A Time for Storms...

The boy shifted uneasily in his chair. He was certain that his grandfather was playing him for a fool, and inwardly he resented the fact, but he knew that the old man enjoyed these tales, and more than this the boy wanted to believe.

“As I live and breath I saw them!” the old man gushed. “They came through our village on their way to who knows where – and me, I was no older than you are, but I remembered them from then on and I still remember them now.”

“I was just a young lad then, and there was nothing more exciting than when adventurers passed through. In the days of the Hero Wars there were adventurers everywhere, and you can guarantee that all the kids wanted nothing more than to be one. They were scary and uncouth, but we all knew they didn’t care about a thing in the world, and there’s nothing fills a youngster’s heart so much as that. We had all watched our parents fret about he harvest and the livestock and the weather, but for us the adventurers represented something special – freedom, boy. You have it now and take it for granted, but we were born into slavery. The Evil Empire had this whole land grasped in its tentacles, and even our Tribal King, whose name we no longer utter, had turned away from the Storm to worship the Red Moon. Everywhere we were taxed and trodden underfoot by the effete northerners, but every time we saw an adventurer, we saw someone who went where he would, when he would. Only oppression can make such a trivial thing seem so grand.”

“Most people resented them at the time. Of course they’re heroes of legend now. Strange how history can be rewritten when you look back. Of course I understood it even then. How could a farmer work from dawn to dusk, breaking his back in a field to produce food for his clan, and not feel anger at those who, for reasons maybe noble or selfish, walk away from duty and follow the life of the wanderer? Adventurers were at best objects of fear, and at worst parasites on a war-wracked land, but we still loved them.”

“This day I was on our wagon. We had travelled into Runegate to trade for some tools, and for my father to catch up on the news and gossip, and he let me along. It was a fine day for any young boy; excused a day’s work and a chance to see a real fort. I remember everything like it was yesterday. I can still smell the muddy roads and the smell and the sounds of the oxen pulling our wagon. I remember my first glimpse of the Runegate itself, and my father telling me how a monster had landed on it before devouring the town. I had never seen so many people, and I had never seen so many warriors. Runegate was home to the Colymar even then, and everywhere I saw Fyrd men, but Runegate is the gateway to Sartar, and here there were warriors from all over. I saw barbaric Grazelanders with their golden horses, I saw Lunar Hoplites with their broad shields. I saw Trolls and I may even have seen an Elf, but fleetingly.”

“But it was them I remember, because they rode up alongside our wagon and I heard their conversation. I was just a boy, and went unnoticed by them, and they were intent on other things, but I just stared and listened. I would not have remembered them perhaps, but they were the first adventurers I had ever seen, and I looked on, awestruck, but absorbing every detail.”

“They called the leader Aransar. Others have mocked me for this tale, saying I was a boy and could not have known this, but I swear by Orlanth that they spoke unguardedly amongst themselves and that I kept their names close to my heart from that day. Aransar was short but he carried himself with a knowing ease that spoke of much experience. For me this town was huge and bustling, but he had an unimpressed look about him which made me feel ashamed of my own wonder. His armour bore the dents and scrapes of recent battle, and he was dressed in the style of a Yelmalian hoplite, as were the ones calling themselves Orstanor, Kulbrast and Kenstral. When Orstanor and Aransar pulled their crested helms back onto their brows, their faces were tanned by the Sun, but the others were more pale and familiar of complexion. These others were looking around watchfully, and Kulbrast’s piercing blue eyes lingered on me for a while as he tried to assess my demeanor. Then, without a smile he turned his gaze away to regard a more likely threat, a quartet of Lunar soldiers moving down the street.”

“The other two were clearly kin, and I heard them talking with each other in a language I didn’t understand but for a few words, spoken at such speed that they made no real sense. I learned later in life that they spoke the secret language of the Lanbril cult.”

“At the time, a more imposing or deadly group I could not have imagined. They carried an air of unspoken violence about them, and we all know where it led, in the end. I just count myself lucky to have seen them while they were alive, and to pass their likeness onto you. We had so few heroes in those days, and I try to honour their memory. It seems the least I can do given how many of them gave their lives for my freedom. Not to mention yours, boy.”

The old man’s eyes drifted away to the past, and his once jolly face took a turn for the melancholy. The boy just regarded his grandfather, staring at the deep grooves that cut across his face, and feeling his own mind wandering to the unknown days of wars that had shaken this very land. He felt the warm wave of love and respect that he held for this old man break on the shore of his heart, and then the cold wind of free Sartar cutting at the sleeves of his coat. He shivered slightly…