Halvar Vignette(s)

[AionTbird]

(Got inspired. It's a little dour. Just a little peep into Halvar's alone time.)

“It’s not your fault.”

The old hunter spoke to the Varyn with his expression battling between stoicism and grief. ‘Varyn’, the young man thought to himself. A family name steeped in history, magic, and blood. He remembered staring down over the body of the hunter’s wife, Aelyth. A woman he couldn’t save. The Varyn stood over his anvil, though it was merely a tree round that had been supported with barrel ties. It wasn’t good for precise work, but for what he was doing it was good enough. The forge itself was just a pit of coal contained within a brick bowl. A single lantern hung over the space, lighting the working area as the Varyn moved throughout it. The bellows were makeshift at best- an area designed so he could smith by the sea. The salt on the air, the moisture on the wind, it reminded him of home. The coastal rain poured downward as the wind whipped it end to end. The Varyn's tufts of coal black hair whipped about as his hazel eyes judged the metal before him. He stood undeterred as his arm continually hefted his hammer and brought it down upon the steel. He heard the rain hiss against the metal. He knew it wasn’t good for the steel, but he was only here to clear his head. The rhythmic clang of metal on metal only lasted so long until he needed to reheat the billet. This gave him time to think.

“How many people would have died if you hadn’t picked up your shield, Varyn?”

His mentor always had a strict way with words, almost like a parent scolding their child. He knew it was meant to encourage the lad, but his heart hardened. He worked and he fought and he sweat and he bled for a land that has only ever taken from him. Sure he’s had some wins, some people saved, friends made, family brought together. The metal was hot again. The Varyn brought the steel back to the tree round, flipping and striking and flipping and striking.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.

Cold again.... He moved to the bellows, blowing a constant stream of air into the coal. The heat brought a hot red glow to his countenance.

“Even when hell itself quakes, you will remain stalwart.”

Yrdl said this to him. The unstoppable to his immovable. In the man’s youth, he had wielded a shield made from an odd metal that always held a vibration to it. Something about it made it much easier to stand against blows that would usually topple an ox. He had halted the hammer of a giant devil, by pure grit or maybe some luck, he wasn’t crushed into the soil. This earned him the nickname of immovable. Though, most of the time, he didn’t feel so immovable. The young lad often battled with his thoughts, a constant clash of blades that he couldn't see. The steel began to glow alight with a hot orange once more, so Varyn moved back to his anvil and began to strike the metal. Lightning flashed in the distance and several moments later, thunder struck. The lantern above his smithing space creaked and waved in the wind. The light within was threatening to snuff at a moment's notice. A stray wind, a little heavier of a gust… that’s all it would have taken.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.

Cold again. The Varyn stared at the dimming metal as he shoved it back into the coals. Tedious work, his cousin had said. But he enjoyed it.

“You are not your family name.”

The Varyn has been told this countless times by many people. Many who knew his ancestors, many who didn’t. How can he not be his family name? It’s a part of who he is, all that he has to live up to, all that he has to cater to, all that he has to prove. He’s never known any different
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.

“I wish for them all to topple. I want them /all/ to fucking /hurt/ for what they did to me.”

The Varyn said this to his cousin. A lifetime of stewing hatred, bottled by the fear of being disowned or hated. Whether he continued to stew, acted upon his fury-- even if he gets lucky enough to strike a blow, he wouldn’t win in the end. So, what was the point? The Varyn stood conflicted. Between his ancestry, between those he loved, those who looked toward the Gods, worshiped them even… and himself. One who despised those above who held reign over his people… the /Varyn/. It pissed him off, and he truly did not know what to do about it. Anger erupted in his heart often, even though the line blurred between the sources. He stood over the warped piece of metal. In a fit of fury and desperation, consumed by his own thoughts, he grabbed the still cooling metal and tossed it with all the might he could muster into the dead of night. The darkness quickly took the cooling metal, the deafening buzzing in his mind overtaking the rain pouring down upon the space around him. It was at this time that he realized the weather was taking a turn for the worse, another strike of lightning another burst of thunder. He watched the coals quickly cool without the breath that he gave the forge.

The wind finally overtook the lantern, leaving Halvar in the dead of night. The metal was cold.

