3. Playing Lonewolf, in the Rawlins

Playing Lonewolf, in the Rawlins


  • The crickets stopped chirping and the noise was replaced by the light padding of Goblins, and the rattling of what might pass for armour to one of their kind. Yngdír stood with his back flat against the trunk of a large ash, on the oppossite side to which the Goblins were coming. There were only two of them, and they were too busy chatting to each other to even notice the strange growth on the tree, to Yngdír's relief. After a while he heard crickets again - and with a swift but quiet motion was once again on his way.

    Moonlight flooded through the trees where the branches and thick trees would allow, to Yngdír they were beams of perfect light - and he would marvel at them when time allowed, each night. His greatest joy while alone was to watch the great moths bathe in these beams of moonlight. He had always considered them beautiful.

    For a few hours he manages to sit and watch - even though in his camoflage, very close to what could be called a ghillie suit by now, he resembles a mossy rock, or otherwise un-peculiar deep-forest item, he smells too - of the damp moss and grasses used as his camoflage, so fresh that occasionally a worm wriggles to the surface - so still that a bird will occassionally land on him for the meal. Still he sits, and he watches. It's known to him that these 'giant goblins' are out this way, and all he needs is another clue to continue his journey. Although thoughts, ever present behind his quiet shroud, are mixed with suppressed emotion. Ever since his hawk brought word of the destruction of the Bridge to the north he'd been considering whether or not he should turn back.

    No, he won't turn back. He remains still, he continues to wait and watch patiently, he 'must' learn the truth behind these 'giant goblins' - and there's nothing else for it. He remains still and awake, to watch the sky above the tree-line turn red, a magical experience - where all above was bright, and no stars remained in the blazen sky - but where all below within the trees, save a few spots where the overhead branches didn't cover, was still in darkness.

    Another pair of Goblins pass him by, he hears the steps move away from behind - although he doesn't dare turn around to watch them go. He doesn't even move his hand down to his bootknife for what small comfort a blade would give him in the situation - the footfalls stop, the chattering comes louder. He hears the swift approach of the armoured goblin. He can do nothing that wouldn't give away his position, surely he wasn't spotted by a mere… goblin? Yngdír's glance falls to his lap, his sword is in there somewhere among the camoflage and moss. His fingers twitch - his eyes become narrow. A deep warm sensation on his back - his eyes roll up to stare at the sky, is it midday already? --- he could have groaned. The Goblin works in the same way as man, in that, upon filling - it needs release. Yngdír couldn't feel more lucky, as the warm wet of Goblin piss seeped through his cloak and into his leathers. The scampering and scurrying of the Goblin's satisfied retreat, and the harsh - probably complaints - of his comrade were to Yngdír the sweetest music, for he was safe - and undetected.


  • A muted creaking sound goes unheard in the deep woods, followed by a whining snap - a low buzz - and a thud so final in its sound that it could be the closing of a heavy tome; perhaps the book of life, or at least so for a particularly fat late-summer rabbit that had just found the business end of one of Yngdír's arrows. He had waited patiently nearby a run that he'd made to force the creature's to run this way, a trap that would cause no undue harm to any creature that did not belong in say - a snare, or snapping mechanical trap. It took a while longer but - time - was all that Yngdir had in these lazy summer days. He pulled the arrow from the body of his kill, a remarkable shot - through the neck of the rabbit, perhaps on purpose as to waste none of it - spoil none of it, and lashed the rabbit by its feet to the bandolier he wears.

    Forest flowers grew in painted patches about the forest floor, snowy white things mostly with drooping heads that bobbed in the breeze - they glittered and seemed to the Ranger to shine much like silver. Pleasing to his eyes, fragrant in the air, he chose a nearby spot to make his fire. He was near the edge of the fores. There many bushes had grown and a variety of shrubberies, their companion plants were occasionally herbs that Yngdir liked to use while preparing his meals. This particular herb that he used with the rabbit left a dryness in the mouth, but was akin to garlic albeit sweeter and softer on the pallet. It grilled well as he cooked his rabbit-meat kebabs over the hot coals of his low fire, unwary of the fragrant, mouth-watering scent that surely would waft through the trees.

    While the meat cooked he had stripped. A pair of black short pants were all that he wore, his long golden hair lay loose and spread out upon the floor of the forest as he had lain back in the moss and stared upward, enjoying the simple serenity that such days afforded him. His equipment was heaped untidily in a nest of boughs that grew dumbly from an ancient yew tree. His back ached still, there was much scarring and evidence of earlier hurts upon his shoulders where the sword-sharp tips of some fel whip had flayed him in recent history. The moss, however, beneath his back seemed to soothe this pain. Perhaps the coolness, the dampness. Both.

    The meat cooked slowly. A silver ribbon of smoke rose straight up from the small fire, seemingly untouched by the breeze that caused the heads of flowers to bob and the leaves overhead to rustle. The Ranger's thoughts drifted from place to place, though many times he was forced to close the solid green orbs that are his eyes to force away some memory of demons, of blindness and will-breaking agony. The Eladrin-esque creature breathed deeply of the forest air, in his heart he felt as though he had never smelled the depth of the forest so plainly; the touch of it was to him the caress of an old, unforgotten love whose memory still invades the mind when our hearts belong to someone new. A faceless feeling, a memory of intangible sweetness and emotion. He breathed deeply, the secret dimple upon his cheek telling a thousand tales of his love for the ancient forest; of all his secret adventures whilst being, well… lonewolf in the Rawlinswood.


  • There were times when Yngdír had thought, perhaps it would've been better if he'd stayed in the Rawlinswood. For to travel the broader region would be exciting - but at heavy cost, deeper than any purse. In these days where he may wander at will it seems to him too easy now to come into trouble. The answer came simply to him, that whatever were to happen out there while he was blind to it would have surely come to his forest one day. In that sense at least, as a Ranger, he had no regrets for the decisions he had made.

