OOC || attempting a new style of posting...
should you desire to sit for a time and listen, i would tell you a story. perhaps not a story of valiant knights and mythical creatures, but yet a tale still with a hint of magic and plenty of obstacles to overcome. as all stories must go, this one shall write of a beginning and an end, as all things must eventually fade away to memory. but i speak now of a woman, no, not a woman, for she is not so bold or wise or grown yet. as she is now, she is yet an idea...a spark of potential...a kindling of something yet to be. and, as all children are, she is wild and free and wide-eyed in a way that only the very young and unjaded can be. without disappointment or guile or barely concealed rage when ruminating about the audacities of the world. and it would be, if we could capture this moment in a bottle, that perhaps she would remain innocent and carefree of the shadows and tempests that are destined to follow in the wake of pleasanter things. perhaps she would remain young and unchanged forever, but nay, it is not to be, for this is not a faerie-woven yarn. this is the account of a life lived and love lost, of blood spilt and alliances forged. these words could have been swept clean, as the sand-tracks upon the tumultuous coast, had not a fortunate encounter taken place, one of a thousand yet to come, but perhaps the most significant of all, as it was the the very first of them all.
and so it begins.
to know the woman now, it tugs at the corners of the mouth to watch as her child-self watches the shield maiden approach, not the least ill-at-ease, though her very life is easily cupped by the whim of the other. children know naught of such things. instead she watches and waits with palpable energy, dropping her chin to the tiny dunes of sand and huffing a cloud of dust, fidgeting, as her eyes peer wonderingly at the mare opposite. she wants to giggle and point out that the mare swears, a most auspicious-sounding word to one so young and, therefore, the most exciting of all the jumble of words. however, in a rare moment of more accidental, rather than intentional, composure, the girl-child refrains from her initial impulses and instead grins widely and tosses her tiny head.
the young filly may have shied somewhat as the mare turned a critical eye on her, ducking her nose to her chest slightly in uncertainty- for as sure as the sun rises the woman before her was none other than a warrior marked and scalded by the heat of battle. her eyes seem to have a depth and darkness that might swallow the girl whole if she is not careful. but then the small, splashed hindquarters are gathering beneath her and hefting her rump aloft while her front-quarters are struggling to catch up to get the girl's feet under her. she spares a glance around at her surroundings, a tiny frown of concern marring the line of her mouth but for a moment.
but there is no room in the mind of a child for the uncertainty and grief that accompanies the notion of death, and so, in another moment the girl turns back to lagertha, no worse for wear. she comes closer with a spring in her step, her eyes wide and wondering as she takes in the jagged lines of old scars that seem to catch the light of the sun and flash liquid-silver across her skin.
she speaks in the language of children, not aware of the personal implications or potentially offensive nature of her questions- nor the staggering number she fires off in the span of a single breath. such things are without equal in the mind of a child, a marvel of sorts. and so her hooves tear little divots into the sand of the beach as she dances around her elder and she imprints the canvas of her skin into her mind. eventually she comes to a fleeting halt back at her original place, facing the soldier before her once more.
for surely someone who is undeterred by death is someone very important indeed.
should you desire to sit for a time and listen, i would tell you a story. perhaps not a story of valiant knights and mythical creatures, but yet a tale still with a hint of magic and plenty of obstacles to overcome. as all stories must go, this one shall write of a beginning and an end, as all things must eventually fade away to memory. but i speak now of a woman, no, not a woman, for she is not so bold or wise or grown yet. as she is now, she is yet an idea...a spark of potential...a kindling of something yet to be. and, as all children are, she is wild and free and wide-eyed in a way that only the very young and unjaded can be. without disappointment or guile or barely concealed rage when ruminating about the audacities of the world. and it would be, if we could capture this moment in a bottle, that perhaps she would remain innocent and carefree of the shadows and tempests that are destined to follow in the wake of pleasanter things. perhaps she would remain young and unchanged forever, but nay, it is not to be, for this is not a faerie-woven yarn. this is the account of a life lived and love lost, of blood spilt and alliances forged. these words could have been swept clean, as the sand-tracks upon the tumultuous coast, had not a fortunate encounter taken place, one of a thousand yet to come, but perhaps the most significant of all, as it was the the very first of them all.
and so it begins.
to know the woman now, it tugs at the corners of the mouth to watch as her child-self watches the shield maiden approach, not the least ill-at-ease, though her very life is easily cupped by the whim of the other. children know naught of such things. instead she watches and waits with palpable energy, dropping her chin to the tiny dunes of sand and huffing a cloud of dust, fidgeting, as her eyes peer wonderingly at the mare opposite. she wants to giggle and point out that the mare swears, a most auspicious-sounding word to one so young and, therefore, the most exciting of all the jumble of words. however, in a rare moment of more accidental, rather than intentional, composure, the girl-child refrains from her initial impulses and instead grins widely and tosses her tiny head.
"i'm claymore."
the young filly may have shied somewhat as the mare turned a critical eye on her, ducking her nose to her chest slightly in uncertainty- for as sure as the sun rises the woman before her was none other than a warrior marked and scalded by the heat of battle. her eyes seem to have a depth and darkness that might swallow the girl whole if she is not careful. but then the small, splashed hindquarters are gathering beneath her and hefting her rump aloft while her front-quarters are struggling to catch up to get the girl's feet under her. she spares a glance around at her surroundings, a tiny frown of concern marring the line of her mouth but for a moment.
"i'm not sure where the others are, i think i maybe got left behind."
but there is no room in the mind of a child for the uncertainty and grief that accompanies the notion of death, and so, in another moment the girl turns back to lagertha, no worse for wear. she comes closer with a spring in her step, her eyes wide and wondering as she takes in the jagged lines of old scars that seem to catch the light of the sun and flash liquid-silver across her skin.
"whoa... those are so cool!.... how did you get those marks?..... how many are there? ....... do they hurt?"
she speaks in the language of children, not aware of the personal implications or potentially offensive nature of her questions- nor the staggering number she fires off in the span of a single breath. such things are without equal in the mind of a child, a marvel of sorts. and so her hooves tear little divots into the sand of the beach as she dances around her elder and she imprints the canvas of her skin into her mind. eventually she comes to a fleeting halt back at her original place, facing the soldier before her once more.
"who are you?"
for surely someone who is undeterred by death is someone very important indeed.
claymore
boom boom boom
image by idfonline @ flickr