Of Runes, Spirits, Gold and Axes

[Archon_Prime]

Dev slowly opened his eyes, pulling himself up to a sit with a low grunt. He peered around his tent slowly, letting out a deep sigh, rubbing the side of his head. His head always hurt these days… Shuffling over to a bowl of water, he rubbed some in his face, letting it run down his neck. Wondering, as he had for weeks now, who he was.

He is a Man
Lindor lied on the pelts besides his, Denthor wrapped in her arms. Both sleeping peacefully. She is young and beautiful. She made him feel welcome, and gave him something to keep going for. Every day again.
To step outside and face it all again for a day. He had known her ever since he was little. And how long he had secretly admired her. He was always busy training to become shaman, and often travelling. But he would watch her at the fires. Watch the light dance about her soft hair and into her deep eyes. And now she was to be his wife. And she was a good wife. She loved him. And he loved her.
Denthor was nearly a year old now. His flesh and blood. Devath never knew his own parents. He wondered what his son would make of himself. Who he would become. A warrior, to die gloriously on the fields of battle? A hunter, to stalk and slay the beasts of the land? A trader, to travel and deal with the outlanders, every day again?

Devath quietly left the tent, glancing to the rising sun a time. Walking outside and to a small hill, kneeling down to start his morning chant.

He is the Shaman of Trade
Lady of trade, Lady of gold,
We stride along Your golden way.
For You to grant us wealth we pray,
And greet the tribe within Your fold.
We call Your name high in the plains
Where the horses run in our lands
We walk as them free from all chains
With Your heritage in our hands

Whispers in the early sun as the chant came to an end. Whispers that came from near the camp. The Shaman was drawn there, called by an undeniable voice.

He is the Runekeeper
The mark was glowing softly in the shadow of the rock. Not a sound could be heard, not a breath of wind. Whispers coming trough the glyph.
The Mark of Ancestors spoke to him again. It spoke of how they suffered. Of how the hills were hollowed out. How the trees were cut. Of how the men of the city were lost to their greed. Were lost to their corruption. They ravaged the land, never satisfied. The spirits suffered. The land suffered. Something had to be done. Someone had to champion their cause. He had learned much since the first Rune had come to him.

He had travelled to the spirit realm. The Key had been branded into his palm by the runestone's magic. More ancient than the hills. More powerful than anything the magelings could conjure. He had seen the spirit realm, where his ancestors dwelled. They told him of his suffering. They showed him the evil that had come to the land. Outlanders that had no place here. Outlanders that showed no respect. The Heyokarr, the Featherflights, the Kuro, the Asak and all the other tribes. They suffered. They felt the corruption of the land. Some went mad, going on agressive conquest. Some denied the spirits, bonding with the outlanders as if they were brethren.

He stepped away from the rock, making his way back to the camp. He gathered his armor and his axe. Said goodbye to his family. Met with the traders he headed, as they turned to him for advice. Dealt with the sick and wounded of the tribe, applying his healing touch wherever needed. He then set out again to cleanse the roads. To watch the outlanders and their foolish schemes. But he knew, that his goal laid in the city. Something had to be done to keep his land. Something had to be done to keep his people. The Rage was drawing close.

He is the Spirit's Wrath