Sow the Wind

[Valhalla]

The rain came down in sheets, beating an unsteady tempo on the aged wooden planks of the dock. She sat cross-legged there, hands resting on her knees and head tipped back towards the unruly sky. An eyepatch of knotted and bleached cotton shielded one perfectly good eye from the rain that ran rivulets down her face, and her oft-painted lips curved upwards in a smile.

It was not a true storm, that much was certain. The wind blew only just enough to whip a few loose strands of hair about like streamers, the rain not hard enough to sting. There was no hail, no lightning. But it was something, better than nothing at all. Some small sign that the Lord of Storms had not forsaken her in this place. It was to be expected, truly. Her brethren had a long-standing habit of getting the Faith outlawed in every budding state, and nor could she truly blame them. A newly sired foaling is always more susceptible to unrest; easier to sway those not set in their ways.

She stood, clenching the sides of her long white cloak and wrapping it about herself. Understandable or not, it was still a source of frustration. Her predecessors had lacked foresight, if not faith. To worship Him in such a way that made others see Him only with blind hatred closed so many doors. She rocked back on her heels, looking up to the sky once more as the weather took a turn for the worse. With another smile, she let the thoughts slip away and returned to her perch, contented for now.

[Valhalla]

Lightning flashed across a black sky, the unnatural blue-green light leaving a blazing afterimage behind her eyelids. The wind whipped back and forth in a chaotic flurry and her hair waved about like a banner, long since ripped from its bun. Each step towards the peak made her feel lighter somehow, each of her strides coming quicker than the last.

At the end of the trail she walked sat the altar. A timeworn stone base rose from the rocky path, hand-carved steps leading up to a stone pole that jutted up from the base like the mast of a ship. Two large iron rings hammered in several feet above head-height were the only decoration, the manacled chains strung between them making their purpose evident.

Behind her, she could just barely hear the frightened sounds coming from the gagged form of the sacrifice over the howling of the wind. She paid these little soft cries little heed as the left hand was forced into place, the manacles tightening around it. The right followed soon after and the woman hastened to join the other black-robed figures upon the small rise across from the altar.

The prayers began, a hushed chant quickly reaching its resounding climax, as the crash of thunder rang out, drowning the agonized scream cut short within it.

Praise Talos.


She awoke in the small campsite she shared with her sister, her back firmly pressed against the boulder she leaned upon, and her body covered in a cold sweat. The weight of the dream and the memory it so vividly played out rested upon her heavily, and try as she might she could not shake the feeling of exultation the memory brought with it, and the nagging guilt ever associated with it.

She stood, the shift she had slept in protecting her not at all from the night's chill, as she moves through the campsite to the edge of the cliff they had camped on. Looking out over this small portion of the Valley, she allowed herself to dwell on the past and the feelings it brought. As the hours passed and the gentle breeze slowly dried her skin, the realization she came to was as surprising as it was potent. Mortals live to create chaos. They are born, they grow, and their trail of mistakes and sins begins. All those save a rare few breed chaos even in their attempts to enforce law - an iron fist here inciting rebellious hearts in the smallfolk, the 'just' killing of a criminal there bringing words of vengeance to the lips of others.

The very act of living brings with it destruction.

As she turned back to the camp, her mind turned over each memory of sacrifice, every time she had supplicated herself before Talos solely as the Destroyer. She had been shortsighted, had acted in error. There were other ways to please Him, other names to which He answered.

Settling back against the rock the woman fell asleep to thoughts of rebellion, a pleased smile playing across her face.