H o m e l a n d

Mountains rose from all the quarters of the earth, embracing the green highlands in a protective grip. All was quiet but for the calls of birds of
prey. Not even the villages teemed with life: All still and calm. The land undisturbed.
It was overcast, perhaps the rain was soon to come.

A dusty road would lead across the mountain grazelands, small hill over
hill, slopes and thick patches of grass and moss. Wildflowers would seem like islands in the grass, waved gently by the flowing wind;
Appearing as a different kind of sea.
The dusty road soon led to a village sparse. where soft ringing of bells and sheep bleats, young and old tamed the silence of the highlands.

Dragging hands across the grass, through the heart of Ull and towards
the most lonesome stead. The hearth appeared lit, for the smoke
rose slowly. While an tired *man* sat on a bench just outside the house;
solemnly overlooking his many sheep.
And his family . Not all home yet.

T h e - m a r k s - t h e y - l e a v e - u s

The house was for many but now holds too little. Now only the father and daughter live here.
While the son, from the loins of a different pair was not yet home.

Once there was a mother, as sweet as gentle as a wildflower. She filled the hearts around her with her warmth that shall never grace the home no more. She forever left her mark in the very house she lived in.
The house stunted. The heart left cold. Sees her In the shapes of other women
The memory of her still haunts him.

The daughter, a blissful child. Like a sheep soft and innocent. Her face a striking mirror of her mother. The pride and joy in the father's life. She fills her mother's footsteps;
filling in the shadow she left.

The son of a different pair, but his wholly in bonds. The house a little fuller, a little warmer, a littl more complete. Under his care, protection and love.
But he has still to come.
And there is one more... And he is not home.

T h e - s t e a d

Wood worn by long winter days, finally finding peace in summer. It was a house long and for many, but now it feels more so empty. The entry door was large and stury, in a way nostalgic too;
it bore the marks of children growth spurs. Etched deeply to document time past.

Inside, there were marked names of those that were still here and for those that no longer were. A bindrune for each of them, wishing good fortune and healthy lives on each pillar inside.
Yet those marks were ghosts without many inside. The quiet flicker of the hearth flame. the wind gushing past the wooden roof and the very cold but solid floor on which all stood.
It was the house and the reflection of the owner's heart.

But when full, it was a place warm from family alone. With the quiet of the *homeland* but a serenity around it, among the softness and innocence of sheep.

Y n g v a r r - S k r a u t b r o k

The man on the stead's bench with a lamb by his side was Yngvarr. He wore nothing but panths that were well embellished, Skrautbrok they called him. And of course what was above was a worn but stll hardy torso. He was a hulwark of a man with dense mousy blonde hair that was slowly loosing it's colour. The eyes of a deep blue. His face usually expressionless.

Fighting has been his life whole, it's shadowy marks paling on his skin. Yet in mind, he seems so proud, his words sharp as forks and his fists stiff as stone...


He's been here for so long, and Ydalir he calls his home...

This is all I say for now

Yngvarr:

Get off my lawn!