3. Playing Lonewolf, in the Rawlins

Playing Lonewolf, 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.


  • Even as he wandered along, a short distance from the road of many battles he could hear yet more fighting in the distance. Even the sound of death was crisp in the air and Yngdír's throat became dry with a dread, but necessary realization - his chance to move on had finally been revealed. All along his path the bodies and pieces of a Goblinoid army were strewn, he wondered how long ago these ones had fallen, he was used to his thoughs by now. The path of the dead as he might remember it forever more lead him to the mines, it seemed obvious that this would be the place - but why could he still hear fighting from within? Normally a threat would have been repelled. 'Oh well, just another breach' he thought. It didn't really surprise him, maybe he just wanted an excuse not to continue. It never really mattered before but something here stole his confidence, he felt that he was alone in the forest. Even the Goblin army was dead and cold at his feet.

    'Don't be so sentimental, where did these thoughs even come from? This isn't you Yngdír' - he pressed his back to the damp wall of the cave, he'd got deeper inside while his mind wandered. The banging of a loose, rickety and battered gate as it blew in the wind managed to draw his attention, it's the only door. There is no other way. He watched it waving in the dark, it beckoned him along - it opened it's arms in a cool breeze from behind him. He took a chance and slid through the shadows along the walls, into the next chamber - and the next. He was about to cross into yet another chamber when the padding of bare feet against hard rock drew closer, quickly - a small Goblin … no, a vile Goblin-befouled. Tainted, wounded. Retreating, obviously. 'Keep it together Yngdír there's no-one here to help if you're caught'. All of these thoughts in a blinking instant, the padding of Goblin feet was barely out of earshot and Yngdír was already beyond the last gate, and into another battle.

    It seemed to him, that these Bugbears might be fighting the Demon for another long while, on either side the wounds were deep - a three on one advantage to the Bugbears, even so Yngdír was impressed by the martial prowess of the Goblin team. Two greatswords, and a caster that he had not yet noticed - and would not notice until it was too late... from nowhere, a spell - the daze, his head felt like it would split in two and he could do nothing but stare forward out from the dark rock. The fight continued, the spell intended for someone else's enemy - one lucky break after another as the Demon fell dead to the ground and the Bugbears left the chamber, and Yngdír behind. He still doesn't know for sure if they'd spotted him, but his concern lies ahead - a back door, a rear entrance. The freshness of a breeze not tainted by death.

    A great chasm opened up to his left, a noisy Bugbear camp to his right - and an oncoming troop of Bugbear heavy soldiers coming from straight ahead, that would have been the case had Yngdír not immediately moved to cover once exiting the cave. He watched the troops pass into the mines and out of sight. He was clever in his use of cover, it was the dead of night and he had already made it so far. Only the constant noise of battle and dying cries kept him from growing cocky.

    It seemed like things would only get worse for him as he came to a narrow point guarded on either side with a double sentry. At first he considered his chances at shimmying long the slender ridge, it was a foolish idea - one that could have cost him his life, as though that ment anything anymore. The notion was enough to raise his spirits, his heart was made lighter with the presence of humour. It wouldn't be so bad, 'I'll just wait a little while' he thought. He was right to wait, despite acting dangerously stupid by toying with fate, and the guards while their backs were turned - it worked out in the end. Both guards marched half way down the road, a patrol maybe - for once it didn't cross Yngdír's mind, he didn't have time for this nonsense - he moved as soon as he could to the next cover. From behind the noise of battle, some bugbears rushed past him from up front and gave him a chance to proceed. It was typical, it was surgical, timing and patience were critical. His successful execution had lead him to thick cover again, a wooded area where he could walk freely through the trees again. This place then, this is where he will wait. Surrounded and between enemies, a long way from anyone he could call friend. This is really it then, no way back - no way forward.

    Perhaps then, it was that Tymora smiled down on him. Or that a gift from a friend had kept him concealed when all eyes might have been looking for him. Perhaps his own Sehanine lending Her will to Yngdír on his lonely quest into the Rawlinswood to aid in the destruction of the most foul abomination that was once the Wendigo. Perhaps, all of these things. But now while he sits alone in the deep-dark-woods that his new purpose is clear. The possibility, or probability of retreat is slim to null - his message must be delivered when the time comes. He must not fail.


  • Yngdír had remained in the same spot until darkness once again swallowed the Rawlins completely. Bats were common in most of these areas often though as no more than a faint whispering of their beating wings. Ocasionally the noise would increase as they rushed closer to him though - Yngdír wondered at times if they ever got embarrassed for getting too close before realizing his presence, as they appeared to dart off suddenly when they approached too near. Slight things that he took humour from in the cold and dark, but it was time to put these things behind him and move on.

    Getting up from his hide wasn't a simple jump, or even short careful period. It took determination and chance, sound-masking techniques came in useful whether he was seen or not - it would be folly to even let the faintest sound escape. After the task of getting up in silence he spent a short while longer masking the traces of his presence and altering what tracks might be irreversable. Such techniques were always simple - and more often than not, successful. The hours drew in through the night, Yngdír would not risk entering the Enemies' territory too deeply - he skimmed the borders, if borders can be taken seriously in that neck of the woods.

    He finally came to an area that was once seldome travelled, but now was the staging point of many battles between Ostromog and the Hungry One. He was still a fair distance away from immediate danger, or so he'd thought. He had watched battles in this area before and knew well to steer clear of the battleground. He wasn't feeling too bad about it. He trusted his gut and so continued down parallel to the marching road now used by the servants of the Hungry One.


  • Something Yngdír had always advised against too, but he left the south gates in the dead of night - and travelled a road that had become as familiar to him as the back of his hand. His own intentions would have been to remain with the others in Norwick while preperations were made for the battle, after the last time and the new enemies in the forest, it would have never crossed his mind to enter the deep Rawlinswood again. But he recieved his orders, and without voicing his concerns he left.

