Thread:Austenasia/@comment-4555021-20120517192224/@comment-4555021-20120517205124

Many years later, when Harry was but a glorious song sung in the mead-halls of Domus by the bards, a warrior walked, alone, through the forests of the Arglanssil. The night was dark, and he had only the light of the path-finders to guide him on his perilous journey. He carried upon him only what was essential; furs and cloth to keep him warm, his sword and shield to defend himself, a gourd of water to drink, a knife to hunt and a satchel with which he carried his food.

He had been traveling for many days, from the lush green valleys of the western alps, to the icy Northern Wastes of Windhelm. Alone, looking for an answer, for the meaning. He was a Arlan pilgrim, the name given to those who travelled to find the true meaning, that word which held the life-essence of Domus, the unwritten code that dictated society, honour, battle.

Like all pilgrims, his journey had started in the Skjolrimund mountains. From thence he had journeyed east, to the Eastern enclave. He had sought out Arland, son of the wind, guider-of-pilgrims, wise man who knew the way. He had then journeyed throughout the land, with no fixed destination, stopping in mead-halls to sleep, or where it was devoid of human life, he had slept by the light of the path-finders.

But now, now he was close to knowing. He had inquired, investigated, battled, and now his journey had led him here to the peak of the Helmhold, in the lands of Eomund, lord of Esgaroth. There, at the very peak, he found a throne. It shone with a divine light, a drop of pure gold amidst a sea of black velvet. Ancient as time, it was carved so intricately, the pilgrim knew it must be the work of the Dwarves of old, forged in Aedromund, furnace of might. It stood alone upon a rock. It was tall, crafted from the smoothest marble, and lined with gold. Upon the arms, and around the back, were carvings, great battles and hunts, Kings of old illuminated in all their glory.

There was, near the bottom, a plaque of brass, but the words that were carved upon it were obscured by dirt, by the tidings of time. The silence around him was deafening. Not a creature moved about him. Slowly, he bent down towards the plaque. He scrubbed gently, and, to his amazement, it cleaned itself instantly. A single word, carved in the ancient runes, was visible.

'Aśdårla'.

He had discovered it. His years of journeying had culminated to this instant, to this word. Upon reading, he felt a warm, golden glow throughout his body, as if he had drunk the mead of the legendary fountain of Hardingaar. That single word, that meant so much.

Aśdårla.