Gustaf Lögr
Miera Erevos
Lowri Rhi
Eydis Erevos
“Go.” He commanded Anders, whom he had no true power over other than purity of blood. “This one will cause no trouble.” He said of Eydis.
“‘You are black’ said the raven to the crow.” Declan quipped, drawing closer to Eydis. The challenge was unspoken but plain. If this she-wolf thought to cut him or somehow diminish him with such an insult, she overestimated her wit or underestimated Declan’s own degradations of himself.
“You name me Aelinsbane and yet it is not I who is to be banished. By her own command no less. How long I wonder did she dream to have you back? And how quickly it took for her to send you away again.” He said to Eydris in what was almost a whisper. Words meant for her and her alone. Declan turned his back to Eydris as he faced the others who had gathered around the sacred tree.
“Blessings to you, Priestess.” He greeted Miera with a soft smile, his entire demeanor changing as he turned his attention to Aelin’s other sister. He moved to her slowly and without fear and without malice he gently touched his head to hers. A sign of closeness and a bond. He knew there was much Miera still feared in this world but Declan hoped she knew that he needn’t be one of them.
ég vona að þú hafir það gott. He said to her softly, his head still on hers.
“You look very good.” Declan said to Lowri. Her wink did not escape his attention, his lip curled half into a smirk, half into a smile, all flirting.
Suddenly as was his way The Baramoðn appeared as if from nowhere. He nodded at Declan a greeting before speaking to Miera. Declan had left her side as soon as Gustaf had appeared and walked over to the Wolf and held his arm out for Gustaf to take. If accepted, Declan would pull him roughly into an embrace. Declan was aware of Gustaf’s penchant for being alone and aloof but that was not going to cut it any more not after what they had gone through to recover Durin and find Lowri. They were Pack.
"I know so little of her, save that she holds our pain. Will you share her story, Declan?" Miera asked.
Declan let go of Gustaf, turned, smiled at Miera and went back to the tree, pressing a hand gently to her thick trunk.
“I suppose I owe you at least that much.” Declan said warmly and then he would speak at length.
“ Long ages ago, when our world was young, The Gods walked among our people. They hunted with us, sang with us, feasted, laughed, and loved us. On a day meant for joy, our lust and our violence turned the hearts of The Gods against our people. No longer would they walk among us so freely. That was our punishment and yet they left us a gift as well.
Once the graves were dug,the burial rites performed and the dead were put to rest, The Gods wept to leave us. To leave this mortal plane they so loved. Where our kin had been buried grew the blood red leaves of The Guðsgras, a plant not seen anywhere but over the graves of our people. Those of you who witnessed my brother being laid in the earth would have seen the abundance of the sacred plant growing over the other Alpha’s graves. Where the tears of The Gods fell grew the mighty white trees of The Wolfswood, imbued with the very souls of The Gods, that is why we feel them still when we run through that most sacred place.”
Surely they knew the story of how The Wolfswood came to exist but Declan’s thoughts turn to Lowri. He did not know how much of their history she knew. Little and less he presumed though Gustaf would remedy that, he had no doubt.
“I am sure I need not go on at length about Thorir and his war to unite the clans. It bears some importance however for you to know that my ancestor, Durin was the first to pledge his sword and loyalty to the cause of his friend, Thorir. That sacred vow earned Durin the name Oathtaker. It was but the first of many many great deeds by the founder of my Clan but it could be argued that no deed was greater than that act.
Many years after Thorir’s war, Durin was visited by Vatheum, The Wanderer, sister to Aeros, she who would visit Lupo in their dreams. This goddess came to my forebearer with a warning that not all The Gods had left this world.
The Dark One, Malkor, God of Madness was amassing a great army in the yronwood forest in the north of the continent. A great howling black wolf backed by thousands who devoted themselves solely to the God that had remained.
‘Why?’ asked Durin. ‘Does he mean to challenge Thorir?’ his thoughts, turning first to his friend.
