Post by The Smith on May 26, 2009 23:58:39 GMT -5
You’ve heard o’ Rask Beast-Tongue, haven’t you? Rask the Wanderer, Rask the Scarred, Master o’ the creatures o’ the wild North? O’ course, he weren’t born with any o’ those extra names. Nah, his ma just called him Rask. A simple name, but don’t let it fool you – Rask ain’t no simple man.
Rask grew up in the Frostfangs, a land cold and harsh even by the standards o’ my folk. He grew tall and strong, quick with his spear and even quicker to lose his temper. When he was little more than a boy, he got into some sort o’ quarrel with a warrior in his tribe and weapons were drawn. His foe disarmed Rask, but the boy’s blood was up and he kept charging. The warrior’s next strike took Rask’s eye and half o’ his face, but Rask closed the distance and leaped onto his enemy. Lacking a weapon, he tore out the man’s throat with his teeth. Yep, that’s when most folks began to think Rask might be a little… different.
You see, Rask’s a beastling. A warg. A skinchanger. O’ course, he didn’t know it at the time, but there was an old man there who figured it out quick enough. Mollen was his name, and as soon as Rask’s wounds healed, Mollen took the boy out into the wild to learn how to harness his strange power. I can’t say I know much about what Rask did there – the skinchangers are a secretive sort, and while we Free Folk respect them, most fear them a little too. There is something unnatural about what they do.
When Rask returned from his training he was a calmer, wiser, more sober man. Still, you could see the fury, simmering just under the surface. He began to make a name for himself, first as a warrior, then as a leader o’ men. Sitting atop the great snow bear that served as his mount, he was unstoppable in battle. Powerful men began to heed his words. Whip-smart, Rask was, and he knew things no normal man could. He might have lost one eye, but he gained another in the process – one that can see the unseen.
Some began to whisper that Rask might make a pretty good king. When Hallen the Burned called himself King Beyond the Wall, men looked to Rask before they rallied to Hallen’s banner. When the Mad Wolf did the same, again we looked to Rask. But each time, Rask’s answer was scornful. “We are the Free Folk, not the kneelers o’ the South. Let every man do as he pleases. We have no need for kings.”
And then, he left. Maybe one o’ his visions called to him, or maybe he was just curious. Rask jumped the Wall and headed south, and didn’t come back until he’d walked to the very bottom tip o’ your kingdom. When Rask returned, things were different beyond the Wall. Darker.
Now listen. You think the white walkers hit your southron kingdom hard? You think you paid the highest price? Horseshit. Years before the white walkers moved south, my people were fighting them tooth and nail. Our backs were up against the Wall. Anyone who tried to flee south was cut down by your crow rangers. We could stand our ground and fight, or we could die.
And mark my words, Rask was right in the middle o’ that fighting. All the heroes o’ the Free Folk followed behind him; Tormuk Axehand, a man the size o’ an aurochs; Lucky Gynna, with her fire-red hair; Olivan Reed, with his trident Gods’ Sight, made o’ weirwood and the metal o’ a fallen star. One by one they fell to the unstoppable horde, until only Rask and a few followers remained.
I still don’t know how we survived those years o’ winter. Every night, the white walkers attacked. The ones they didn’t kill we lost to frostbite and starvation. But somehow we did. And then Rask told us that his eagle had spotted an army moving north. Men and… dragons. It was our only hope.
The men who are left have started calling it the Last Battle. Rask doesn’t like that much. There’ll always be more battles, he says, and no matter what the southrons think, the white walkers are far from dead and gone. Still, we can hope. Either way, Rask fought like a demon, and it seemed like he raised half the beasts o’ the forest to fight with us. We hit the white walkers in the rear as the southron host engaged them. I’ll never forget the sight o’ dragonfire, but seeing a great snow bear rip two dozen wights in half was almost as impressive a sight.
