The Death of Roäc.
Another summer day had come and gone, and in the tallest elm growing at the southern-most edge of the forest, an old raven sat enjoying the last of the summer's heat. These days he found himself sleeping more and more, and longer and longer. But then, he was old, and elders required as much rest as they could get to operate at a level they once had in their youth.
He blinked sleepily, his rheumy eyes taking in only light and shadow; his vision too deteriorated for him to see any more than that. And as such he kept his movements to the tree he sat in, climbing more than flying, as, like his sight, his wings were too feeble to carry him more than a few feet at a time.
Then he sighed, his head nodding. The last rays of the sun felt extremely good against his greying plumage and sore bones and he turned himself to face the sun as it set, if only to take advantage of it for as long as it lasted.
A rustling of wings told him one of his younger kin had come to sit next to him; most likely to bring him food to eat and a little persuasion to make him eat it, for he rarely ate much these days. Eating required effort and he had little strength to spare for such things as feeding oneself.
The other bird must have sensed this, for he set the meat between a fork in the branch the old raven sat on, gave his greetings and farewells, and left, leaving the branch to swing slightly.
But the raven did not notice any of this; he'd drifted off to sleep, breathing softly. He continued to sleep well into the night, when, at the hour before dawn, his breathing became ragged and uneven. It continued like this for several moments, before it eased, slowed, faded, and as his head drooped for the last time, ceased completely.
The ravens of the Lonely Mountains croaked out their sorrows as they found the body of their chief, Roäc son of Carc, but the old bird himself took no notice.
When he woke up, it was to a strange new sight vaguely reminiscent of the handiworks of Men.
No forest this, no.
This was a bar. This was a tavern.
And somehow he'd made his way here in his sleep.
"Most curious indeed..."
He blinked sleepily, his rheumy eyes taking in only light and shadow; his vision too deteriorated for him to see any more than that. And as such he kept his movements to the tree he sat in, climbing more than flying, as, like his sight, his wings were too feeble to carry him more than a few feet at a time.
Then he sighed, his head nodding. The last rays of the sun felt extremely good against his greying plumage and sore bones and he turned himself to face the sun as it set, if only to take advantage of it for as long as it lasted.
A rustling of wings told him one of his younger kin had come to sit next to him; most likely to bring him food to eat and a little persuasion to make him eat it, for he rarely ate much these days. Eating required effort and he had little strength to spare for such things as feeding oneself.
The other bird must have sensed this, for he set the meat between a fork in the branch the old raven sat on, gave his greetings and farewells, and left, leaving the branch to swing slightly.
But the raven did not notice any of this; he'd drifted off to sleep, breathing softly. He continued to sleep well into the night, when, at the hour before dawn, his breathing became ragged and uneven. It continued like this for several moments, before it eased, slowed, faded, and as his head drooped for the last time, ceased completely.
The ravens of the Lonely Mountains croaked out their sorrows as they found the body of their chief, Roäc son of Carc, but the old bird himself took no notice.
When he woke up, it was to a strange new sight vaguely reminiscent of the handiworks of Men.
No forest this, no.
This was a bar. This was a tavern.
And somehow he'd made his way here in his sleep.
"Most curious indeed..."