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Description

Name/Import Image: ID#5070 Torgeir - Import

Prompt (The Beginning -or- Internal Instinct): Internal Instinct

Prompt #:
Internal Instinct - (Seasonal August) What ails you?
Additional Extras:

Additional Writing for Bonus

He’s wandered too far from the path. He’d thought he heard a voice from the mists, almost too distant to tell, and had wandered off on his own without heeding the warnings of the locals. Stick to the road they insisted. And of course the second he’s off on his own curiosity takes the better of him. Now he’s completely lost, the path forgotten to him and only his wits and his survivalist instincts to rely on. He wracks his brain for the lessons he’d been taught as a pup. Moss on a tree, cloud patterns, bird migration. But when he looked to the sky he saw only flat gray slate, blending with the horizon.

As Torgeir walks on, the fog only thickens. It seemed to be nothing but himself in this void, a soft, muffled expanse. Even when he called out, it was as though his voice only carried a few feet in front of him, before becoming absorbed by this stifling mist. All he can do is press forward. The vale would have to end eventually, right? It could be miles to the edge, but he didn’t have much choice.

An undercurrent of anxiety buzzed under his skin, thoughts rolling through the turmoil of his mind. He’s consciously aware of his dwindling rations, and the fact that his waterskin’s been empty for a while. He’d assumed that he’d hit Lake Skaro by this point but he must have detoured from the path too soon. Unconsciously he licked his lips, scanning the horizon and finding nothing. Now the fog’s grown even denser than before and it feels almost like a physical force, pressing against him.

Torgeir runs. As though he can escape this pressure, he runs, paws desperately pounding against earth, grass - water? He stops, confused. Indeed, he’s standing in a foot of water, cool against his aching legs. He dips his head and drinks greedily.

“Torgeir.” A voice. Louder, and right in front of him. He looks up, shocked, to see the mist swirling into a form he’s never seen before but unmistakably knows as Fenrir. Torgeir gasped and stepped back, awed. “You are needed, Torgeir.”

“H-huh?” Torgeir stammers. This can’t be real, he thinks, even as the ghostly figure steps towards him.

“You are a sprout, yet to grow - the iron that needs tempering into steel. Yet to come into your power. But you will be great, and strong, and a warrior fierce. You need only take it.” Fenrir speaks to him and before Torgeir can respond he dissipates into the mist… and the mist goes with him, clearing to the point he can locate the mountains in the distance and trace them to Hearth. To home.

But he couldn’t shake Fenrir’s words. He knew there was intention in those words… if only he could make sense of them… but Torgeir had never been one for metaphor. He’d always taken those stories had grandfather took at a more face-value, but now….

Fenrir’s words sit with him the whole way to Hearth.

Description

Name/Import Image: ID#5070 Torgeir - Import

Prompt (The Beginning -or- Internal Instinct): Internal Instinct

Prompt #:
Internal Instinct - (Seasonal August) What ails you?
Additional Extras:

Additional Writing for Bonus

He’s wandered too far from the path. He’d thought he heard a voice from the mists, almost too distant to tell, and had wandered off on his own without heeding the warnings of the locals. Stick to the road they insisted. And of course the second he’s off on his own curiosity takes the better of him. Now he’s completely lost, the path forgotten to him and only his wits and his survivalist instincts to rely on. He wracks his brain for the lessons he’d been taught as a pup. Moss on a tree, cloud patterns, bird migration. But when he looked to the sky he saw only flat gray slate, blending with the horizon.

As Torgeir walks on, the fog only thickens. It seemed to be nothing but himself in this void, a soft, muffled expanse. Even when he called out, it was as though his voice only carried a few feet in front of him, before becoming absorbed by this stifling mist. All he can do is press forward. The vale would have to end eventually, right? It could be miles to the edge, but he didn’t have much choice.

An undercurrent of anxiety buzzed under his skin, thoughts rolling through the turmoil of his mind. He’s consciously aware of his dwindling rations, and the fact that his waterskin’s been empty for a while. He’d assumed that he’d hit Lake Skaro by this point but he must have detoured from the path too soon. Unconsciously he licked his lips, scanning the horizon and finding nothing. Now the fog’s grown even denser than before and it feels almost like a physical force, pressing against him.

Torgeir runs. As though he can escape this pressure, he runs, paws desperately pounding against earth, grass - water? He stops, confused. Indeed, he’s standing in a foot of water, cool against his aching legs. He dips his head and drinks greedily.

“Torgeir.” A voice. Louder, and right in front of him. He looks up, shocked, to see the mist swirling into a form he’s never seen before but unmistakably knows as Fenrir. Torgeir gasped and stepped back, awed. “You are needed, Torgeir.”

“H-huh?” Torgeir stammers. This can’t be real, he thinks, even as the ghostly figure steps towards him.

“You are a sprout, yet to grow - the iron that needs tempering into steel. Yet to come into your power. But you will be great, and strong, and a warrior fierce. You need only take it.” Fenrir speaks to him and before Torgeir can respond he dissipates into the mist… and the mist goes with him, clearing to the point he can locate the mountains in the distance and trace them to Hearth. To home.

But he couldn’t shake Fenrir’s words. He knew there was intention in those words… if only he could make sense of them… but Torgeir had never been one for metaphor. He’d always taken those stories had grandfather took at a more face-value, but now….

Fenrir’s words sit with him the whole way to Hearth.