(no subject)
After what happened at the Anor--
After the defilement of Lisen's memory--
After exacting payment in flesh and blood--
After speaking to Cernan (father)--
Galadan travels through worlds and time to reach the end of the universe, looking for that awkward-looking not-man who had spoken to the Seer of Brennin about the child of the Warrior.
About Bran.
The Wolflord's long patience is at last rewarded by the sight of coat-tails fluttering in a non-existent breeze as that same man strides quickly through the bar and out the back door.
Galadan, senses alert, the heat of battle-to-be flashing through his veins, stands and follows after.
There.
He can feel the pathways this creature uses, the link between here and elsewhere that thrums through his blood like fire. Galadan follows still, cautious and wary and ready for--
Few, in truth, are ever ready for the space between, or so Raven would tell the Wolflord if such a being were inclined to listen.
Some lessons, however, can only be learned the hard way, paid for in blood and confusion and lost pride.
Galadan, lost in the tumbling chaotic nothingness that Raven travels, has a moment to register a grin on the ragged man's face, sharp and over-bright, before he feels himself gripped by a power he has no name for, and--
Tumbles to the ground in a land fresh and pure and bright as Fionavar in the days when it was new, in the days before--
No.
Such thoughts as that have no place here. None at all.
Shaking his head to clear it from the chaos of the journey, Galadan lifts his head, scenting the wind.
Ah. There.
The harsh, mocking cry of a Raven follows the Wolflord as he sets off across the Summer Country, teeth bright and sharp and ready to tear the Warrior's child apart.
It is a day for such things.
It is the last day Bran will see this side of death.
Galadan will have it no other way.
After the defilement of Lisen's memory--
After exacting payment in flesh and blood--
After speaking to Cernan (father)--
Galadan travels through worlds and time to reach the end of the universe, looking for that awkward-looking not-man who had spoken to the Seer of Brennin about the child of the Warrior.
About Bran.
The Wolflord's long patience is at last rewarded by the sight of coat-tails fluttering in a non-existent breeze as that same man strides quickly through the bar and out the back door.
Galadan, senses alert, the heat of battle-to-be flashing through his veins, stands and follows after.
There.
He can feel the pathways this creature uses, the link between here and elsewhere that thrums through his blood like fire. Galadan follows still, cautious and wary and ready for--
Few, in truth, are ever ready for the space between, or so Raven would tell the Wolflord if such a being were inclined to listen.
Some lessons, however, can only be learned the hard way, paid for in blood and confusion and lost pride.
Galadan, lost in the tumbling chaotic nothingness that Raven travels, has a moment to register a grin on the ragged man's face, sharp and over-bright, before he feels himself gripped by a power he has no name for, and--
Tumbles to the ground in a land fresh and pure and bright as Fionavar in the days when it was new, in the days before--
No.
Such thoughts as that have no place here. None at all.
Shaking his head to clear it from the chaos of the journey, Galadan lifts his head, scenting the wind.
Ah. There.
The harsh, mocking cry of a Raven follows the Wolflord as he sets off across the Summer Country, teeth bright and sharp and ready to tear the Warrior's child apart.
It is a day for such things.
It is the last day Bran will see this side of death.
Galadan will have it no other way.