Family (Raynar Thorgint)

Heavy rain poors down the dark sky, the stars are but a distant memory in this storm.
A young man trudges on the dirt road, his hair glued to his face with water. But his determination unwavering.
He's heading in the direction of a large camp, several tents decorate the tiny valley, in every other odd tent a faint shimmer of light pushes through the fabric,
but any campfires has since long been extinguished.

As he reaches the guard post at the camp's outer rim he salutes the guard-captain and speaks in a firm voice.
"Fodrig kior el Farna. I am Raynar Thorgint, son o' Faralan."
The guard-captain squints his eyes down at the young man, he scoffs a response out into the cold rain.
"Aye, sure lad. Just go enlist will ya? And don't try that stunt with the recruitment officer."
The younger man sighs, moving a heavy arm behind his neck to unsheathe the weapon hanging there,
as he pulls it forth there's no mistake that it is one of Faralan's notorious battle-axes. Presenting it for viewing, he speaks out confidently.
"If it was a stunt I would already be in a gutter bleedin' my guts out. Now let me pass to th' commander's tent, and be so kind to give me th' directions."
With a hesitant half-nod half-salute the guard-captain allows the young man to pass inside the camp,
pointing out the directions to the High Command tent, a much larger tent in comparison to its sister tents, towering above the rest in the middle of the camp.

The young man pushes the fabric away as he steps inside the tent, moving his free hand to drag his hair back across his head and away from his sight.
Water drippling over his armour in disharmony. An heated arguement is going on, inside the tent, between two men.
"You may be a Thorgint, but you do not have a 'great mind', Commander! How do I kno-.."
- "Great Mind can mean many a-thing, captain!
Ye don't 'ave t'be a bloody mage wit' vast knowledge t'ave a great mind! Both me and me durei 'ad great minds when it came t'combat, battle and warfare.
Strategical and tactical minds o' greatness. M'durei never lead from t'rear, nor will I! 'T ain't a Thorgint trait!"
The mane of the commander dances through the air as he slams a fist into the table. His face draped with annoyance, the man he cut off, the captain,
frowns deeply as he crosses his arms across his chest and speaks yet again.
"Croweye, I begin to question yo-.."
- "Withou' me there would be nay army left t'oppose t'Voidsworn! And ye bloody well know that, captain! Now begone, I need t'be alone."
The captain bows his head to the commander, glancing at the young man who remained stood at the entrance, a brief peer at the face as he passes and enters the pouring rain outside.

The commander turns to face the young man, his mane swinging elegantly around his shoulders, he beams a smile.
"Nephew! Step inside! It's good t'see yer face around 'ere. Share a cup wit' me."
The young man walks inside, putting his father's axe down against the table, he grabs a cup of wine presented to him by the commander.
"How is cousin, is she with us still?"the young man speak with a hint of concern in his voice as he swigs from the cup, never taking eyes from the commander.
Gulping down wine, the commander smirks to the young man and drags the back of his hand over his mouth before replying.
"Lynn' is safe, I 'ave placed 'er somewhere safe, I trust ye know where." The commander places his cup back down on the table,
he peers at the young man, studying his facial expression.
"And Skytalon? 'Ow is she?" The young man looks up when his mother's name is mentioned, he takes a swift sip from the cup, finally adverting his eyes as he responds.
"Elayn is takin' her to th' safe place. Stormclaw.. he.. His regiment was massacred, I was with him, Elayn too..
She had snuck with us, she saw him die. Th' two o' us only just made it out alive."

The commander stares solemny at the young man, after a while he manages a short nod.
"Suxen guide their spirits. I'm glad t'see ye made it out alive, nephew."
- "Uncle. How did ye deal with losin' yer sister?" The young man swigs from his cup, he fixates his eyes upon the tired face of his uncle and commander.
The commander waves his hand gently in a dismissive manner, smiling knowingly to the young man.
"Th' same way I dealt wit' losin' yer Pa'. I respected 'em, I honour 'em wit' m'life. Ye miss 'em, don't ye? Yer sisters."
The commander grabs his cup once more, but doesn't bring it to his lips yet.
The young man blinks, surprised by his uncle's accuracy he can't help but to sigh and nod.
"Aye, I do. It's just these dark times.. Our family steadily grows thinner. And.. without my Pa'.."
- "Lad, listen. I think fate 'as presented oppertunity at second chance. I lost m'Dante, ye lost yer Pa'.
I don't expect ye t'see me as yer Pa' as much as I don't expect ye t'ever replace m'son.
But.. I do still think that we were supposed t'look after each other in these times, our dead loved ones would've wanted it so, aye?"
The rain caresses the tent's fabric, less and less violently. The young man turns his attention to a candlelight, the lighting giving his face a much grimmer posture.
"I suppose yer right, uncle. I have Pa's armour and weapon. But I never had th' oppertunity t'gain his trainin'."
The commander moves the cup to his lips and takes a good swig. He shakes his hairy mane around before replying.
"Yer Pa' and I stood fair equals in combat, yet I can't train ye in 'is ways. 'E was masterful in th' battlefield, I in th' arena,
I can teach ye a duelists ways, should ye want it."
- "Aye, I would like that. I suppose it could do me good aswell, combining th' arts."

The young man downs the last contents of his cup, putting it on the table and smiles to the commander.
The commander nods firmly before bursting into chuckles, he takes a few quick and tipsy steps towards the end of the tent,
grabbing a fairly long and broad item covered in cloth.
"Yer Pa' always knew ye'd be a sword-lad, th' axe looks good on ye, as does 'is armour,
but we both kno' yer lyin' t'yerself wit' every swing. Yer callin' lies nay wit' it.
Look 'e 'ad this crafted fer ye while ye were still an wee shite, 'e wanted ye t'ave it once ye were ready."
Pulling the cloth away, he presents a large claymore, the handle covered in elegant markings, arathorian symbols etched upon the hilt,
the cross-guard has the shape of a bear's head on one side, an eagle's head on the other. The young man grabs the sword, unsheathing it to gaze upon the blade.
He notices phrases on each side of the blade. He carefully speaks them out loud.
"'Y dek thror minder, Anakar'll hunik degarh." He looks over at the commander and nods.

"Gratitude, Uncle."
The commander chuckles once more, he moves over to the table again, waving his arm for the young man to follow,
staring down at the map that rests upon the table, firelight dancing across it.

"Come, nephew! I would 'ave yer advice on th' comin' battle."
The rain finally break way for the moon to stroke the valley with it's divine light. The silence growing more eerie by the moment, the calmth before the storm.