The Reforged

The world is changed. For too long have the realms of Elohim been at peace. Vigilance has turned into complacency. Strength has decayed into weakness. The scared oaths that once bound the children of Elohim together, that made them strong, have been forgotten. Honor and kinship have given way to the glorification of greed and self. Each has turned away, caring for nothing aside from the fate of their own.

Where are the heroes of old, mighty warriors that stood for all that was good and true? They have descended into legend. Their swords left to gather dust on the mantle, mere relics of the past. Where are the wardens of the night, rousing their fellows from slumber? They have passed into shadows, victims of passing of time. Ridiculed by ignorance of the masses as relics of an age gone by, they have succumbed and left the realms of Elohim to their fate.

Yet, not all have forgotten. Some have remained true, unaffected by the weathering of time. As each new age comes and goes, the Vӕringjar have stood firm. Guardians of the north, they stand as the first and now last line against the impeding tide. As wave upon wave crashes upon a wall of shields and axes, as parent is replaced by child, their oaths are renewed with each new wave of blood split.

- Unknown Author

* * *

"Tell us another story!" begged the children, pulling at the sleeves of the old man. Their father smirked at the scene from across the room. The old man's temperament may have mellowed with age, but his instincts were as sharp as ever. Sensing the man's gaze on him, he furrowed his brow as he reprimanded him with his eyes. The younger man receded further back into his chair, burying himself in his ale and praying that the old man would be gracious enough to allow him a few more minutes of freedom.

"Ah, the joys of fatherhood," the old man thought himself, silently patting himself on the back for not having children of his own.

"Alright then. One final story, but then you have to return to your father," said the old man reluctantly. "What do you want to hear about?"

A silence gripped the children. A monumental decision. They enjoyed these moments when they could hear stories of the old man. Here they were freed from the monotony of village life to find themselves in a land of mighty warriors and gallant knights who roamed the land fighting for truth and justice. Yet despite the glory and splendor of the old man's stories, what entranced the children the most, what made them linger on his every word even when they had long disappeared into the night was the idea that a man could decide his own fate. For his stories told of a land where people were not confined by the status of their birth or by the commands of a distant lord, rather fate was something to be seized, but only by those brave enough to step out and try.

Slowly, one of the children raised his little hand and whispered as if almost fearful that they would receive an answer, "Do you know where the end of the world is?"

An amused smile crossed the old man's face.

"Ahh so you want to hear about the edge of the world," said the old man focusing in on the little boy who asked such an interesting question.

"Yes," said the little boy, suddenly conscious of his sibling's gaze on him. As he began to form his next words, his gaze drifted towards the ground, "Does it go on and on forever or is there a line that can't be crossed."

Perhaps it was the result of a particularly harsh lesson, but the old man did not expect such a somber question, not from this group and especially not from this child.

"Hmmm I think only Elohim knows the answer to that question, but I suspect most would say they would never cross the mountains of Jarnfell."

"How come?" asked a girl in a loud voice as she was wiggling her way through her brothers to get to the front, "Is there something scary on the other side?"

A hush fell over the previously once boisterous room. The stares of the many patrons of the tavern descended upon the old man, daring him to answer the question. While many of them had come to appreciate, and enjoy, sometimes as much as the children did, the breath of topics covered by the old man in his stories. They were not comfortable speaking of the evils that dwelt beyond the mountains of Jarnfell, even if they were hundreds of leagues away. For there are certain topics that are strictly taboo, as is the case in most cultures. For if a person had even the tiniest amount of common sense, no amount of distance would make him brave enough to utter even the name of those who dwelt in the land beyond the mountains.

Perhaps, if the children had asked him during his youth, he may have divulged what little he knew. But the experience of age had taught him a cautiousness and a healthy respect for the old superstitions; names have power and it was for good reason that people had come to fear certain things.

The old man glanced around the room, looking for an excuse, an escape from this particular line of questioning. His eyes finally fell upon a hooded man in the corner. The only one who wasn't glaring at him with outright aggression.

As if sensing the old man's distress, the hooded man raised his hood for briefest of moments, revealing what the old man swore were a pair of red eyes.

