Mægics Heir: Druid Quest

Ètœn Bearheart had been in the saddle near to twelve turns of a sand-glass, from sunrise to dusk. Near now to his journey’s end, a destination he alone knew, not Druid, nor Aeglèsia. Their wish, not his, for he carried a burden not at all certain he could bear.

He had sworn an Oath on all that he held dear and Ètœn Bearheart would be ever faithful to his word and loyal to a fault, his heart steadfast and true to his name.  So, he would keep his Oath, as he held dear the love felt for the woman to whom he had sworn it.

From crushing waves of the Great Eastern Sea crashing against granite cliffs upon which the Druid’s Keep stood, to the foothills of  the Shadow Mountains, braced against the Great Western Sea. He had travelled the very breadth of Aeryth. Having left sparse-of-tree slopes and grassy knolls betwixt high rocky mountains,  arriving know to a land of thick forest and rivers and lush mountainsides. A place more akin to Ètœn’s childhood homestead lands, and a place of relative solitude and abundant wildlife. Using mostly trappers’ and traders’ trails, he’d shunned contact with Mid-Realm folk for the near three full moons it had taken him to arrive to this point. A place where he would feel, in most part, safe for a time.

He had chosen his destination for the reasons stated, but as well, because loyal friends of like mind and history called it home. They had themselves, a’times past, parted ways with the life he was now leaving. 

Though no longer garbed so, remained an elite soldier, a warrior of greatest repute on many a field of battle. In most cities and townes across the whole of Aeryth he would be known and honored as mayhaps the Kingdom’s most prolific Kingsman.

A trained soldier who had brought the King’s justice down upon countless enemy, while in His service.  Standing a head above the tallest man he had ever met, Ètœn’s shoulders were broad, his reach long and his mean and manner in battle fiercer than any tiger cat. Sky-bolt quick with a broad sword, his true love remained his great bow, crafted by his pæder, and easy in his huge hands. But that life he must put behind him now. From this day forth, he would carry the name of Bard in lieu of Bearheart. 

Though he sat upon a great and proud warhorse, harness and saddle were homemade and of a common design, akin to any huntsman’s or trapper’s saddlery. Indeed, the self-same that he had left his humble homestead upon, a score and five-year past. A common traveler’s cloak and garment lay about is shoulders, and he wore upon his jaw and chin, a growth of sandy blond curls, only somewhat trimmed.  His hair a tangle of many moon’s growth and with chiseled features, he had what women would certainly call a handsome countenance.  He wore an easy smile and was as easy to laugh. As he gazed afore him, finally approaching the small towne’s Inn, dusk was settling on this warm spring’s sun. The late eve’s quiet clung about him, reflecting his mood.

On the saddle afore him sat his burden, and took the form of a younger, not yet having reached his six-year-end.  He sat cross-legged and leaning back, fast asleep against the stomach and broad chest of Ètœn… Bard. 

But, to Ariastone Côeurdrægon, his charge and only responsibility in life now, he would simply be ‘Da.’