    Dissent was rife among those he had come to know as friends these days. One side argued over another's beliefs, the other side argued the broader word. Faithful, faithless, faith-blind, faith-deaf. Words like 'honour', and 'heretic', words of malice and words… more words. Each one added is as an arrow shot at him, each arrow biting to a depth beyond hurt or rage. To the soul of Yngdír. But, he has suffered these wounds before and the same words are not so alien to him. Looking back as he does at times he can recall upon no memory since waking in the Norwick healers' house, of a time where opinions did not clash. His opinion, against a tide of opinions. Even with La'ali and his son - there are some ways that the Ranger will always be alone. Better that way. For who else is there to carry the burden of truth and honour?

    It seemed to him that the world, all at once, decided to collapse around him. His retirement from the Legion saw a void in his life, his routine, even his standing among others. Then the dissent of the Elves to see him feeling as outcast, and then the Wolves. Mostly non-Elven, or n'Tel'Quessir, it could have been considered as strange that Yngdír could so easily relate to the awkward Rangers of the group. There were still none quite like him, and it could be supposed that he had never really 'known' any of the others... and yet, nothing else seemed so 'right' for him. His heart sank momentarily as he unwound the leather lace from about his wrist. It had become difficult to remove, the leather had seemed to fuse together and stick from weathering. It was designed to be worn as an amulet, a talisman to say 'I am Wolf'. Yngdír had taken to wearing the fang in his palm where the leather was loose at his wrist. It was always between his hand and his bow. Symbolic, invisible, it bore meaning to him at least. He no longer wore it. Symbolic and invisible, that was the truth of it as a non-Wolf spoke words - untrue words - that along with the arrows of dissent and the grinding sense of uselessness from his retirement... was too hard to bear.

    As he stood on the tower at the south gates of Norwick, the stars above him were all shrouded in clouds. A pale light shone through, radiant and powerful. Yngdír took a moment, and reflected his feelings into a few words that would make another of his 'secret' poems, words perhaps that would only ever be heard by La'ali.

    Yngdír at least, has become used to playing lonewolf in the Rawlinswood.


  • Yelps, and whining from the western woods. "At last.." thought Yngdír "…the Malarite reveals himself." But it was not as he had thought, but just a group of Goblins attempting to capture more wolves for their den. With cruel short spears tipped with stone, bone, or simply pointed stick they had herded a litter of young wolf-cubs around the bloody and still whimpering body of a large den-mother.

    Yngdír had never caught them in the act before, were it in his nature he might have enjoyed slaying the Goblin party. But it was all over too quickly, few Goblins in the land were strong enough to resist the deathly touch that his double-recurve sent forth; none among the herding party were so strong at least, and his arrows did fly swift. They all died quickly. And as for the young wolves and their soon-to-die mother, well no consequence to the Ranger. No doubt they would eat the dead and select an alpha among themselves and live for a while. Or they would all die there, it wasn't for Yngdír to decide. Better for them to live or die free of the Goblins, at least then they could live uncorrupted - unbent to the will of evil creatures that would no doubt have only used them to do evil things.

    He turned his back on the bloody scene and snuck off into the brush. The evening sun was setting and it was a moment in the forest where everything shone bright before the last of the day's light passed and darkness claimed the world for another night. Yngdír made camp in a tight clearing where the branches of several hazels knotted against the wind. So dense was it that his campfire burned undisturbed by the wind, the branches of these trees when cut would also provide the means to cook his dinner. Chunks of meat skewered on the slender hazel shafts made for the perfect wilderness kebab after all.

    It was during his meal that the unanticipated would happen; at least one of the young wolves with its powerful nose had followed him into the forest, whether hunger or familiarity had made the beast bold, it approached Yngdír with little pause for caution. It prowled the campsite circularly, snuffling at this and sniffing at that. Yngdír watched simply as it went for his cutlets of meat, though before the beast managed to steal any he reached out and withdrew the kebab from the hot ashes.

    The wolf was perplexed - it perhaps even was a little frightened. But somewhere in its mind it understood, and laid down with its tail flat to the ground in submission before the older hunter. A gesture that was not lost on Yngdír, a gesture that did not go unrewarded - and so the two ate.

    It never crossed Yngdír's mind why the wolf had come to him after he abandoned it and its brothers. Survival in the wild is hard, and perhaps the wolf made the more resourceful choice in following him that night. And to continue to follow him. It was obvious that the great goshawk Nímar had died by now. Five years is a long time for such a bird. It was now a wolf that Yngdír would share his journeys in the wilderness with. A loyal beast, resourceful and well behaved. A beast of mottled grey, with serious, amber eyes - and he would answer to the name Rascal. Though given the Elven name 'Cam’wethrin', the Common seems to have stuck better.


  • The heavy shroud, and the footsteps that follow. These are things that will be part of the forest for a long time to come. It's never so hard anymore in the forest. Yngdír passes under star and leafy bough in the guise of a shadow, a hint of presence and nothing more. In this green place he thinks back to the day he relinquished his soul to all of the spirits of the forest.

    You are alone Yngdír, you will always be alone. I want a family, I have a family. I can't do this. You must do this. I know no other who can bear this burden.

    The words might have been forgotten and re-remembered since that day. The burden of the oath has weighed and weighed, no rest at all from this task - and yet, he would carry it without ever knowing why. For all his talk of reason - this task seemed to have none. Whatever power he holds is yet to present it's self, or is there no power at all but a means to fulfilment. And when will this truly end? Will his spirit be his own again when the evil is finally silenced? The thoughts are made more troubling with the knowledge of what such an end would mean for him. Is it death?

    The thoughts halt, he finds himself stood upon a rock. A ringlet of trees with a narrow opening above where the leaves have not yet grown over - perhaps by magic, perhaps by design. The rock beneath his feet is bathed in silver light as the moon and stars above shine brighter through an eerily quiet and cloudless sky. The rain had passed at least for a while, the heavy clouds must've spilled themselves away during the battles in the south, a small mercy to wash the blood away - he thought.

    Even as he drew the long blade of his sword the magic was enhanced - the pale blue that would cling to the cold metal by night was glowing brighter under the heavens. He looked at his reflection in the metal blade, and then with the slightest turn the moon above him was burned into the face of the sword. For the first time in such a long time he spoke his words to Sehanine Moonbow; no one else could give him guidance now. There on the flat of the rock with his sword cradled in his hands he spoke two words to the most powerful force of his heart - "Show me."