‘No.’ The Goddess replied. ‘He means to take from you, that which you love most. He comes for her.’”
A breath of wind wove through the golden leaves overhead.
Declan continued. “The Dark One meant to pour forth from the north and claim by force Nued the spirit of winter who was as dark and beautiful as the morning after the storm. She was austere and alluring as the frost and she. was. his. None would take her from him, not even the Gods. So, Durin took the news from his dream to Thorir, to this man he fought for, bled for, killed for, who he loved.
‘What of it?’ Thorir asked.
Durin’s blood which had been burning hot since the dream turned cold.
‘I will make no march to stop the will of The Gods.’ Thorir declared, denying aid to Durin who looked upon a Wolf he did not recognize.
Durin said nothing more to his oldest friend. He left the golden castle for the last time, never to return so far south resolved to do this thing alone if he must.
He was not alone however. Many had grown to respect and admire Durin over the years of bloodshed and so he found himself backed by many clans and packs willing to follow him north.
The names of these Wolves are still known and revered in The North. To this day,the holdfasts and castles of the northern vale are held by the blood descendants of the clans that marched with Durin. Names such as Mathan, Brüte, Baltje, Kóri, and Vor, among others. All have done great deeds worthy of song and saga and many have had their blood united with the blood of Durin over the centuries.
When the time came to march into the woods for war, Durin did not bring only those great clans. He brought with him his eldest four sons as well. Gunnar, Vali, Darin and Biórr. Thorin, the youngest of Durin’s sons, had yet to make his change and so was left behind.
Durin and his sons went to war, banners blowing in the wind, drums beating so loud it was as though the mountains were coming crashing down. Howls for blood and victory cried out and Freann howled back welcoming the new souls that would soon dine in Aeros’ hall. An army and four sons went into the yronwood and the fighting that occurred left thrice as many wolves dead as the battle that had once driven The Gods from this world. When the fighting had started the yronwood were pale barked trees, cousin to those blessed in The Wolf’s Wood. The evil that happened turned them black as midnight.
It is now called The Black Forest for the color of the trees and for the dark deeds that happen within but after this war it had earned its name for the many millions of crows that were drawn to the carrion. Among this feast for crows were Durin’s own sons. From that day until this, the Wolves of the yronwood forest are the sworn enemy of The North.
It was thought that Durin himself was among those that fed the crows. For more than a year Durin I wandered the dark forest grievously injured and seeking revenge on Malkor. Were it not for The Baramoðn guiding him through that evil place and leading him to Krova’s Mirror, where he drank front he sacred waters and was healed, Durin surely would have died.
He returned here to this very spot where he found Nued waiting for him and for their sons. Durin broken and alone dropped to his knees and clutched at this creature who he loved. At once she knew and yet still she made him say it.
‘Where are my children?’ she asked him, so softly the words could have been blown away on the wind.
Durin could hardly find the courage to speak. The shame was a knot in his throat that choked the words away everytime he went to speak them.
‘Where are my children?’ she would ask again. ‘Where are my sons?” Nued demanded.
‘They feast in Freann with Guðhöfðinginn’ he said at last.
‘They should be with me.’ The spirit declared. ‘You have stolen all happiness from me.’ she told this mortal who had risked everything not to lose her.
It was then that the last tear ever shed by Nued fell from her face. So tightly had Durin held onto her, that tear struck his cheek and mingled with his own before falling to the ground. Here.”
He indicated toward The Månetre.
“Now from the tear. From that part of Nued’s soul, her grief and loss and hate and love, grows The Månetre and so grows The North. When Nued had given Durin her heart, he swore never to harm it, to cherish it more than his own. From that day where Nued’s tears flowed Durin Oath-taker had become Durin Oath-breaker, Durin Godsgrief and he proved the folly of mortals. The Månetre just as the Wolf’s Wood is a reminder to all who can remember such things.”
