted blades trample newly plowed grain fields. Their infernal, cloven feet desecrate the dark, soft earth, eagerly awaiting both seed and water. Blood of man, woman, and child equally spilt without care. Infant children are thrown upon spear and fire, the flesh of Man mercilessly ripped from bone.
Lying sprawled on the grass under the Great Oak, Ainvar jolts to consciousness, the cold air stinging his sweat soaked skin. Pushing himself up on his elbows, Ainvar tries to make sense of the images he was just witness to. Drained of all energy, he pushes himself to his feet, placing his hand upon the trunk of the Oak, bowing his head in thanks to the Gods for the vision he was given. The druids of his tribe always wanted him to join the order for his gifts, but he was his father's son, a warrior. Ainvar leaves the ring of oaks, strapping his sword belt around his waist, making his way to the large brown stallion lashed to a tree. Ainvar pats the animal's side before mounting the creature and trots toward the city to seek rest.
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