    Show me. He had asked the Seer of the Seldarine, she who can show of mystery and omens. His patron god, and she knows the way, she must know the way. He did not know what would be shown to him - he sought knowledge or perhaps it was understanding he wanted. He lifted his look from the Elven sword and looked to the heavens, silver light shone off his golden hair - and his eyes burned and glittered like polished emeralds.

    I must know my fate, he thought, and spoke once more the words; "Show me!" Nothing came to him that night. Thoughts reeled by as time moved with all the hurried speed of a turning age, and so sat Yngdír alone upon a 'blessed' rock deep in the Rawlinswood.


  • In days renewed people would never ask Yngdír why he fought so hard. Everything in life has a reason - there's no such thing as random occurrence after all. It is always done because… for him there was many a 'because'. And yet there were times where trouble and doubt were allowed to creep in. During the hours of deep meditation where all the world becomes silent yet enhanced; dreams of himself held up by the fine silver threads and bound to several squabbling puppet masters who all had equal use and need of him.

    Even as they manipulated his hand, pulling him here and forcing him this way and that - encircled entirely by the shadowed figures of things, or people, he did not recognize. One by one they toppled over, laughing - some wailing in pain or terror, or something - at his feet a pool of blood deepening. Even as he turned to run the deep pool made his legs hard to move, through the thick and heavy blood. And nomatter where he wished to run to the puppet-masters were always there to correct him. He stood in rigid terror upon a high place in his dream, the heaping circle around him had all fallen to the last and the pool of blood had all but consumed him. A final bow from the puppeteers, and he awakened to peace - serenity. And all had been calm within the forest where he had chosen to lay for the night, and all of the trouble had been in his head. And he drew but one bitter conclusion for it all, the reason; "Thorn".

    These bad dreams would continue for only a short while. He had too much on his mind to dream, he dwelled at times on these troubles. It didn't surprise him that there was so much evil. Evil has it's place in the region, evil is embraced after all so close to the heart of Narfell. To evil, he supposed, more evil is drawn. Evil had always seemed to outnumber good for as long as he could remember. There were of course… laws, and occasionally peace, between the three main settlements anyway. Such thoughts were awkward to him, reason did not come easy when there were so many questions of that nature. Good, Evil. All the blood in the name of 'good', justice at a swords edge? Who learns from that?

    He'd walked with his thoughs for company for some time before sitting to rest on an old partially rotten tree stump. Woodworm had hollowed a lot of it out, it almost looked like a chair - but it's roots still burried themselves deep into the earth. A small campfire was lit, a sickly sweet brew was boiled of a root he'd pulled in the nearby bush. It wasn't survival, or... some hard struggle against all the odds. It was basically, tea. He wouldn't return to Norwick for some days, the forest called to him sometimes and he and it would slowly come to peace at the wanderings. They were almost the same being; a Druid's connection with nature? No, of course not. But some magic bound them, Yngdír and the Rawlins.


  • It was the moon that seemed most remarkable on this ancient battlefield. What great war they all stood at the edge of, what it was fought for and by whom - are all things that will forever be in dispute. That moon that seemed to have settled upon the world, half her body consumed by the horizon and so large and bright it was as though you had only to reach out and touch her cool face. The light of this moon illuminated all upon the field. Every spent arrow and ditched sword that stuck up from the dirt, the low shadows of the fallen that seemed to stretch out for miles, and over there upon a steady slope stood the Elves in their thousands - all gleaming in silver mail. A black shadow in silver turned his head to face Yngdír, and he became awash with emotion; dread and guilt at once, and with a sudden jerk he stirred from the deep meditation…

    His eyes fixed upward and he caught the very instant where veins of light marbled the sky, the lightning lingered a moment and then came the deep travelling sound of rolling thunder behind it. And almost instantly it began to rain; in the chill hours just before dawn his bones froze and any illusion of comfort was now no more clear a memory than the face of the brother at his side within his dream. That thought haunted him, and chilled him deeper than any storm.

    For a while he wondered if he was being punished. Though he understood not why that was, he had after all been fulfilling his oath and the promises besides to the Rawlins, he'd bled and spilled the blood of her enemies as it became necessary. Was there another requirement? Just bad luck, maybe. But such thoughts were usally if not always fleeting. Dismay was worse than pointless. Upon that realization the overcast sky above the Rawlins appeared to break in places to reveal the bright blue behind the heavy grey, and the wet mists of the morning sank back to the forest floor and all the green shoots of a new generation in the forest leaned up toward the new brightness. And as with all his moments of weakness or triumph, this feeling of renewal, of hope and strength would be only for him - for all the sentimentality, Yngdír would go on to never tell a soul.


  • The sounds in the forest would likely not give Yngdír away as he stalked his way through the wood. There was no sight or sound of Goblins, or spirits or fiends. Just Yngdír and the beautiful bird Nímar at his wrist. For years now, he'd allowed her to be unruly and untame, to get used to his presence and learn in her own time his commands. The goshawk was now content to stay by him, and to be his hunting companion.

    Together they went in silence and their travel was measured in time not distance. All the hours eventually passed into the turning of a whole day, and by the new dawn they arrived at a serene and untouched woodland clearing. It was uncertain as to just why the wide ring of trees had grown as they did, perhaps some twist of nature kept acorns and seeds from falling in this direction… perhaps an old Druid or Ranger place of gathering, now forgotten and reclaimed by the forest. The way was all clear, tall grasses bent limp to the breeze and the green colour of it was more fresh than the places of Men ever were, and among the thick cover Yngdír's prey contently foraged among the bountiful green. To the northwest the ground was higher, the steep sloped beginnings of a long ridge of foothills that crossed the Rawlins; that place would be Yngdír's vantage point today.