And now what? Rask is old, but he ain’t done yet. Our lands are ravaged and are people are dead. Our leader will slit the throat of any man who calls him king, but that's what he is to us all the same. Rask says its time to move south and claim the due your southron kingdom owes us Free Folk. And between you and me? I don’t fancy the chances o’ anyone who tries to stand in his way.
Rask grew up in the Frostfangs, a land cold and harsh even by the standards o’ my folk. He grew tall and strong, quick with his spear and even quicker to lose his temper. When he was little more than a boy, he got into some sort o’ quarrel with a warrior in his tribe and weapons were drawn. His foe disarmed Rask, but the boy’s blood was up and he kept charging. The warrior’s next strike took Rask’s eye and half o’ his face, but Rask closed the distance and leaped onto his enemy. Lacking a weapon, he tore out the man’s throat with his teeth. Yep, that’s when most folks began to think Rask might be a little… different.
You see, Rask’s a beastling. A warg. A skinchanger. O’ course, he didn’t know it at the time, but there was an old man there who figured it out quick enough. Mollen was his name, and as soon as Rask’s wounds healed, Mollen took the boy out into the wild to learn how to harness his strange power. I can’t say I know much about what Rask did there – the skinchangers are a secretive sort, and while we Free Folk respect them, most fear them a little too. There is something unnatural about what they do.
When Rask returned from his training he was a calmer, wiser, more sober man. Still, you could see the fury, simmering just under the surface. He began to make a name for himself, first as a warrior, then as a leader o’ men. Sitting atop the great snow bear that served as his mount, he was unstoppable in battle. Powerful men began to heed his words. Whip-smart, Rask was, and he knew things no normal man could. He might have lost one eye, but he gained another in the process – one that can see the unseen.
Some began to whisper that Rask might make a pretty good king. When Hallen the Burned called himself King Beyond the Wall, men looked to Rask before they rallied to Hallen’s banner. When the Mad Wolf did the same, again we looked to Rask. But each time, Rask’s answer was scornful. “We are the Free Folk, not the kneelers o’ the South. Let every man do as he pleases. We have no need for kings.”
And then, he left. Maybe one o’ his visions called to him, or maybe he was just curious. Rask jumped the Wall and headed south, and didn’t come back until he’d walked to the very bottom tip o’ your kingdom. When Rask returned, things were different beyond the Wall. Darker.
Now listen. You think the white walkers hit your southron kingdom hard? You think you paid the highest price? Horseshit. Years before the white walkers moved south, my people were fighting them tooth and nail. Our backs were up against the Wall. Anyone who tried to flee south was cut down by your crow rangers. We could stand our ground and fight, or we could die.
And mark my words, Rask was right in the middle o’ that fighting. All the heroes o’ the Free Folk followed behind him; Tormuk Axehand, a man the size o’ an aurochs; Lucky Gynna, with her fire-red hair; Olivan Reed, with his trident Gods’ Sight, made o’ weirwood and the metal o’ a fallen star. One by one they fell to the unstoppable horde, until only Rask and a few followers remained.
I still don’t know how we survived those years o’ winter. Every night, the white walkers attacked. The ones they didn’t kill we lost to frostbite and starvation. But somehow we did. And then Rask told us that his eagle had spotted an army moving north. Men and… dragons. It was our only hope.
The men who are left have started calling it the Last Battle. Rask doesn’t like that much. There’ll always be more battles, he says, and no matter what the southrons think, the white walkers are far from dead and gone. Still, we can hope. Either way, Rask fought like a demon, and it seemed like he raised half the beasts o’ the forest to fight with us. We hit the white walkers in the rear as the southron host engaged them. I’ll never forget the sight o’ dragonfire, but seeing a great snow bear rip two dozen wights in half was almost as impressive a sight.
And now what? Rask is old, but he ain’t done yet. Our lands are ravaged and are people are dead. Our leader will slit the throat of any man who calls him king, but that's what he is to us all the same. Rask says its time to move south and claim the due your southron kingdom owes us Free Folk. And between you and me? I don’t fancy the chances o’ anyone who tries to stand in his way.