Shadow of the Mountain Pass (January 3010) - [Open]
Apr 26, 2018 12:06:58 GMT -5
Post by Heard on Apr 26, 2018 12:06:58 GMT -5
He stood, tall, broad frame casting a long shadow over the Great West Road as he stood, watchful. Heard’s face seemed naturally settled into a snarl, the great emptiness of the byway even more irksome than the fact he was stationed there to watch it.
Tolls.
As if any would be coming from the Mountain Pass in the middle of winter. A long, guttural growl rumbled forth like a landslide, his barreled chest tight with unspent frustration. This task was useless, however much his brother sought to keep to the ways of the Chief before him. Beorn had considered the toll fair, for those that now called themselves the Beornings kept the land of the Vale safe by their own might and claw, blood and work. And yet, there were things far better that could have used Heard’s attention.
His eyes flicked to the growing trees, their shadow-cloak cast upon the ground by their branches and leaves. Within that darkness, within that wilderness, somewhere, the goblin were going to be moving. The warg. A large, meaty hand grasped the butt of his large axe where it sat leaning against a mighty stump. His blood was itching to answer the call, to seek out those that would plague that which he loved most and try and escape the consequences. The ruin.
Traps were going to be there, cloaked amidst the shade of the wood he and his kin kept, and he had more cause than most to devote his time to routing them from their secret places. Perhaps even fell those that sought to leave them for the patrols.
And yet, there he stood, wasting time and prowess. Perhaps he was not of the shifter-blood, but Heard was mighty in his own way. He had made sure to be, for his own father had looked at him as naught but a disappointment. Many had, in those days, thought him something strange, a boy belonging in neither clan nor city.
Collecting the coin of those who sought to pass through the Misty Mountains was the only job they saw him fit for, and yet Heard knew better than they; this was not his place, not truly.
His skin was flecked with scars, badges of honor and pride he brandished like weapons themselves. It was not only the patrol of the wilds that could fell the monsters that sought to invade the Vale; Heard was a force just as dreadful as they, when it came to wielding Olifrung. The axe itself was larger than the enemies he felled.
His eye strayed once more to its gleaming head, a long, suffering grunt coming forth. “Waste of time,” he said, voice like the thunder battles of the stone giants in the pass behind him. Tolls.
Tolls.
As if any would be coming from the Mountain Pass in the middle of winter. A long, guttural growl rumbled forth like a landslide, his barreled chest tight with unspent frustration. This task was useless, however much his brother sought to keep to the ways of the Chief before him. Beorn had considered the toll fair, for those that now called themselves the Beornings kept the land of the Vale safe by their own might and claw, blood and work. And yet, there were things far better that could have used Heard’s attention.
His eyes flicked to the growing trees, their shadow-cloak cast upon the ground by their branches and leaves. Within that darkness, within that wilderness, somewhere, the goblin were going to be moving. The warg. A large, meaty hand grasped the butt of his large axe where it sat leaning against a mighty stump. His blood was itching to answer the call, to seek out those that would plague that which he loved most and try and escape the consequences. The ruin.
Traps were going to be there, cloaked amidst the shade of the wood he and his kin kept, and he had more cause than most to devote his time to routing them from their secret places. Perhaps even fell those that sought to leave them for the patrols.
And yet, there he stood, wasting time and prowess. Perhaps he was not of the shifter-blood, but Heard was mighty in his own way. He had made sure to be, for his own father had looked at him as naught but a disappointment. Many had, in those days, thought him something strange, a boy belonging in neither clan nor city.
Collecting the coin of those who sought to pass through the Misty Mountains was the only job they saw him fit for, and yet Heard knew better than they; this was not his place, not truly.
His skin was flecked with scars, badges of honor and pride he brandished like weapons themselves. It was not only the patrol of the wilds that could fell the monsters that sought to invade the Vale; Heard was a force just as dreadful as they, when it came to wielding Olifrung. The axe itself was larger than the enemies he felled.
His eye strayed once more to its gleaming head, a long, suffering grunt coming forth. “Waste of time,” he said, voice like the thunder battles of the stone giants in the pass behind him. Tolls.