    It wasn't long before opportunity presented it's self, the white tails were quite easy to spot where the fat little rabbits had forced grass-patches to fall away to open lawn-like spots. Yngdír threw a heavy stick into the field and all the rabbits scattered, Nímar became alert and excited as she watched all the movement from his wrist - a quick motion and the hawk was released to full flight, and within seconds it was done. Yngdír had started running into the field following Nímar as soon as she'd been released, it still took him a little time to finally catch up with the animals. The hawk had raised her wings around the fresh kill and called loudly when Yngdír settled by the rabbit to claim it, she had opened the skin enough for Yngdír to need to gut the kill on the spot, and after feeding Nímar a small amount of raw meat he'd been carrying as though from the rabbit, she willingly gave up the hunt. This practice continued just once more, a little further up the field - and then the two began their return journey.

    Hunting like this gave Yngdír time to contemplate the events of the few days, weeks and months that had passed. It was a good feeling for things to finally be coming together, and he had already asked La'ali to be his wife. His thoughts were on her, just as before during his year or more in absolute solitude in the forest, as he cooked the fresh kills over a low flameless fire. He'd carried some coal around for a while, and some ash sticks became a grill over the heat. The rejected pieces he fed to Nímar, he'd never really fed the bird before - but now that she was 'his' hawk, he would do all he could to preserve the bond. Eggbutt was finally dead; beheaded and burned. He'd known vampires to have suffered less final fates. But it was necessary, surely. For all the pain and trouble he'd caused for so long, the price of all of these injustices was dear, and he had paid with his life. Just as Yngdír had sworn all those years ago, when the 'creature' was just another petty Goblin.

    Some things never change; from petty Goblin to dead Goblin. None of his kind will ever hold power for long. More troubling thoughts came to him as he ate, no staff - no stone... those items he'd heard about now belonged to another, and a demon no less. The artifact that was a joke in the hands of a Goblin was now in the hands of the demons? He was in a sobering state of dread as his contemplative mind went over the endless possibilities of this 'creator' stone, along with the limitless cruelty and malice of the most evil of creatures.

    His thoughts went back to La'ali as he lay in this peaceful glade in the forest, his campfire had been the only one there for ages it seemed. His eyes watched the great wingspan of his hawk circle the world above him, broad rings - and slow to complete. Just how far was Nímar travelling, was her closeness an illusion, a trick of the mind? Or was her glide genuinely so graceful... La'ali too was graceful, and she too drew his eyes to follow. The evening passed to night, and the night once more to dawn - and Yngdír stared upon an empty sky. Nímar had gone, and he was again the lone wolf in the Rawlins.


  • The air in the forest was filled thick with the acrid stink of rot as Yngdír's foot sank down into the forest floor. A bog, or a swamp - he thought at first until he drew in the bitter taste with his breath. A Goblin's decaying remains had become part of the landscape, a shallow grave of leaves and what mud had tried to claim him had left him hidden from sight, a gorey surprise for forest walkers. In this old battlefield between the trees, disturbing reminders were scattered and the true nature of Goblin 'battle formation' was clearer by it. There obviously had been none.

    He walked on, occasionally the light metallic sound from beneath his feet as he kicked the little Goblin tools of war, small daggers and beat metal that barely passed for shortswords. A little one had fallen face first with an arrow in it's back, it was mostly skelital now, a waxy layer of skin over bone - a little fist reaching forward as a last grasp for it's sword. Yngdír knelt and moved the blade to the Goblins hand - and left this part of the forest where death ruled.

    There were fewer sounds to be heard as he travelled the old paths, deeper. It felt he was now climbing uphill, and the trees had become thicker - the roots more gnarled and often woven out through the dirt in great hollow humps. He liked this place, the wide trees that he guessed no-one would've seen for an age, and here he thought not on those things that weighed heavy upon him; but on fair faces, secret laughter, and the tenderness that would come after marriage. In his palm, a light ring of silver which he turned all around over uncountable hours. Every detail so fine, the lack thereof was still marvellous.

    The normality of Yngdír's mind, his thoughts and his ability to to do and feel all of those things that others think, do, or feel - could be surprising; Especially to those who have the rare grace that is to converse with him. And yet, it was so. His 'sentimental' thoughts of what he must say, or what he might say to she who enjoys his affection. He already knew the answer. But the question?

    A leather lace bound to his belt tied the ring to his person, a careful fold kept it concealed and safe. With all the weight of the world on his shoulders he heaved himself up and away from the great tree in the forest, and built his camp. Darkness had come and gone without sight or sound of danger or alarm, the night might've been cold - but with no great mission or need for great stealth for Yngdír, he'd spent most of it by a small but hot campfire. The thin white smoke from which faded among the treetops. A white ring of ash with the faint glow of red embers remained in the pale of morning. It was extinguished and left, and after only a day or so Yngdír was once again at the south gates. Nobody seemed to notice he'd been missing; perhaps he kind of likes it that way.


  • For so long ran Yngdír, and so far. The very nature of his mission had collapsed in on it's self, a spectacular end as he had been about to send up the flare. One great retreat by th Goblins, followed by nothing. The moment, lost, failure to climax. Something was terribly wrong and Yngdír literally nipped the fuse - some days of watching, and waiting followed. The woods became quiet, serene… unlike the days of his arrival or tense quiets between battles. But genuinely calm. So calm that, after a week or so, it was hard to imagine a time when there had been battles here. No Goblin was heard nor seen, and shadow no longer stole warmth from Yngdír's blood or his heart. The Hungry One had left this place, why? He could guess no answer.

    It was felt in his heart that he should leave, there was no longer a rational reason for him to remain in the forest - something had obviously shifted the priority of the Wendigo and he could aid no-one from his position, with that thought, he left.

    Through no easy journey over hill, rock and plain. The perils of the freezing rivers that etch out the brilliant landscape of Narfell, and back again. His was a quiet journey, and long he marched. Through bad weather of wind and rain, snow in the high places even, but so quiet... and never more than a few days from the great Rawlinswood. Some journeys were slow - in that the problems set on his path were difficult to overcome without conflicting with his curse. Many times he was forced by the landscape to turn back and choose another path, some of these paths were weeks back - and often, it felt to him as though he would be trapped forever to travel in circles.

