Barbarus [WIP]
Apr 30, 2015 14:26:13 GMT -5
Post by Sven Ulfson on Apr 30, 2015 14:26:13 GMT -5
This story is about Sven and the Dragon Clan. However my concept of the Dragon Clan differs from Julia's which is the one played on this site.
It was warm in the dimly lit tent and the air was heavy with the smell of the smoke of burning wet cedar wood. The smoke hung thickly in the tent, in clouds under the roof, creeping slowly, snake like into the nostrils of the three men sitting together. One was an obviously old man with sparse white hair on his balding head, deep crinkles on his weather beaten face, his blue eye tired and tearing in the smoke. His bony hands blotched with specs of old age clutched tightly to a staff lying across his lap. The tail of a dragon formed from the wood wound around the staff under his fingers, the proud head of the creature sitting on the upper end of it, glistening gemstones making its eyes seem alive, seemed to be watching, the firelight making its ears twitch, seemed to be listening.
A quiet hum came from the dark haired man next to the elder. His eyes were closed but the hairs on his arms stood on end, his strong jaw set, muscles pulsing, thrumming with energy, watchful without his eyes. His hands were empty, resting on the black cloth covering his thighs, open, calloused palms reddened, facing the sky beyond the tent.
Another man sat in the tent, his presence much less engaging but no less watchful than the others. His blue eyes matched the old man’s, his hair as pale blonde as the other’s had been once, uncounted years ago. The youngster’s eyes aged beyond the years his smooth face showed traced the dark haired man’s creased brow and tense body down to his folded legs. Thoughts remained unspoken. And fog maintained the secret, the mystery the gathering carried.
The blue eye, the only one the old man still possessed, focused on the dark haired man to his left and under his gaze the other began to chant, his eyes still closed and mind far gone in the spirit of the ancient rite. Those were similarly old words which left his chapped lips, words in their language but so ancient the boy had been taught the sacred chant like something entirely new, entirely different but no less holy.
The boy felt his hands prickle, his ears taking in the vibrations of the deep bass of his father’s voice. It was like the ancient gods were called to this very place, to the humble tent where three men were sitting on furs, legs folded, with a small fire burning. They were called for as witnesses to see the power being passed on, the heaviest burden of the whole tribe, the spirit and trust of the people, transferred from father to son. But there were more. More gods were called down from the heavens to bear witness to this very moment. They had to, for the power could not be passed on by the ways of blood.
Barbarus they called him, the one who was one of their own, but had not always been. The man had still been a lad, barely outgrown his infantry, when a small fisher boat had pulled him from the clutches of the freezing waves and brought him home to the village where the women took care of the lifeless boy. The eldest had doubted, the maids prayed for his life and the gods had seen it fit to bring him back into this world. Slowly at first but he had then soon regained his spirit and strength.
Once he was strong enough again to engage the other boys from the tribe into playful fights and carry baskets for the old women, the council gathered to decide over his fate. After a long night spent sitting around the fire, talking, the decision was made to raise the boy as one of their own, regardless of his roots, for he spoke their language and knew their culture. He already was more one of their own than he was a stranger, but still members of the council were wary. Should the village’s secret be revealed to their new son?
Taking the great responsibility upon his shoulders where the trust of the tribe rested the chief, the clan leader took the boy into his house, named him his own son, named him Bo, affectionately – the one who lived, who survived. And thus Ulf, as he called himself, gained a new family and a new tribe. Not only came with his new family a new brother who he protected and teased, but also a beautiful new sister. Her hair was golden like the pale midnight sun and her eyes as blue as the waves Bo had been rescued from. As soon as they had reached the age to decide their own fate they made their bond closer than that of brother and sister.
By forging this union the last step was taken to joining the stranger to the tribe. The trust had been instored in the right person, responsibility shared with strong shoulders. Barbarus, Bo, Ulf was part of the tribe and part of the protectors of their secret, protector of the dragons. Often he left the home and returned with creatures to put under the care of the people. He was well loved outside the tribe as well and found friends everywhere in the world to gain help for the dragons.
However when his wife was with child, a greatly anticipated new member to the clan as it came from the strongest blood, Ulf stayed home, taking care of the dragons he had rescued from terrible fates. He had been found with the weak and injured, too, when his own little dragon had first entered this world. People from the village had fetched him in the middle of an important, crucial task. Hence the man had been, even though overjoyed, rather distracted and hurried, when welcoming his son, thus calling him Sven, boy. Of course the clan leader was not too pleased by this thoughtless choice of a name, but how could he blame the good son he had had?