A sense of shock filled the old man. "One of the Vӕringjar?" muttered the old man to himself, "So far from Valborg?"

He had no time to think further on the ramifications of such an event before he was brought back to reality by a strong tug on his sleeve. The little girl had managed to make her way through her brothers and her eyes fervently demanded an answer for her troubles as only little children knew how.

The old man sighed. That image, whether real or imaginary had conjured up memories of a life he had long left behind. A life filled with only cynicism and the ugliness of mortals could not compare to the simple pleasures of being a bard. Such a responsibilities were no longer his and while he did not care to be reminded by the resurfacing of old memories, he was thankful for within those red eyes, he found an answer to the current conundrum tugging on his sleeves.

"Have you children heard of the Great War before?" the old man asked.

"Yeah, my parents used to tell about the legends of the Great War before bedtime. It's a story about how Elohim helped the forces of good drive out evil from…," replied one of the boys.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Aitan," interrupted the girl, much to the boy's displeasure. However, he and his brothers had long gotten used to their sister's corrections. Ever since she had begun her apprenticeship with the local lore master, she had become borderline insufferable with her constant droning of corrections and "misconceptions held by the common folk." It was almost as if she had forgotten that her teacher had fought bitterly for permission from the local lord to break the tradition of noble-born apprentices to accept her as a pupil.

"My teacher said there is no such thing as good and evil. It depends on the perspective of the person." She said that we should record and recite things factually rather than confuse the commoners by imposing our interpretation of morality onto events."

"Yes, yes. Very good child," muttered the old man as he patted her head, giving her father a sympathetic look. Raising children was already such a difficult task. Raising a future lore master with only a rudimentary understanding of which symbols were actually part of the alphabet was borderline masochistic.

"Ok then," the old man exclaimed suddenly, rising to his feet. "I have no wish to pollute such brilliant young minds with my stories of good and evil, so maybe it's best if we call it a night."

"You've done it again, Ariel!" screamed Aitan. "If you don't fix this, I'm never ever going to sing you bedtime songs when mom and dad are busy."

"WAIT!" scream Ariel, just as the old man was about to turn away. "Wait, wait mister. You've already started, you can't just leave right away. That is very irresponsible of you."

"Well, I guess I'm just an irresponsible person. Too bad though, I think your brother would have really enjoyed this story." The old man replied, glancing at Aitan.

Ariel was stuck between a rock and a hard place. It was clear that this old man was expecting her to grovel or, even worst, apologise. She hadn't expected this old man to be so shameless, picking on a girl young enough to his great grand daughter.

Feeling the growing intensity of her brother's stare boring a hole into the back of her skull, she chose her next words very carefully.

"Perhaps, maybe in this particular case, because someone of such esteemed intelligence such as yourself wouldn't incorrectly label someone as evil, I think it's alright for you to continue telling us your story."

"Oh, I don't know,' said the old man, as a mischievous danced across his face. "I think only a genius of unmatched brilliance would be able to avoid making such a mistake."

The little girl paused, blindsided by the unexpected shamelessness of the old man. How much more would he make her grovel. Gritting her teeth, she replied, "But you are a genius of unmatched brilliance."

"More so than your teacher?"

Ariel glared at him with undisguised hostility.

"Ah, never that last question. Normally, I would call you a shameless brownnoser, but if the lore master's apprentice thinks I'm a genius of unmatched brilliance then I must be such a genius."

A look of triumph covered his face as he beamed down upon Ariel who could no longer bear to look him.

"Now, where was I?"

"You were about to tell us a story about the Great War," replied Aitan, delighted that the old man had returned to his seat and was willing to continue with the story-telling.

"Ah, yes. The battle between good and evil, a conflict as old as time itself. Most people either believe the Great War to be a myth and even those who choose to see some semblance of reality in the legends believe that the Great War must have ended around the start of the third age. However, what if I were to tell you the Great War was real, and it is still being fought in the Mountains of Jarnfell."

"Impossible," cried Ariel. "If even half of the destruction and carnage described in the stories of the Great War were truthful, more than half of the mortal realms would still be at war. In which case, the king would have already raised the levies and it would be impossible for us not to know about it."