    Amazingly, and to credit Yngdír's abilities as a Ranger, he did manage to escape the dark places in the forest. What battles he may have fought, and whether he won, retreated, or avoided them shall forever remain his knowledge alone. The troubles that were overcome by 'one' may perhaps never pass to immortal legend - not that Yngdír minds.

    So it came, the night when Yngdír arrived once again outside the Norwick gates. He had rested before just a short distance away from the town, he'd even used Jerrick's campfire to his own ends as he rested and reflected on his journey - his mission, his return. He was troubled a bit, by the notion of returning in failure, that thought alone yet haunts him. To be marked here, a failure. Perhaps it is why then, that he chooses not to speak of it - at least for now. His return was swift, and by his own discretion he made no-one any the wiser for his return and curiously he travelled north by horse. Few would know to where he sped on horseback in the black of the most stormy night, perhaps fewer still would mark his return in the early hours of the morning when dark still blanketed the world.

    But for all it is, Yngdír's return.


  • "_…Every minute I get weaker
    While in the jungle they grow strong
    What I wanted was a mission
    And for my sins they gave me one

    They brought it up just like room service
    Cause everyone gets what they want
    And when that mission was all over
    I'd never want another one..._ ": Iron Maiden - The Edge of Darkness

    How long as it been now? Does all of this even matter anymore? Does Norwick still stand? He wonders, if he's the only one left by now. Have the Wolves been successful in the tasks he put forward - is the alliance ready to move? Have they moved already? There hasn't been a voice besides his own for - how long has it been…?

    Food, and good food, is not always impossible to come by even in impossible situations. Can someone do without fire? How could anyone prepare meat without the hot coals to bake it. The ways of a Ranger are classical, ancient, timeless. Effective in his day as they were in ages past, the things learned and passed down from the ancestors - and then forgotten by the modernization of the world. Taken for granted by the young, or those in good fortune. But Yngdír knows, he respects and in turn is granted the bounty of nature. From the gods? From his own skill and knowledge? Perhaps these things are interwoven. His survival is depentant in the frozen, dark days, on his use of snares. With what else would he catch the rabbit? The flesh is hanged, the pelt is worn - the bones are burried.

    Those beetles that crawl behind the bark to lay, the grubs that hatch. The shoots of forest plants and flowers, the seed and sap. All of these things a feast. No one would sustain anyone for long, but together in the variaty that nature yeilds - Yngdír would survive.

    Yngdír would survive. Were it that the very basics of his training were all the task required. Luckily, or perhaps to his misfortune, the entire wood was engulfed in a thick creeping mist. All within were blind, all who tried to look within were blind too. He could wear this as his disguise, no shape would be seen passing from here to there. It could be guessed that he would have to physically bump into his hunters for them to ever find him when the fogs rolled in. His temporary sanctuary, his security. His desolation.

    The time for it all to end was drawing near perhaps. The tension was too much and something would have to snap. Until then, he thought.


  • Exercise, it's probably the best way to brave a tense situation short of punching someone in the face. Yngdír might've even had his chance at that. Having grown so used to waiting it was a surprise to him when the real battles started.

    The wood of his staff had split and freyed at the ends from his practice, there was nothing gentle about the way he was using the staff even if it looked like a choreographed act - and the thrusts were after all supposed to shatter bone or rupture the internal goodybag that is a foe's gut. Something was off about it though, the whole forest felt like it would shatter like glass at any moment and all the trees and grass and animals would give way to something… something beyond his ken, anyway. From just beyond the treeline his concerns were justified - how many Bugbear captains called out for their soldiers to attack? It doesn't matter, nothing shattered into oblivion but instead it all came to life and Yngdír dropped his staff, and fell to the forest floor immediately, fearing detection. It seemed that this was not the case.

    Smokey torches lit the ends of the bridges, still held by the Bugbears if only by a swords edge. Yngdír had rushed foolhardily to the forest edge to watch the battle for himself, he watched arrows cross the deep ravine - what water ran below was now masked by the blackness of a darkening night, or did it run black with the blood of demons and Bugbears this night - he ducked as a reaction when the first of the flying spawn came in and knew that now was the time to fall back or to lose himself tonight among the dead, for good. And so he withdrew. As he fell back there were noises of the world crashing down behind him, branches cracked and snapped as bark split and Bugbears ran out their final futile steps to shelter from the horrors outside within the forest. The ferocity of the battle noise was disturbing to him, he had never heard the sound of monster at war with monster - and it was terrible. Yngdír turned to watch the chaos one last time and walked slowly backwards as his body refused to stop, each Bugbear that tried to flee - cut down to die by some enemy in the dark. The illumination from the torches creating a scene of shadows, so clear and perfect that no detail was lost. He turned once more and vanished into the night.

    Dawn would show no relent from what was taking place between the Bugbears and the Hungry One's forces, there were days like this in Norwick where it seemed the fighting would never end - and Yngdír felt for the enemies of his enemy, they would know loss if it continued this way. Ostromog would learn defeat and be replaced by something worse, of all the stinking luck it would come to this. Whatever was going to happen, it would happen soon. There might not be time for another message though, there would have to be some kind of signal. Well, it wouldn't be like him to go anywhere unprepared. Mist rose through the forest and Yngdír sat with his back to an ancient gnarled elm, a brief thought to the age of the tree with it's massive trunk, and on to business. He made sure to face away from the battle - in the mist it seemed like a bad idea to rely on his eyes. He wrote one last note and said goodbye to Nímar. He was very clear that she should not return to this place, whether the hawk listened or not is perhaps another matter.

    The cold winds although broken and slowed by the trees of the forest brought with them the stench of another bloody battle. The air was thick with it, and Yngdír wondered if everything that he'd waited for had already just happened. If it was just another random attack on the Bugbears, no. This was too different, it was too violent - this would be it, the catalyst, the ultimate shift in power. It was time to watch now more than ever - something wicked would soon come to pass and in the balance stood all that he had come to know. Good and Evil would stand together even if it was just this once, and there would be a united front to battle a god. Yngdír's part would be small, he knew this, he had known since he recieved his orders. But a critical mission, survive and signal, and there was nothing more to know. Nímar had gone out of sight, he had clarity once more and was again in the moment. Battle echoed still, the sound carried through the great chasm and Yngdír chose to remain with his back against that ancient tree. In his mind, his plan played out and told himself that it would be over soon.

