Anorion, Woodwalker of Corellon
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AcName = sciolist. ChrName = Anorion Seleir
“The more obstinately you try to learn how to shoot the arrow for the sake of hitting the goal, the less you will succeed in the one and the further the other will recede”
The boy rose from a crouch in the bushes, watching the bird. It sang happy in the forest before taking flight abruptly as the arrow whipped past its branch. The teacher watched and smiled as he said: _'Back to the targets, Anorion'.
'The path of a woodwalker is to fight, but not to revel in it. It is not for you to love the blade, or the bow or the arrow. We are to use them in defence of what we love. Fight, not when you have to, but when situation merits fighting. It is not your hand that kills when it looses an arrow, or swings a blade, it is your heart.
'Patience, you must learn. The ways of magic and warfare will be your heritage, as they were your fathers before them. But, as Corellon teaches, you must fight to preserve and protect, not for personal gain or viciousness.
'Hold all these things and the past teachings within you as you journey. In time you will return, a worthy protector._
An older Anorion examines the bruises in the mirror and winces. Pale hazel eyes glinting from a tanned coppery face. Despite the oddity and undoubted taint of human blood in his lines, he was quite proud of his neatly trimmed beard. Nothing badly broken, only his possessions taken. They must be generous robbers, or overconfident ones. He spent a while casting about to see if they'd dumped the pack bnearby, but they hadn't.
His father's bow, gone. The cloak that shifted with the patterns of leaves, gone. His travelling money, gone. He rubbed at his beard and attempted a smile. At least they hadn't taken his spellbook. At least Barcalane had had the sense to follow the attackers to their camp. They would be rewarded appropriately for not killing him out of hand.
The two guards were no match for his strength or guile now that they were the ones surprised. One dazed, another blinded by a flare and then he was upon them. Once beaten soundly with a makeshift club, they told of how their chief had taken the items down into the city to sell. A city on the Icelace, known to have wealthier merchants than the villages nearby. Anorion tied their hands securely and left them alive to wander home. Killing them would have been a pointless delay, as well as ungrateful.
Taking the inadequately made shortbow of one of the raiders, he set off towards the city, trying to ignore Baracalane's observations about the lead they had on him.
“Four things come not back: the spoken word, the sped arrow, the past life and the neglected opportunity.”
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Reviewed, XP pending
