Depressingly, it is raining for the umpteenth week here in Japan, so I thought I'd try an M4 figure for a mood change and write a tale to go with it. Bit of a long read though :) Fantasy Ranger outfit by Xurge3D at Xurge3D.com Braided Hair by MortemVetus here on Rendo Background made in Terragen 4.4 Rock and rock texture from Quixel.com Platform: MacBookAir6,2 i7 (Gen8), 2core 1processor, 8GBram ‘We’ve reached Wailing Point old friend where the elemental gods, at least, honour us with their presence. I hear Danu giving voice to a sad lament; a canorous strain more beguiling than any siren song we’ve heard near a savage shore. None can match her timbre, for it thrums the air and quickens the heartstrings more surely than a consummate minstrel wooing the soul of a hesitant maid. The sun goddess lights our path with magnanimous grace, for it can only be Etaine’s golden raiments I glimpse behind that cavorting fret out yonder; employed, no doubt, in the heathen manner to strew droplets before her like the tears of those artful weepers we’ve seen ululating and dancing at a dead lord’s wake. And Nuada, goddess of the firmament spies shyly down on us. Though I sense her heart is heavy, for she demurely conceals her azure glory behind a shifting veil; a grey miasma that parts but briefly so she can cast a mournful eye our way. Your fears were unfounded Sword Brother, we aren’t shunned like outlaws; certainly not by the gods of these lands. And as testament to that truth and to their compassion, no human dogs seek to hinder our way; the gods haven’t betrayed our coming to those curs who rule, those lesser men who think themselves our betters.’ The speaker, a thick-set figure dressed in well-worn leathers beneath a cloak of wolf skin, was obviously touched, for he was talking to no one but himself. No companion rode, or gambolled, at his knee to warrant his speech, nor was there even a yokel nearby to lend a neglected ear, or doff a respectful hood. The madman’s skin was bronzed, deeply so, as though from prolonged exposure to a sun in hotter climes. And a jagged white scar ran down his left cheek, like some aposematic mark, to give warning to any who might approach. His eyes were green, as sombre in tone as a raw emerald freshly torn from the earth and they levelled on things with a steadfastness that most would deem the antithesis of madness. Usually they possessed a twinkle, but today humour was constrained. His careless chatter to no one but himself, however, was cause for concern, as was his mane of wild, red hair, tied back and threaded with thin braids in the foreign manner. He reined in his mount fifty paces from the point where a Druid Stone stood, tall, grey, and etched with runes, many made largely unfathomable by the ravages of time. The grass was lush here, enough to provide temporary fodder for his mount. So thinking, the figure dismounted and much to the chagrin of his steed, he hobbled her with a leather thong so she couldn’t stray. He then carefully removed a foreign-looking urn from his dunnage, one decorated with unusual hieroglyphs and stoppered with rough linen steeped in red wax. In turn, the cloth was bound by a cord wound around the curving neck and fused together with further wax. Nestling it in the crook of his left arm, the man strode purposefully towards Wailing Point, a sliver of land thrusting out into the churning sea a hundred cubits below. Stopping close to the edge, he looked around as though suddenly needing to confirm his bearings. With careful deliberation he took in the powerful swell lunging at the rocks at the foot of the cliff; the cold fret gathering and growing in the offing; the brooding clouds drifting up and out from behind him and into the distance beyond and the windblown moor bereft of even a single inquisitive rabbit. Ostensibly satisfied by what he saw, he nodded several times as though in answer to some question, then spoke out once more. ‘Don’t grieve as you trudge the Grey Road alone brother, for I and the others will follow in your footsteps erelong.’ So saying, he broke the wax sealing the cord, unwound it and tore the cloth from the lip. Then, reverently, like some priest pouring out a libation, he let slip the urn’s contents over the cliff edge. The prevailing breeze caught up the falling ashes and carried them out to sea in an undulating cloud that seemed at once pale and insignificant against the dour wall of grey to which they raced. The flying paleness spread and so thinned, like a phantom thing, until the warrior could discern it no more. ‘May the great waters ferry you to those shores you never chanced to grace in life. Farewell Brandr. We’ll not see your like again. Farewell Sword Brother, until we meet on the Other Side.’ Satisfied the urn contained no more ashes the speaker cast it down towards the enthralled rocks below. A grin creased his handsome features as he saw it shatter and the fragments cascade into the pounding waves. It would have been a bad omen for it not to break, or worse float away, for that would mean the Guardians had refused to grant passage to the Other Side. His duty done, the warrior unsheathed a throwing knife from his bracer and cut a short tuft of hair from his billowing mane. ‘Mark me by this token,’ he said loudly, holding out the lock before him and releasing it into the care of the wind. ‘I’m Ragnar, Sword Brother of Brandr. Remember me, Guardians, for the time approaches when I’ll be here again seeking my own passage along the Grey Road.’ Ragnar stood awhile in the buffeting wind, watching the dancing line of rain in the distance. Thoughts must have flooded his mind, for a frown etched itself across his sunburnt brow and stayed. He closed his eyes and stood rock still, a second immovable sentinel on that undulating plain. Deep and slow, he peacefully breathed in and out, his braids a contrasting nest of disturbed and angry vipers, leaping out of a thicket of red grass. A single drop of cold rain anointed his forehead and, as though this were a sign, an aneling act by the gods who’d come to oversee the rites, he opened his eyes, turned, and walked slowly back to the Druid stone. And yet, it wasn’t quite the same man who returned to his horse, for his broad shoulders seemed slightly stooped, as though burdened by an invisible yoke. ‘Come, we ride to Mudwick,’ he confided to his horse, as though the beast were privy to his thoughts and mind. Sensing a reply was necessary, the horse, a rare and intelligent palomino, snorted before gladly ambling away to the gentle urging of Ragnar’s knees. She was pleased they were moving for she disliked being hobbled as it made feeding difficult. Moreover, she’d sensed the fret well before the first drop of rain had touched Ragnar’s brow and she wished to be away rather than linger and have to endure it’s cold, wet, embrace. She might not have been so sanguine had she known Mudwick lay half a day’s journey to the north, much of it through dense forest.