marauder13
a lecherous old bastard
- Joined
- Mar 8, 2009
- Posts
- 7,322
[OOC: This thread is closed to Britwitch and myself. We hope you enjoy it.]
Soren paused by the sprawling roots of the enormous tree. He looked around hurriedly, making sure that he didn't have a near run in of the kind he had with Starsh. The young lad was almost forever following Soren around. It was mainly due to Soren's appearance. Somewhere in the background of his parents, they both had Northmen marry into their families. Every few generations, rather than getting the normal dark hair and olive or swarthy skin on the locals, there would be born a true Northman child. With both sides having this, the chances were strong of such a showing in one of their many children.
Soren was the one. Now a full season into his manhood, he stood head and shoulders above his siblings, as well as being a rather heavily built man too. His pale skin and blonde hair just made him even more obvious to those who saw him.
But the youngster had either not followed him, or was was lost. Soren smiled as he dug around one spot. A deep covering of leaves were removed to expose the lattice of twigs that protected his prize. He lifted the lattice, removing the oilskin bag from it's resting place, carefully relaying the lattice and the leaves. He lifted the heavy bundle, and made his way deeper into the woods.
He knew his father would be angry at him for wasting his time away from his duties on the farm. He tried to explain it, but there was nothing he could say.
"You should be trying to find yourself a wife," he spoke in the gruff manner of his father. "A man of your age should be wedded by now, and hoping to see signs of a child with his wife."
"Of course, father." Soren muttered to himself as he slowed his walk to a safer pace. "I'm a second son on a farm that is too small to break up further, and no other woman who is free to marry has anything for me to take charge of. So, what woman would rightfully want to marry me?
"Plus, I don't want to be a farmer, not when I can't run a farm of my own. Oh, why am I telling the trees this?"
He kept his silence until he came to his place. It was a clearing about 50 yards in diameter, with a little creek that bubbled near one edge. The flowing water created a soothing sound, as well as helping the clearing from getting too hot in the summer months. But, it was a place where for three years Soren came to better his skills so he could sever his ties to the land. He laid down the bag, carefully removing the unstrung bow, and a quiver of arrows. He found the small loop of bowstrings and placed them beside the bow itself. He then drew out his most prized possession; a short sword.
Soren ran his hand over the scabbard. The wood and leather that made up the house for his blade were old, battered but spoke of a history that flared his imagination. There were clear cuts to the scabbard, as well as signs of general long use. But it had not been fully neglected by the owners before him. Soren also took the time to look after the scabbard too, from time to time.
He lifted the sword and housing off the ground, gripping the rough leather strips that wrapped the hilt with his other hand. He slowly pulled it clear, smiling at the clean, unmarked metal of the blade. When he found it on Haskin's farm two days after the old man had died, he carefully hid it and took it home. It was dirty, rusty and not in good shape. But he knew how to clean metal plows and leather harnesses so he set himself to work. It took months to get the blade back to being clean, and then another good month to get the blade sharp. But he took good care of it, always cleaning it after practicing. He slowly returned the blade to its home, as he was doing other practice that day.
He turned to the bow. The roughly worked piece of wood was not the best example of a bow in the world, but he knew it worked. Plus, he was used to its personality. He easily bent the bow enough to string it, finding the right place to hold it when firing it. He took out one of the arrows. It had all the signs of frequent use, but it was still good enough to do what was required of it. He found his target, a wide tree with softened wood from many arrow strikes. His target ring was still visible. He walked over to where he felt he was capable of hitting, but still testing his skill.
"Now, just as old Fallin said. Feet shoulder width apart," Soren said as he positioned himself. He softly recounted all the words the man who gifted Soren with the bow in the first place. He drew the bow correctly; the arm holding the bow was kept straight as the bow was brought down to aim. He took his breath, releasing just a little before releasing the arrow.
"Damn!" Soren ran toward the tree, passing it the same side that the arrow grazed. Fortunately, it struck another tree a few yards in. "Thank the Gods I didn't loose another one." He pulled it out of the tree, checking the head and the fletching. He sighed with relief that there was nothing damaged on the arrow.
When he reached the tree, Soren actually paced out the distance to see how far he had been from the target. He counted 35 paces when he dropped his arrow, and went to get the quiver. He spent the next few hours slowly and steadily putting his arrows into the tree. As the sun reached the point in the sky that announced he needed to return to his family's farm, he was getting quicker with his shots, and hitting the target with nearly every arrow.
"I just hope that the little lessons I picked up from the passing mercenaries serve me as well as Fallin's archery ones." Soren carefully returned all his supplies to the bag, with the exception of one now headless arrow. He tried to removed it from the tree slowly and carefully, but the tip broke off, leaving the arrow head buried deep within the wood.He made his way back to where his cache was located, carefully restoring the bag to its hiding place. He continued his walk from the woods towards the cleared lands that bordered his family's farm. From the small rise, he could make out the village that supported all the farms and the families that worked them. Soren hoped that his father would let him go into the village on some errand, letting him have another chance at learning more about the world he wanted to see.