    And like that, he was once again alone in the Rawlins.


  • Exercise, the act of physical exertion to retain the fitness of the body. A difficult thing to maintain with so few calories in the day-to-day diet, but important nonetheless. It also helped him in his solitary condition to combat the depression that came with loneliness, and the anxiety that came from being on enemy ground, and yet Yngdír kept stable and honed his ability still.

    The off-the-track grove-let that he'd been calling home for a time was more comfortable than can be explained - although it was far from paradise, someone trained to forage and beyond all else, to survive, would find life simple. There was sustenance to be had for someone who knew what to look for - and Yngdír was for now that someone. And each day as a gatherer, seldome a hunter, he was forced to the edge of the forest to collect the lush things that do not grow among thick trees. This way was perfect for observing the Bugbear camps without making himself uncomfortable. Besides that, it had now become apparent that he'd be spending more time here than anyone could have guessed.

    There were always long sticks on the ground that had simply snapped off from the ancient trees. Yngdír inspected these raw staves, taking practical measurements of weight, and height and even the thickness. He hoped to find one as close to the dimensions of his double-sword as possible - but few woods weigh as much as steel, and he would have to make do. The bo-staff, an ancient weapon - with a point on the end it becomes a crude spear - still useful maybe, for hunting or fishing - maybe combat. But this was not the way he used his, his was a bo-staff. Really, a stick. With his skinning knife he spent a short while just peeling the bark off, the raw wood within was still fresh and scenty - and the bark was supple and tough. He kept the long strands of bark, for whatever purpose. He left the flexible stave to dry through. As he waited he sent off a message with Nímar, the first in a long time.

    He drew back his hood and let his scarf fall down as wrote on the thin ribbon of parchment. He was comfortable, his strange solid-green eyes, without pupil, wondered up at the sky - a strange stillness came over him as though he fed off the starlight. Although the sky barely visible through the dense forest, there was much comfort to Yngdír in knowing that it was still there.

    Patience, he was no saint but Yngdír's patience was something of a personality trait. Whether anyone really knows him - it's his characteristic patience thats always shone through. It made him appear, in the past, disinterested or unconcerned, or arrogant. But he was always too patient to explain to others, and mindful of the volatile nature of most people. His time of patience was finished, signalled by the faint white blur at either side of the Ranger as his make-shift bo-staff sped, in reverse, in a widely performed kata. The 'rear' portion of the staff he used as the main point of contact - this, also, required concentration and focus. His body turned, and the staff moved as fluid, instead of bringing the back-end up and round he assaulted in a more common way.

    He continued to move, and switch, and move, and switch - he got comfortable with it as a weapon. Over time, his ability progressed - he used the staff much as he would've used his sword, instead of weaving in simple backwards - forwards rotations, there were violent sweeps, thrusts, reverse swings, reverse thrusts. His body-work and nimble movements were as those of a sword-dancer, his katas grew in power and finesse. He practiced, sometimes until he was physically spent, often falling to his knees and repeating the same exercise in his mind through reverie as his body recovered.

    Although his body grew slim and tired looking, his muscles and mind were not allowed their chance to weaken, and his heart was not allowed to fail. And neither Bugbear, or his friends would witness the disciplined poetry of a warrior's grace, in the dark and dangerous, and lonely forest.


  • "This was a stupid idea, I'll drown if I…" his thoughts were sharply halted as a black shadow slid inside the entrance to his 'cave'. There was barely much room for Yngdír laying flat, a few inches above the shoulder but his feet were pressed between the earth and the rock. Although the heavy rain, his concern - his complaint - had made things much more loose within his new den.

    The shadow glittered at the back. It was like a cord of black leather, or a glass filled with night. It was cold, even evil just to look upon. A black snake from the forest - probably looking for shelter from the rain. An adder, at least he hoped it was an adder. It was fat and almost black in colour, probably a female. "I hate snakes..." he knew it could probably already sense him, but it was an opportunity that would not be lost - after all, it had been some time since he'd had fresh meat. It was probably luck that the snake had become slow and quite docile in the cold, it was probably luck that the entire population hadn't just died out in the frozen waste that the forest was becoming. Yngdír became the snake, but he wasn't a mere adder - he was the king cobra, a snake-eater. His lips curled back and he struck at the snake's head, clamping down on it with his teeth, with luck, skill, precision he made his mark. The adder's face was sealed and though it struggled it would never open it's mouth again.Yngdír's tongue rolled back into his throat to act as a barrier - fearing the release of venom. There wasn't much room, and the snake's body thrashed violently sending mud and noise about.

    He breathed heavily through his nose, in the chaos it was hard not to swallow or let go of his meal - but he kept his head and brought up his skinning knife, removing the serpent's head, the fangs that would bite him would soon be dead. About three inches of it's 'neck', down to the body was also removed - just in case, and in the same single movement he tossed the head out of his cave and he spat, and he had escaped the venom this time - but a bite to his tongue would have without a doubt been fatal.

    He lay on his back for a few moments feasting on the chilled blood of the snake, he wouldn't let it go to waste even though he was probably once again in danger. It was such a rich taste, something flavourful for a change. None of this dry meat today, it was fresh. But he couldn't enjoy his meal here, not safely or comfortably - it was time once again to move.

    Yngdír tied the loose end of the cord from his jerky pouch around the snake's wound and made a hasty escape from the small cave that had housed him, his body slid across the mud and much water was released from below him. It ran down the hill, along with the rest of the debris loosened by the rain - as well as himself. He found himself retreating to a deeper area of the forest, no more stalking the edges or constant staring. He didn't have the resources for it by now. From here he had judged, that he would be able to forage, and perhaps even hunt small game. If there was any hunt to be had in this place. All the time, the snake's body wriggled and twitched - sometimes violently, but ever slowing and dying. It didn't truly matter, the rain was still heavy as the Ranger passed into his wooded seclusion.

