Gustaf Lögr
The Baramoðn
The wind blew through the branches of the trees out in the wilderness beyond the walls of Hardhaven, heavy with the scents of winter upon them. Of woody, earthen aroma mixed with the musk of the fauna that roamed within the brush. The sound of birds calling high overhead, flying under the rolling clouds of soft greys and off-whites. The air around them was chilled, and the sounds of the forest called out to those who might hear them. It was here, in this place near the river that he stood, the waters on the banks weaving to and fro, lapping at the soles of browned leather boots.
It was here that he looked up into the far beyond of the sky above, and contemplated all that encompassed the recent events of his life. Not even an entire season ago, he was still looked upon as a myth, known only to a small handful and closer to even less. His was a journey of solitude, following his sacred Oath as Naé had laid out for him. Yet, now? Much had changed in so short a time, and it's ripples were being felt by many more than just himself. Of the niece he never knew he had, a fine young lupo woman in her own right. She still thought as auslanders do, but he could see in her the spark of the Clan. She moved as the Lögr do, even if she did not see it yet.
There was also too, the matter of his relationship with Aelin, Alpha of Clan Erevos and as far as he was concerned, Anasari. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet, this day in the woods, his thoughts drifted off. As månenøye loomed upon the horizon, he took the time to think on the festival and it's meanings. He'd attended in seasons past, it was one of the few pleasures he afforded himself. The festival had many names, and other rites, rituals and traditions with other Clans, and he'd attended a fair few over the decades, the Northern wolves of Hardhaven included. Yet, he'd always done so hidden among the shadows, blending into the crowds, never making himself truly known to the public. In certain circles out on the far plains, it was said that if you heard the howl of the Baramoðn the first night of Krassõln, the harvest would triple in size the following year. Of course, he knew of no truth in the statement, but who knows for certain?
Still, Gustaf of Clan Lögr stood there, whispering a prayer to Naé in the tongue of his forefathers, asking for guidance and counsel this eve, that he might best know how to approach the coming nights. The gods and spirits worked in very enigmatic ways, this much had always been true in his life. The thunder rolled low across the sky this night, faint and calming as heat lightning seemed to light up clouds far in the distance. The scent of the earthen tones seemed to shift, however, and for a moment, he lingered upon it, his mind filled with an odd sense of wonder.