 

[AionTbird]

(Felt good about this one. Thought I'd share)

Young, corrupted by tragedies of war and exile. Alone in spite of himself, the boy borne of ash beneath honey-soaked dawn. Rust upon his hands, in his throat, in his lungs. His bright eyes dyed the color of land and earth and edges rough; he has been scraped raw and twisted firmly with the unideal curse of Altera’s woes. With a will poised carefully between determination and futility, Halvar laid in a bed that was cold with solitude. The light of the morning was always sharp to the man’s closed eyes, but the furs were so heavy in these early hours. After a couple minutes contemplating his limited options in the moment, his feet swung from the cushion of the mattress and to the floor. As he stood, the grain whined beneath the man’s sturdy frame as he began down from the loft. The rays of the sun quietly trickled through the glass to paint the room in blazing shades of orange and gold and the man egregiously stared through them toward his rack of clothing and the mirror that was set aside the structure.

Halvar stood before the mirror, staring back at a visage that had grown all too scarred with frightening normality. Before, his features were rather plain for a northsman.. A sturdy set nose that had been broken many times over, dark feathered hair that sat in long tufts that gently tangled over his pale skin and hazel eyes. His hair was just long enough to brush his shoulders. Though these aspects were usually never the subject of a stranger’s attention. Starting at his right ear and plaguing the better half of his face were scars patterned like lightning. Several thick strips of pink flesh striked horizontally across his eye, his nose, and beneath his chin. As electricity was wont to do, each of these branches carried several smaller streaks. He always thought them ugly. With a heavy breath, the man dismissed his self-scrutinizing gaze and began to comb his fingers through his charcoal tresses, working them back until all of the long strands were collected enough to tie back.

His hand pushed the door to his room open- it was a standalone building off of the main hall. A forge. Most noticeably was the main floor- a large crucible and basin to act as the man’s workplace. Above was a small room, just big enough for a desk, his gear, and a bed placed precariously in a loft. Below, dug into the earth, was a basement. Acts born from his ancestry were performed here. Animancy, the power drawn from the product of mortality. Of the soul. An odd collection of spaces had become the norm for Halvar, and he haphazardly traipsed away from them all and toward the well. The crisp springtime air bristled at the man’s bare back as he blearily looked for signs of the hall’s residence in the area. Someone had already drawn water for the morning, but with no sign of his cohort, he merely walked over toward the short basin to clear the morning fog from his face. He took a long moment to feel the water over his face, the cool feeling it brought his skin. A momentary reprieve. With the moment beginning to pass, his bare feet began to carry him toward the stables.

Solitude has a way of coaxing you in. Soft, warm hands, but terrifyingly strong fingers to grasp your heart. It makes you ache. Halvar had convinced himself he was okay with solitude’s murky company most days. But on the days that it grew a little too heavy, it was easy to alleviate the weight with the company of one of his most constant friends. As he rounded the corner to the stable, a shaggy and mottled gray steed stood keenly aware of the approaching ranger. The man hoisted a bag of horse grain from the storage bin before he steadily approached his old friend. He murmured hushed words to the beast, pressing a hand against her nose before he ruffled the hairs between her eyes. “Good girl.” He said, emptying the grain into the feeding trough. The horse quietly looked at Halvar. The tangle of the forest in his hair, the silence of a long forgotten isle in his eyes poised behind the scars of war. The man often thought the mare could feel what he was thinking. That she could feel the turmoil beneath the color of his eyes. Halvar waved dismissively at his companion before he hefted the saddle from its nearby resting place.

“What do you know?” Perhaps obviously so, she did not respond.

It was a practiced motion, saddling up the mare. The simple leather straps sidled around the belly of the beast as she ate. While the saddle rested on her back and she finished up the remnants of the grain, Halvar took some time to brush her mane. It was a rhythmic practice, listening to the idle crunching of the horse while the dust gets cleared from the shades of gray and white. Once she seemed to be slowing, the straps were tightened and Halvar swung up onto the steed’s back. He leaned forward and settled the bit between her teeth and secured the reins in one hand. With a click of his tongue, he urged her forward and toward the road.

There are a few exceptions to Halvar’s life that truly allow him to feel freedom from his burdens. The rare moments when his mind ceases its wandering comes from watching the tide of the ocean or listening to the wind tear through the leaves of a forest. Listening to the laughter of those closest, perhaps even watching the sunrise still the Varyn's ever shifting mind. Though there is only one guaranteed feeling of silence, moments where the shackles willingly placed upon his wrists find no bearing- when Halvar is upon his steed. The sensation of the duo tearing across the landscape, feeling wind through his hair and the thundering of the earth beneath her hooves. Halvar urged the horse forward, allowing her the freedom to gallop across the even fields coated with knee-high grass. A toothy smile stretched over the man’s scarred countenance; a laugh coaxed from his chest. “Keep goin’. S’fast as you want.” He called over the wind, smile wholly unabating.

The hall was lost behind the hills, the rangers all but forgotten, hell a distant memory, the flames cooled. The landscape was a blur, coming to the Varyn as streaks of green and gold. His mind was still.