The life of Rankal
Prologue
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:This story begins far from the eyes of others, in a land where few tread and many never and will never hear of. North of the lands of Eriador, beyond the shadow of the Grey Mountains, the great desolation of Forochel. It was a brutal land. The winds pounded the sluggish waves of the Great Sea, bringing the frigid air of the Northern Darkness into your bones, the sun rarely touched this place, and the snows piled up all year. But nestled in the shadow of a snowdrift, there is heat and warmth and life. A small igloo, cradled between two frames of whalebone, a family sits and waits out the storm.
Violence Begets Violence
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:It was a harsh life, that he remembered well. Even as a small baby there was rarely a time he was not hungry, or too cold or damp. As soon as he could walk, his father took him to the ice shelf to teach him how to fish. One day he fell in, the time it took for his father to dive in and save him felt like an eternity. He got a fever, for three weeks he was freezing cold and burning hot, he gibbered as though mad and his mother, the fairest wife-man of all the Forodwaith wept every night that surely the spirits meant to take her son from her. It passed, and the next few years passed happily. He may have been cold, he may have always wanted for food, but the young Rankal grew strong, his gaze already hard to meet.
It was a late spring morning. Rankal and his mother were smoking fish whilst his father was out in the wastes hunting seals. Suddenly his mother stopped, alarm twisted her features for a heartbreaking moment. She lent down into Rankal's ear;
"Son; I want you to go under mummy and daddy's bed, I want you to be a quiet as you can until I say you can come out. I love you very much, now go."
As young children do, Rankal did as he was asked without picking up the inflection, as he turned around he saw his mummy take out a dagger and bow, then he hid under the bed.
What followed is hard to say precisely, though one can guess. Sadly... Rankal's memory seems to skip this part of his life. But he remembers screams, bumps on the bed above him, then blood dripping onto his face. Then he hears his fathers voice. Hoarse, Mournful. The other people have gone. But Rankal's a good boy. Mummy told him to hide. So he hides. His father gets on the bed, howling with despair. The men come back, laughing, mocking. There is more noise, more bumps and screams. Then his father gasps. Silence.
"Mummy..... can I come out now?" Silence.
"Daddy?"
Rankal gets up from under the bed. He looks around the room for a long time. He cries. It will be the last time he ever cries again. Rankal's childhood is over.
Tears in the Rain, Blood on the Snow
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:Rankal's story so far was a tragic one. But not unique. For it was in that year that Forochel was invaded from the south; the evil men of Carn Dum had banded together with local orcs and invaded the northern wastes, pillaging and raping as they went. Little more than a wandering stray, Rankal did what he had to do to survive. He killed, he stole, he bartered and betrayed, schemed and slaughtered. It is of little surprise that when the Beornings found him wandering the foot hills of the grey mountains, they at first mistook him for an orc. Then under the layers of dried blood and filth they saw his eyes, his cold piercing eyes, as cold as the gaze of Mandos.
Peace Amongst the Skin-Changers
Spoiler Alert, click show to read:At first Rankal would not approach. They tried leaving food out for him, it had to be raw meat or fish; any bread, cake or cooked or cured foodstuff he would either leave or tear to pieces, after which he would not reappear for days at a time. But steadily they gained his trust. One night, as the winter cold began to lift, he arrived unannounced and sat in the circle around the campfire. It was the first time the three men had a good look at the boy. It was hard to judge his age, but he was perhaps early in his second decade, not yet a man, his body and face were largely obscured by various pelts, sewn together by unknown means. His face was raked with grease and soot, and his eyes burned out of that face like twin lanterns, truly, this boy was of a different world.
The first man spoke, he was the leader of that tribe and his name was Ranga, tall and broad, hazel-eyed and gentle.
"What is your name, boy?"
He looked up at Ranga, his small face clouded with incomprehension
The second man, not a man but a woman, Iothas, said;
"I don't think he knows Westron. Look at his face, Ranga, he's an Ice-dweller, a Northerner"
She then spoke in words he could understand
"You have travelled far, where are your family?"
The boy's voice was harsh from the weather and lack of use, he said only one word.
"Dead"
She flinched in pain, and tried a different question.
"Then your name, you must have a name?"
"Too young for name. Had to flee, Bad men everywhere. Wolves. Orcs.... survived. In the snow."
"No name?..." She gazed deeply at the small, strong frame, heavy muscle knitted hard over bones that still grew.
"Then you shall be called Rankal"
"Rankal? What is that. Speak!"
"It means Wanderer. You were lost, Rankal. But don't worry. You're home now"
Reply With Quote