    The rain had stopped by the time he found himself in the area that he would choose. Thick mossy overhangs that looked as though they were untouched for centuries draped down randomly from even thin branches, some of the boughs of the larger trees had cracked and re-sealed judging by the scars on the bark, under the weight of it. There was little bush in the forest - it was just trees, and more trees. But there was plenty of scrub along the outskirts should he choose to go back and take a look. The smells were made richer for all the rain, the soil - the moss, the bark and the leaves were all aloud with scent and colour. Everything was perfect, and if it were any other day - any other mission, he might have been content to camp here. There was plenty of firewood though he would not light it, the area was fresh with opportunity. But there were other concerns, but at least, he had something to eat. The skin from the body of the snake peeled back quite easily - he kept it, certain that it would be useful someday - and with just a quick movement of his knife the guts were expelled. He didn't seem to mind eating such things, although if anyone were to ask - he'd probably say that he didn't particularly enjoy it either. The meat felt like it had been left to chill on a cold stone, and it had a curious flavour which he would not guess at.

    Once he had disposed of the nasty bits by burial - he took a fresh look about his 'new home'. All his notions of pleasentness were swiftly moved from his mind as the day passed him by and now, this dark place of shadows and death, for, death was all that he could guess from the sounds of battle - was all that was before him and about him. He guessed at the location of a secret, hidden path that he'd once discovered, it became something of an ambition for him to try and find the other side of it. Maybe, he hoped, it was close by. By his reckoning it might as well lead this way.

    He sat again, there was too much going on for him to think rationally in this state. His heart-rate was still high from wrestling with snakes and jogging through the forest. He allowed himself once more to fall into reverie, his hope for clarity - in his mind the map, retracing his former journey, to reveal the path... he slowed and thought.

    As Yngdír rested a few hundred meters behind the tree-line there was confusion for one of the bugbear sentries, who'd thought he'd seen something big and grey moving into the forest. It took the Goblin a little longer to make his way across the muddy run-off land - at times his poor knees wobbling, it's almost certain that each grunt and growl was a curse in his own tongue. At least he managed to keep his balance. The Bugbear was quite cunning, he wouldn't simply give up on the task - he'd seen 'something' going in there, into the forest. His black eyes widened, and he grasped at his greatsword as the faint hint of movement came from just within the bush - the warrior, so brave - and confident - outstretched his hand to clear a view through the rough, tangled mass of green... and was met by a great, grey bird. Nímar cried out and clawed at the startled Bugbear with her talons - and shot off up into the air in a heartbeat. She circled a few times, calling down to the enraged Bugbear, and flew off toward the Misty Pond. It could be guessed, that she was going fishing. The Bugbear would probably keep this incident to himself, rather than face the embarrassment of telling his comrades about the bird that 'defeated' him.


  • That irrelevant seamless event that continues throughout the entirety of our existance, Time - time. Days turn to weeks and Yngdír fails to mark up any reasonable thought as to just how long he might've been there, but fresh in his mind was the fact that he had moved a few days back - not very far. There was a landslide, it was old and probably not shaped by nature. At least he could see no other reason for it. A few rocks that had landed awkwardly made his 'den', it felt like a coffin…

    This tomb of stone was much warmer than being among the trees - and dirty, and deep enough. He was quite hidden. Besides, a thin layer of moss had already grown over his cloak - he had turned into some, muddy-brown creature - not even a creature, he just was. Earth, soil, gravel - life. He was all of these things because of his alien location. Yngdír lay still... the jerky he had was remarkably still keeping, possibly because of the bag that contained it. There was no moisture getting to it, and very little air. It was kept cold... and best of all it would continue to feed a wayward Wolf. He wondered for a while on someone, was he right to say it as he did? ... Maybe. And as the crickets started to sound off he raised his head slowly from the earthy ground - and watched out over Ostromog's secluded forest path.


  • Each time an injured Bugbear passed strange images would stir in Yngdír's mind. Who might say for sure just how many times he'd watched the wounded pass, or how many times he'd stood up and alone for a purpose. Was this truly any different from the other sacrifices he'd made to get here? Probably. What angel would swoop down and touch his shoulder, and tell him that there would be a tomorrow - this time? His thoughts were on his 'gifted' brother this night. For the night brought no peace of it's own, and he would have to endure by his own thoughts. Was it jealousy that stole his heart - perhaps pride at his brother, so powerful and with such coveted skill. He recalled upon the old days where he stood in shining chain - 'and where did this hood and scarf come from - it doesn't matter, people know it by now better than my own face', so he thought.

    The sound of persistant skirmishing was always just beyond, maybe it felt closer as it echoed through the vast, deep chasm, deep and wide enough to hold many boats - the cliffs on either side so tall. For all that was going on he remained in meditation. His mind was aflood with fleeting images - at times, stopping on a critical memory from his past. This time his mother, she was so beautiful - magical, not of our world. His father, a wizard who loved this beautiful 'alien'. He was born of their love, as was his brother. Twins - with such differences that none might ever have suspected that they'd come from the same womb. Maybe then it was jealousy, that his brother appeared normal - with dark hair and features more typical to the Elf, would have such arcane power. It had never come easy to Yngdír, his pursuits had to take a different role. He would leave his home often, a political tool - at times a soldier, at times a warden. His memories were of places and creatures that could never exist in this place. Exotic food and drink, what passion had Yngdír for such basic things - maybe he had once been used to finer things, maybe he was able to simply accept what he had become.

    He remembered his last 'mission', where he was chosen with a small group to travel east across the greatest known desert. The journey would have been folly without a wizard - his brother, the sorceror, who's potent magic had come from breeding not books, would have to do. Yngdír was tasked to lead the group - there were only four in total. 'I remember now, the hood kept the sun off my neck and head, the mask saved me from going blind' - the fleeting elaborate memories were making strange things to him, now make sense. . . the sky turned to pink just below the grey, the misty dew of dawn was painted with the colour and Yngdír marvelled at the beauty that could become so clear in a place where death and pain were Master.