"Well, if I'm being honest, part of the reason why you don't know is because most lords would prefer to keep the reality of the war a secret. Afterall, no lord would want to be pushed by war-hungry factions within his realm to continue fighting a war that no longer affects them."

"But it does affect us! The Great War drove mankind to the brink of destruction. Families were torn apart as fathers and mothers were armed and sent to fight, while children, as soon as they were of use, were assigned to aid in the war effort. If the elves and Dvergr did not intervene, mankind would have been torn apart. How have the wardens allowed mankind to be unaware of such a massive secret?"

"Interesting," though the old man as he gazed at Ariel. "A lore master's apprentice that knows details described in the heretical tomes. What other secrets are you hiding from your teacher, little one?"

Uncomfortable by the knowing gaze of the old man which seemed to unravel her innermost secrets, Ariel stared at the ground as if being unable to see the old man would make her invisible.

"If you would let me finish, the reason why the war no longer affects us and why ignorance of this secret has been allowed to fester is because of the Vӕringjar…."

"Who are the Vӕringjar?" said Aitan, interrupting the old man, barely able to contain his excitement at the idea of learning about secrets that even his parents were unaware of.

"Oh Elohim, give me strength," thought the old man as he gazed up to the heavens. He often felt a kindred spirit in Aitan, a young boy eager to learn about the hidden mysteries of the world, but Elohim help the next person who interrupted him.

"If you would let me finish before you ask another question, perhaps we would finish the story before we all die from old age," huffed the old man.

"The Vӕringjar live in a fortress deep within the borders of the Mountains of Jarnfell, overlooking the lone pass through the mountain range. Fierce warriors, they have been the wall which blocks off passage through the mountains and keeps the mortal realms safe. However, despite the significance of this clan, not much is known about the Vӕringjar, well that is not much is known about the Vӕringjar that could be considered factual," the old man said as he gave Ariel a cheeky wink.

"There are, however, many legends surrounding the origins of the Vӕringjar," he continued much to the delight of the children. "It is accepted amongst those who know of the Vӕringjar that they are oath sworn to protect the reams of mortals, though not many know why or how such an oath came into being. Some say that they are the descendants of the extinct northern Dvergr clans, tasked with fulfilling the oaths broken by their ancestors. While others who claim to have seen them say they are spirits of fallen warriors brought back from beyond the grave by Azrael, and that to look at their blood soaked eyes is to peer into the very soul of death god himself, to see the very madness that drives men to long for the ecstasy and fires of battle."

An uneasy silence enveloped the tavern. Adults and children alike dare not make a noise for fear of missing even a syllable that came out of the old man's lips. Entranced by a mixture of fear and intrigue, an uneasy silence enveloped the tavern as both adults and children alike hung on every word that passed through the old man's lips. The deep lull of his voice continued to weave the images of war and death in the minds of his listeners, accompanied by the crackling of the fire in the background. Eventually, flames of war faded into the night as the old man finished his narration.

Bravely raising his hand into the air, Aitan asked, "Is any of it true?"

The old man smiled gently at the boy, the memories of his youth overlapping with his vision of the young boy.

"Sometimes it is best to let legends remain legends, less you find yourself pulled into an unfamiliar world."

The finality of his tone indicated to his listeners that he had no intention of continuing. And as the old man prepared to leave for the cold journey home, the listeners' collective consciousness was pulled from the fantastical world of the old man back into reality.

Seeing him leave, the hooded fellow, whom the old man had previously thought to be one of the Vӕringjar, got up and left, following the old man.

"You know a lot about the heretical histories for a mere bard, perhaps too much" the stranger said, as he left his hood so the old man could see his face more clearing.

The old man frowned momentarily after turning around, unsure whether he was more dismayed that his suspicion had proven to be true or that he had been diminished to that of a mere bard.

"And you know a lot of fancy words for a mindless ax-swinger, oh pup of the Vӕringjar. Have the mighty clans of Valborg fallen to such depths that they send me a pup yet to be blooded?"

Before the younger man could answer, the old man had turned and started to walk away.

"Well, come along then. Whatever the matter is, surely your story can wait until we get out of this torrential weather."