??th Day of Winter, 509
A time of reflection and honing skills. Longsword/Bow.
A rustling of leaves, the high pitched chirps of a bird. The tree branches overhead swaying with the wind. Among the endless green of leaves and branches, patches of blue sky could be made out. It was through these entrances that the sunlight found its way to the forest floor. It took a few seconds for the young man to realize he had been studying the surrounding area. Rising to a sitting position, Orin blinked. He had been sprawled out, unconscious perhaps. The area had gone silent, and the man found himself utterly alone. The clearing was empty, and the Vantha slowly, shakily rose to his feet. Turning, he tried to orient himself. Endless trees, rocks, moss, clouds overhead...it all blended together, giving him nothing to work with. Taking a deep breath, Orin tried to remember.
Yet nothing came. How he had gotten here, where 'here' was. Raising a hand in front of his face, the man studied the lines that made up his palm. He couldn't remember. Looking down, he found himself naked. Bits of leaf and dirt clung to all parts of his body. The smallest of frowns, and then he started to walk.
There was no inherent direction in his wandering. Just a mindless automation. The man found himself studying his surroundings. The green of it all. From the moss adorning the tree trunks, to the fallen leaves crumpling under his bare feet. There was no path, only more trees, and at random intervals, more clearings. Some caused by fallen tree trunks, others simply a spot where brush had collected. It was in one such clearing that Orin paused. He had no idea how long he had walked, but didn't feel that it was important. Running a hand through shoulder length hair, Orin took a breather. It was at that moment, that he thought he saw something. Peering between two trunks, Orin could swear he saw a glint. In the next second he heard the faintest of rustling sounds, and with a broad smile, the man dashed past the fallen brush, and through the leaves.
Emerging from the bushes, Orin was looking into a small creek. Gingerly stepping down, and onto a rock, the man bent over, and cupped his hands. The water was cold, and clear. Bringing it to his face, Orin lapped at it tentatively, savoring the taste. Arching his back, the man straightened up. He was downstream from what looked like a small rise. Atop the tiny hill stood a lone willow. For a second the shrill call of a bird could be heard over the lapping of the water. Choosing each step gingerly, Orin made his way across the stream, to the opposing bank. Winding his way upstream, Orin studied the roots of the willow. They cascaded down into the creek, soaking it into massive roots that dug into the sides of the rise. Grasping onto one of these, Orin pulled himself up and was greeted by the willow's hanging branches and sinewy leaves.
Looking over his shoulder, Orin found himself eyeing the creek and woods lying behind him. The brilliant hues of green mingled with the pale light of the rising sun. He could only exhale as he closed his eyes.
Avanthal
A single word dragged him back to his senses. A tightness overcame the face as the man pushed past the willow. He was walking now. Thinking of a woman, an exodus, and a lost life.
The change in scenery was sudden, and caught the Vantha off guard. Startled, Orin came to a stop, he let his arms drop to his sides, and squinted.
The forest gave way to what looked like a stone building. An abbey or mission from the size of it. However, there was no road leading to it, and apart from the well out front, no other structures around it. It looked very old, and vines and moss covered most of the remaining stone. The roof still stood overhead, but it had fallen into a state of disrepair with shingles and tiles laying in piles to the side of the building. As one got closer, more details could be made out. The main building was adorned with a large triangular arch. A single bell stood vigilantly atop. To the western side, a small wing stretched out. Judging from the windows, it looked like a sleeping quarters. The main entrance consisted of two massive wooden doors.
As he passed the well, Orin chanced a look down. Blackness greeted the man. Pulling the rope from side to side, he could feel tension as the bucket dragged about in the water.
Turning aside, the lone figure made his way up the pair of stone steps, and pushed on the rotting oak. A loud creak surprised him, and Orin cast a sharp glance at the rusted hinges. It was then that Orin could see the entryway was dark.
It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, but he could see what looked like a main hall. It was fairly small, but consisted of a long table, and a stairway in the northeastern corner. A single door led to what he presumed was the wing he had seen from outside. A massive hole in the ceiling allowed a bright beam of light to shine onto a spot a few feet away from the large table.
At his feet, what had once been a beautiful rug was now little more then tatters. Orin could feel a slight draft, and did his best to ignore the discomfort. The room was practically empty. No chairs, just the massive oak table. A single candle holder sat in the corner, and another where the head of the table should be. A book could be seen on the ground, and something was glinting on the table.
It was a very odd scene, and Orin cocked his head in confusion. Then another sigh. In a few steps he found himself looking down at the worn leather cover of the book. It was quite thick, and the yellowed pages and cracked leather spoke of its age. Gingerly, the warrior bent down and grasped it. It was quite heavy, and surprised him. Laying it on the table, Orin found that the glint belonged to an ancient pair of spectacles. Unfolding the 'arms' he put the spectacles on and gingerly touched the outline of the book's title. What had once been an eloquent font, had become distorted has the leather had cracked and warped.
A A r of Mat rnal Sa r e
Still holding the book, Orin made his way to the lit area on the floor. Taking a seat on the cold stone, the Vantha cradled the book in his lap and started to read.
An Air of Maternal Sacrifice, by Headmaster Giva.