    'I wonder when this will all end. I wonder, what will I do when it is the end?' As the bitter air warmed the crisp fog settled into a lighter state, and at the same time the clouds in his mind were lifted.


  • Early morning and the same routine was presented to Yngdír, as it had been for - well, who could say for sure. This was a near-secret place - those who challenged the Bugbear King never used to make it this far. Those who challenged him were not demons before, though. Yngdír kept his place. He ate a little that day, he never looked too closely at the supply of dried meat he was forced to buy these days, it had a strange taste to him but by now he was so used to it that it really didn't matter. He was a little jealous of the other hunters who still freely took their game, it was his choice to stop though. His choice to save his arrows for the Enemy.

    Another shadow overhead - Nímar had found her way back, what a smart bird. It was as surprise to him then, when he found that this time she had 'brought' a message with her, surprised and a little annoyed maybe. Regardless he drew the message out of Nímar's tiny scroll-case and read it while the Sun cast it's light from behind him - straight into the eyes of anyone who might look his way, friend or foe. His cheek dimpled slowly as he read through the message for whatever reason. Perhaps at the innocence of it all.

    Things were a little more serious than that unfortunately. It could've been hard to tell if he was seen just how serious it was, a piece of jerky half way in his mouth and writing along a strip of parchment. It's not really dangerous to move a little more free during these hours, as long as he's quiet. It's probably just as well. The faintest whisper and Nímar disappears out of sight and hearing range, a fast bird.


  • A smart bird, all Yngdír had to do was hold his arm out so far, maybe Nímar was familiar with the bracer - maybe it was the movement down below that caught the attention of her immeasurably sharp sight. Whatever it was she hopped from branch to branch in a slow descent, eventually dropping free with her wings partially spread, to land silently and lightly on Yngdír's arm. Within just a few moments the message, the destination - these things were all she needed, and so she was gone again.

    Although she, Nímar - the Hawk, did not emerge from the tree-line, or even touch the forest floor not that anyone would ever know but her, until she reached the point of clearing by Norwick. From there she was swift in her flight north, to wherever she was to deliver.


  • Night turns to day, day to night - time is fleeting and there is no peace. Yngdír sits in the deepest state of meditation between the world and infinity. His senses, sharpened and at the same time dulled. Everything is surreal, everything is so real. All the blood of battle, every cry and every single one of the wounded Bugbears, his enemies. Clarity. The adrenaline from getting to this point is little more than a memory now, the thoughts that once plagued him are neither here nor there now. Concsiousness and focus, consciousness and focus - there can be no error. But where am I? I am in the middle. The battle will be right here. This is where I am, it is where I am. If I move I will miss it. I will wait a little longer. He contemplates, maybe. Maybe in his head there is a silence where there are no battles, the peace after the war - how else could someone remain so serene in this hell?

    It doesn't even startle him when a shadow passes over him. It's far too brief to be one of 'them', he knows what it is. It's obviously Nímar, it's about time. What kept you? No, I'm not going to greet you. I won't even look, just wait. Patience, please. His cheek dimpled a little in that moment, a smile in the shadowey grey of the world around him, behind the scarf that kept him so secret - a little joy in a dark place. In his chest beat the heart of a champion, the plan would work - the pieces were coming together. All he needed was Nímar to show up. Perfect.

    It was easy for him to write his little message too, he'd pulled his cloak around him like a poncho as soon as he sat, it would've been funny to see - it would've been funny to notice, that rock that was really a living person. They'd just have to forgive him, the Wolves that is - he couldn't write in common unless he could see what he was marking out. He didn't put much thought into how embarrassed he might be when he'd returned, that's just Yngdír though. It was a little annoying to him, that his concentration had been broken - but the visit from the Hawk lightened his heart, he took it as a sign that he was no longer alone in the forest. That the Wolves of Narfell had got his message. By now they'd probably already set up their own watch-posts along the south-Rawlins passes. In Yngdír's mind there was no chance that the Hungry One would be able to move now without the allies of his charge, the Forest, knowing about it.

    Ignorance is bliss after all.


  • Through the trees another secretive grey hunter moves, swift - quiet. Even a bird as large as the female Goshawk could move as a ghost from branch to branch - and her sight would far exceed the eyes of any Goblin. She had circled high above the Rawlins for a while now - her loud cries and calls went unanswered. But she knew most of the land well enough, she was always flying - free and fearless, a warrior-bird from ancient sagas. Maybe not, yet she was beautiful to behold - and her wingspan magnificent. A strong bird.

    Even Yngdír had little knowledge of why he was chosen by the bird - it all happened one day a long time ago while he was hunting the Rawlins-deer, in more peaceful times. A practice that he has let go for now. Yngdír thought on it sometimes, how she gracefully swept along just above the tall grass and perched herself on his outstretched bow-arm. It's always a strange sensation when a wild animal befriends you, at least he thought so. He had never tried to feed the bird or to tame it - but her visits were too frequent to not name the Hawk. So he named her Nímar, like the free clouds that soar high. The name must've been befitting of this great bird, as she has since answered to it.

    Perhaps she just likes Yngdír's grey feathers.

    Yngdír had sat in reverie, he often contemplated things that were warming to him while on these missions, and staying in such a relaxed state would slow his metabolism even further, his heart rate - his breath. It was perfect for deep scouting. Naturally, he was constantly aware of the passing Bugbears, the ones coming out of the caves were battle-ready, strong - proud to fight for their king maybe - the customs of Bugbears did not interest him. The ones that returned, if any, were wounded and few. But it was too rare that the Hungry One's soldiers could even reach this point - it just didn't feel like it was time yet to call the Wolves, the Legion… the whole of Narfell to battle. He was in deep cover, Yngdír knew all too well the importance of being hidden from above as well as anywhere else in this forest. The dark shadows from the sky that had turned him before were revealed in his coming to this place - horrifying creatures, undeath and demon alike - befouled all.

    Nímar had only followed Yngdír so far from the air, she saw those shadows approach long before they started battling on the ground. Typical of the nature of all of these birds she took a swift dive into the thick forest canopy.