Never Ending

Ostiarium

The old man crumpled the letter and let it fall. Three single words scribbled in a piece of yellowed paper, delivered among the goods coming from Aquilo. The message from a dead man. A soldier who had served his people even after capture. Even after death, it seemed.

It was not ageing that depressed Sir Zane. He enjoyed the wisdom of his almost 240 seasons, the lessons learned, and the respect it brought. But the physical ravages of time were another thing altogether. His shoulders were still broad and wide, but the muscles had taken on a stretched look. His waist, too, had widen clearly over the last year. His black hair and beard streaked with grey had become a grey streaked with black. But the piercing eyes that gazed at their reflection in the silver mirror had not dimmed.

He was Sir Eudon Zane, Son of Bloostone, Breaker of the Crossroads, Founder of Ostiarium. And this simple piece of paper spoke of his fate. Of his doom. Of his swan song.

His past victories as well as that of his birthright should have ensured him a easier life in his old age. Retire into his lands in north Salos and see out his days advising his son, who would take over his duties. Instead, the whims and paranoia of a ego driven King, had exiled him to these lands. To face certain death, it seemed.

How he wished he was back in the hills of his ancestral home, high into the lonely country bordering the Forsaken Lands. Among the mighty oaks and the snow wolves. His wife of thirty years lay buried there. He had a mind to die there too. He knew now that would not happen.

His calloused fists curled in silent fury. Winter was almost upon them again. The last ships had departed. There was no way to get messages back to Helias now.

He stood, his mind racing, trying to focus on what was to come. One what to do next. His blue eyes flicked to the wooden table. There it lay, Ravage, two handed broadsword with a wide cross guard, and a ruby set in its pommel. A double-edged blade so sharp that it sang as it slew.

Even now he could hear its sweet song. One last time, brother of my soul, it called to him. One last bloody day before the sun sets.

Three single words scribbled in a crumpled piece of paper.

WAR IS COMING