Earth Walker

Rain. Mingled with hail.

The days had stopped getting shorter, they were short. The chill wind’s grasp shook the Earth walker from his slumber. He groaned, and lifted his calloused hands to his brow, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His unwashed hair hung loosely as he bowed his head; he would have to trim it later with his knife. Drawing his fur cloak around his shoulders, he looked inside his damp pack for some dried meat. Slowly, he lifted the morsel to his lips, his fingers touching his thick beard and moustache. It was frozen, cold, hard, and brittle with frost. The wind which woke him whispered again, and he shivered.

It was not yet dawn, but from the skyline he knew it was the special time before dawn; when shades of night begin to change their hue, ready to make way and welcome the crimson mistress. He often woke up at this hour, alone, cold, with nothing but his memories, his sorrows, to keep him company.

The bannerman. That had been his profession once. His life.
He had carried the standard of his beloved lord to battle, fought where the fighting was fiercest, and felled any foe who dared come close to try to take his symbol. As true a dog as ever fought at head, he had been; perhaps. Perhaps; in a past life. Now he knew only the bitter cold of exile, hunted by the serpent who, with his snaked tongue, and poisoned spears, had taken the life of the lord whom they both were sworn to protect. To avenge.

Outcast, he was. No civilised place would admit him, for fear of the unknown His hall was thus replaced with a crude shelter of twigs, a mobile, non-existent shelter, for he never stayed in the same place too long. More often than not he slept wrapped in his dirty cloak. He had to move constantly, foraging when, and where he could, thanking the Gods if he managed to hunt. Now that winter had come food would be even harder to find. He knew his suffering was necessary though, for the snake tongued one would never cease looking for him. The hunt would go on until one of them perished. He was too dangerous to be allowed to live, still he carried his lord’s banner, and so his existence was a symbol against the usurper.

He was not welcome in the world of men; nor would it be sensible for him to visit it. A wandering man, a stranger, was always kept at spear’s length. He would find no employment in the service of a lord; he had tried in the beginning, and the shame of it still haunted him. He would be turned away, or worse.
His appearance alone told people all they needed.
That he did not belong with them. He was not one of them.
He might be mistaken for a sell-sword; a man with no truth, no honour in him; how could one trust a man who sells life for silver, whose only oath was to the cold weight in his purse? He abhorred such men, and no loving lord would admit such a monster into his retinue.  If he did, he was no worthy lord.

It often came to his mind to tell men of his plight, but it would be of little use. He had been the fiercest of bears, but had failed his sworn duty. Everything his life was and had been, depended on this single service, else it was all for naught.
Yet his gift giver’s slayer lived; he had escaped, yet made no attempt to gain retribution. Every waking hour of his should have been spent on plotting vengeance – blood demanded blood. And O, he was hungry for it, ravenous. Deeds must be rewarded, whether with honour, glorious song, silver trappings or steaming blood; actions demand compensation.
But he had to eat, had to sleep, had to survive, or any chance of such repayment would vanish with his bones. Though the longer he left it, the greater the wyrm of conscience grew. It gnawed his guts by day, and his mind by night.
He needed to act.