Soren paused by the sprawling roots of the enormous tree. He looked around hurriedly, making sure that he didn't have a near run in of the kind he had with Starsh. The young lad was almost forever following Soren around. It was mainly due to Soren's appearance. Somewhere in the background of his parents, they both had Northmen marry into their families. Every few generations, rather than getting the normal dark hair and olive or swarthy skin on the locals, there would be born a true Northman child. With both sides having this, the chances were strong of such a showing in one of their many children.
Soren was the one. Now a full season into his manhood, he stood head and shoulders above his siblings, as well as being a rather heavily built man too. His pale skin and blonde hair just made him even more obvious to those who saw him.
But the youngster had either not followed him, or was was lost. Soren smiled as he dug around one spot. A deep covering of leaves were removed to expose the lattice of twigs that protected his prize. He lifted the lattice, removing the oilskin bag from it's resting place, carefully relaying the lattice and the leaves. He lifted the heavy bundle, and made his way deeper into the woods.
He knew his father would be angry at him for wasting his time away from his duties on the farm. He tried to explain it, but there was nothing he could say.
"You should be trying to find yourself a wife," he spoke in the gruff manner of his father. "A man of your age should be wedded by now, and hoping to see signs of a child with his wife."
"Of course, father." Soren muttered to himself as he slowed his walk to a safer pace. "I'm a second son on a farm that is too small to break up further, and no other woman who is free to marry has anything for me to take charge of. So, what woman would rightfully want to marry me?
"Plus, I don't want to be a farmer, not when I can't run a farm of my own. Oh, why am I telling the trees this?"
He kept his silence until he came to his place. It was a clearing about 50 yards in diameter, with a little creek that bubbled near one edge. The flowing water created a soothing sound, as well as helping the clearing from getting too hot in the summer months. But, it was a place where for three years Soren came to better his skills so he could sever his ties to the land. He laid down the bag, carefully removing the unstrung bow, and a quiver of arrows. He found the small loop of bowstrings and placed them beside the bow itself. He then drew out his most prized possession; a short sword.
Soren ran his hand over the scabbard. The wood and leather that made up the house for his blade were old, battered but spoke of a history that flared his imagination. There were clear cuts to the scabbard, as well as signs of general long use. But it had not been fully neglected by the owners before him. Soren also took the time to look after the scabbard too, from time to time.
He lifted the sword and housing off the ground, gripping the rough leather strips that wrapped the hilt with his other hand. He slowly pulled it clear, smiling at the clean, unmarked metal of the blade. When he found it on Haskin's farm two days after the old man had died, he carefully hid it and took it home. It was dirty, rusty and not in good shape. But he knew how to clean metal plows and leather harnesses so he set himself to work. It took months to get the blade back to being clean, and then another good month to get the blade sharp. But he took good care of it, always cleaning it after practicing. He slowly returned the blade to its home, as he was doing other practice that day.
He turned to the bow. The roughly worked piece of wood was not the best example of a bow in the world, but he knew it worked. Plus, he was used to its personality. He easily bent the bow enough to string it, finding the right place to hold it when firing it. He took out one of the arrows. It had all the signs of frequent use, but it was still good enough to do what was required of it. He found his target, a wide tree with softened wood from many arrow strikes. His target ring was still visible. He walked over to where he felt he was capable of hitting, but still testing his skill.
"Now, just as old Fallin said. Feet shoulder width apart," Soren said as he positioned himself. He softly recounted all the words the man who gifted Soren with the bow in the first place. He drew the bow correctly; the arm holding the bow was kept straight as the bow was brought down to aim. He took his breath, releasing just a little before releasing the arrow.
"Damn!" Soren ran toward the tree, passing it the same side that the arrow grazed. Fortunately, it struck another tree a few yards in. "Thank the Gods I didn't loose another one." He pulled it out of the tree, checking the head and the fletching. He sighed with relief that there was nothing damaged on the arrow.
When he reached the tree, Soren actually paced out the distance to see how far he had been from the target. He counted 35 paces when he dropped his arrow, and went to get the quiver. He spent the next few hours slowly and steadily putting his arrows into the tree. As the sun reached the point in the sky that announced he needed to return to his family's farm, he was getting quicker with his shots, and hitting the target with nearly every arrow.
"I just hope that the little lessons I picked up from the passing mercenaries serve me as well as Fallin's archery ones." Soren carefully returned all his supplies to the bag, with the exception of one now headless arrow. He tried to removed it from the tree slowly and carefully, but the tip broke off, leaving the arrow head buried deep within the wood.He made his way back to where his cache was located, carefully restoring the bag to its hiding place. He continued his walk from the woods towards the cleared lands that bordered his family's farm. From the small rise, he could make out the village that supported all the farms and the families that worked them. Soren hoped that his father would let him go into the village on some errand, letting him have another chance at learning more about the world he wanted to see.
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