Private The Overgrown Path

[Åsmund Ótta]

Location:
Hljóðleva Encampment, Islimore

Timeframe:
Immediately following the arrival of Ket Van-Derveld

Leaving the impromptu meeting between Aelin and the newcomer left a few things on his mind: being reminded of the fact that there were others like his own people, out in the cosmos, and the reality that the young Anasira was still rough around the edges. It had, after all, been less than a year since she left the only life she had known, one of survival largely alone, and a lot had changed for her in that time. It could be said that those years gave her the resilience to handle all that the Gods saw fit to send her way, and he could agree with that assessment, knowing how much he had gained in leaving the land that birthed him, despite the unfortunate circumstances of both their departures.

Learning of and to some extent witnessing her growth made him think often of his own sibling, wondering how her pursuit of knowledge and strength was faring, what she thought of the galaxy beyond the forests that had sheltered them both. The friendships he hoped she was forming, and the strength she could gain from them. He would continue to pray often for them both, and the paths that laid ahead of them.

On the matter of paths, there was one he had more of a hand in - that of the training and guidance of Draoidae, and it was this he was returning to after the interruption caused by incensed words and moods, back to hunching over ancient tomes in the undisturbed confines of the tent constructed and furnished for this purpose. Often, he dozed off between the pages, being at his task until late, but rarely remained there - Anders, if not Freya, tended to make sure of it, and if not them, the quiet of night that had only unsettled him since those months shut away, eight years before, managed to rouse him.

That he didn't gather enough rest at times was par for the course, and stifling a prodigious yawn in the middle of the day communicated that fact to anyone turning their eyes his way, as he crossed the camp to return to the Draoidae tent, then stopping to catch another short yawn with his fist, just short of the tent.

"Oh, for a nap, " he breathed out, in a soft and worn tone, reaching for the flap, pulling it back, and ducking to enter, disappearing within its confines. Only then did his nose note a scent that did not belong, feel a presence that should not have been there, and as he rose to stand in full, what came into view not only stilled him, but alarmed him, "what do you think you're doing?!"

His brow creased, his mouth became a thin line, his fingers curling tighter around the staff in his left hand as he fixed his gaze on the figure whose face was obscured by one of the Lupo faith's oldest texts - a book of faith poetry in early Wufi.

"I'll have you know: that book is older than the first Anasi, peace be unto him…" but as his mind started to blare familiarity, recognition of the scent and feeling of the person reclined on the other side of the room, the wolf in question lowered the tome from in front of his face. Åsmund's eyes widened, and he took a sharp breath, releasing it with an exasperated sigh, "...Gustaf?!"

That came out a fair bit quieter than intended. The Draoidh cleared his throat, and set aside his staff, shrugging off his cloak and hanging it, and rebuilding his composure.

"If I didn't know you any better, I'd say your father didn't teach you anything of respect" he jabbed, turning back to the older wolf, old pain and still older memories cropping up, painting his face between the weary lines, "but it is… good to see you."

Even if he thought it might never happen. Even if he had been sure that the wolf across from him was dead by now, and he had consigned all that had happened to the depths. Blackbrook seemed to swallow Lupo who didn't give it a wide berth, and Gustaf Lögr was no less than blessed by the Gods to do exactly that.

Gustaf Lögr

 

[Gustaf Lögr]

"They say that in dark times, if a good man will act, then he shall become great..."

​

The Hljóðleva Encampment. For many a night, he had watched over it, watching as his Lupo bróðirokr systira worked tireless, building it up slowly. He kept watch over them as they rebuilt ancient structures, toiling away willingly at the behest of a clan he knew well. Or at least he thought he had. There were wolves coming forth all the time, some born among the stars above, some who had been born of Móðir Islimore herself and left her embrace. It was necessary at the time, and in a way still was. The Fayth were nothing if not relentless. He'd liberated a few of their agents the mortal coil on his first journey here to the encampment. Yet another reason he kept his vigil.

The visions granted to him through the Blessing of Naé had led him here, and he kept himself among the trees and rocks for a time. Not far from the encampment, an abandoned village stood, no more than six or seven ramshackle homes, long since abandoned by their previous occupants. A macabre tribute to the power of the Fayth's warriors, but so long as he drew breath, they would all come to regret the moment they stepped foot upon Móðir Islimore. He'd taken shelter in the root cellar of one of the homes, taking painstakingly deliberate action to ensure he left not one single trace or indication that he'd been there. His life was one of solitude, such was the lot of the Baramoðn.

​

A few nights ago, he'd been down to the river, under cover of the new moon. He'd been seeking out his next meal, as those of Clan Lögr had sustained themselves of the fish in the rivers and seas for millennia. It was as he sat, cleaning and gutting his catch, that he felt a powerful draw to the water once more. Heeding this feeling, this call...He had waded into the river, and submerged himself within it's cold, purifying embrace. It was here that he heard the voice within speak to him.

~Go. Go to them. Go to them who need you, Gustaf. Follow the path set before you. Remember the Oath... the Oath of the Baramoðn...~

And, so he did...

It would be many hours before he reached the camp proper. He was still garbed in nothing more but sackcloth pants, a brown leather pouch that hung of his hip, and a necklace of wooden beads. He had his spear with him, his constant and only companion for many a year. He kept himself hidden well, as the Blessing confered upon him many talents he'd spent decades perfecting, mastering. To any who might gaze toward him, they would only see a faint shimmer, dismissing it as nothing. His footfalls were as silent as the dead long since gone. And he took a moment to survey his surroundings once more. He watched, ever keen his sight, as he saw a familiar face, the only one he truly knew. A face he'd not seen in eight years time. The Wolf had left a tent, and headed to another where it seemed a bit of a rather tense conversation was being held.

And quietly, swift as the river's current, Gustaf ducked into the tent that the other Wolf had just vacated. He looked around, and recognized much. The tent of a Draoidae. All manner of preistly things scattered about, and before him, tomes older than the ruins the encampment surrounded. One he recognized by the ancient Wufi embossed into the spine. Poetry, something he was all to familiar with. It had been far too long since last he read anything of such beauty and history. And so he held the book up, as his spear settled into the nook of his elbow, and read with a bit of a content smile. Yet, for once, Gustaf let his guard down just a bit, because by allowing himself a rare moment of respite, he only just heard the tent's flap move once more.

"I'll have you know: that book is older than the first Anasi, peace be unto him…" but as his mind started to blare familiarity, recognition of the scent and feeling of the person reclined on the other side of the room, the wolf in question lowered the tome from in front of his face. Åsmund's eyes widened, and he took a sharp breath, releasing it with an exasperated sigh, "...Gustaf?!"

Gustaf gently closed the book in question, and set it down upon the table he'd picked it up from. Åsmund, of Clan Ótta. It had been far too long since he'd been in his company, as he missed the wolf greatly. There was a kinship there, they were as good as 'Blooð kind' in his view. Taking his spear, he stabbed it downward into the ground. His face remained stoic, still so rugged, and world-weary. Yet, there was a twinkle, unmistakable, within his eyes. For the first time in many a night, Gustaf Lögr let a smile slowly form across his lips. He reached out, and placed his hands upon Åsmund's shoulders, and he spoke with a voice that still commanded respect, yet to his friend, had undertones of happiness and joy.

"Åsmund... It does my heart well to see you again, 'gamall vinr', truly."

​

Åsmund Ótta​