    It's not surprising that no-one saw him moving too far away from the town, even if they had there would be no explanation for him disappearing so suddenly into the darkness of the night - but this would be credited to a blade he had recieved, and it's unsheathed state. With it he had no real need for the ghillie suit that he would often make, with it he probably had no true need for any camoflage, but it was against his nature to be complacent - and so went as softly as he could manage. More likely however it had been his intention to create his hiding garb from more local sources. Such things that often happen in Yngdír's considerations when no-one is around to appreciate them.

    Although he had appeared to have made little preperation in Norwick he had given himself enough time to purchase what lasting supplies as he would comfortably carry, and to send a hawk into flight. A winged messenger sent off to some northern location, from the town at least.

    Now within the dark, thick areas of the forest would come his true test. The one that he had hoped to avoid but would now be at the mercy of, the Ghost Wolves of the enemy. His thoughts turned to what had overheard from another scout as he took his first rest of the journey, that they could not be hid from. He wondered if this had been considered before he was given the orders, his mind was not calm for all of this - and his heart was made heavy by his situation.


  • A few nights later Yngdír had re-poisitioned at the opposite end of the goblin territory. He walked quite freely at times, the high brackens hadn't been tended and Yngdír would be almost invisible against the old browning stalks. He watched everything from this area, it seemed perfect to him, and so he waited. By the break of each day he would take a few precise paces back behind the front lair of bracken.

    It had been a long while in the dark forest. Yngdír knew all that was available and yet he starved - he would risk no fire. His revereie would not endanger him, but he took little rest. He was nervous, at times, in the forest. The loniless would creep up on him and his thoughts wandered at times, but he maintaned his focus and watched the Goblins and their misdoings for a little while longer.

    In the end he decided that he had all the information he would find out there and made all the sense of it that he could - and chose to return to defend Norwick, and the Pass, and the great forest. After a day of slow stealthy - or tired - walking through the forest Yngdír chose to once eagain act on his survival instinct. He sat still for a moment and listened - a bird was singing and he crept in the direaction of the sound. He ascended the tree with no knife or weapon drawn for when he reached the nest he knew the bird would fly. He wasn't after meat, that would be too messy. Instead he helped himself to two small blue-ish eggs, he popped them both in his mouth and slid down the tree crunching and grinding at the shells and their contents, and eating them raw and whole.

    Long ago he had become nature's beast to roam, but he still had his heart and his mind and his soul, and he felt guilt and shame for eating the eggs. But his body needed sustenance and Yngdír believed he had made the right choice.

    His journey was slow and long, but the closer to Norwick he got, the thinner the trees became. The woods were lighter, for longer - in the days and during the night. The columns of light pouring down through small breaks in the branches above became a rare, forgotten beauty. Fewer moths flew in the night in this area, or perhaps the bats and owls could catch them better in the less dense regions of the forest. He began passing familiar sights and sounds, the smell of Norwick's fire carried on a wind from the north, and as though empowered he paced on toward it until eventually reaching the gates.

    He pulled his camoflage-caked hood back and walked past the guards, past the fire, past the northern gates - he walked all the way to the Legion Tower, yet without rest - and made his reports to his General.

    Albeit after a change of clothing.


  • It's evening, the bright red glow on many green leaves overhead, and below it lies Yngdír's shadowey world. No light now enters the woods, it seems to only wash over. In this strange twilight he takes his chance to re-position, and refresh his ghillie suit. He shed the skin moss and brachan as thought it was a simple cloak and retreated some ways north, to where he'd tapped a tree. Food would be essential on this long term mission and Yngdír knew his own supplies wouldn't last that long, it was time for him to improvise.

    He was far now, from the goblin camps and he took rest by the marked birch which would provide him with his meal. He watched the quick dripping sap as it bled from the small wound and ran down a make-shift peg, into his deep wooden bowl. He'd left it there for a few days, and the bowl had been overflowing. The trees were generous at this time of year. He pulled the peg out and buried it next to the tree, the wound was sealed by the piece of bark he'd cut out to draw the sap - and after tending the tree Yngdír sat drinking his sweet bounty. He was becoming thin, his muscles were relaxing - all the stillness, waiting, lack of proper food or fire on which to cook it… it was all taking it's toll. But he supped at his bowl, content, or at least in no mood to complain.

    Within an hour of finishing his meal Yngdír turned to his next solitary duty. His ghillie suit. There wasn't the material, at least none that wouldn't be missed by a cunning patrol or passing Druid. So his camoflage was mainly a smock of bracken, and as much mud as he could cake under it. He was an impossible figure by the end of it. He had become the forest floor, all manner of leaves and cones hung from a fine net of laced grasses and simple hemp, or twined bark. He once again set off south - slowly, quietly.

    The crickets stopped chirping, and the noise was replaced by the far-off singing of birds. Yngdír was crossing into a dark place, a treacherous place where few would tread anymore indeed, he had passed borders that even Goblins avoid. By instinct or an outside will, he chose to avoid it too - compelled in the back of his head, something telling him 'not yet'.

    As for this it was decided that his best choice would be to return to where he'd found the Goblins, and gather as much information on their 'Giant Goblins' as he was able.

    The Sun rose high and midday was closing in, pillars of golden light once again shone through the thick forest and Yngdír became a log. He lay down on his stomach after digging himself into a very shallow pit, to give the illusion that he had been weathered there. This was cleverly done, the loose soil scattered and the leaves of the forest floor manipulated to disguise the tracks. Old tricks to Yngdír. Here he would wait out the rest of the day until darkness took the forest again. In his ears only the song of the forest, in his head - a verse to give him courage; "I am a log".