Two hundred Axlings in Ten great longships, with sails of a black axe on a green field departed from Axgaard. And under a great big blue sky they sailed until they reached the land of Acheron.
The land had been stained white from the permanent snowfall and Gray overcast of cumbersome clouds. The dirt as hard as iron, as usual, to the point that the Axlings made clanging noises as their boots hit the shores when they offloaded. But Drokar was not discouraged yet. At once they began to haul the wood and the rock and the iron, and stab their spades into the ground. But yet, when they stab their spades, they would only clunk and dent. Still, they managed a meager foundation to be laid for their longhall. After all, it was tradition that the first building in any new settlement should be the Longhall. So their built their hold and as they finished, the sky became dark and filled with wisps of blue. Under this sky they christened the town “Veldirlaand” and set about being merry and drunk for a night of their quickly-gotten honor.
But Drokar should’ve known that quickly-gained honor was not honor at all, and his newly found people paid the price for it. A Blizzardy swept in during the night, and its winds howled and roared and battered down the walls of the longhall. When the pioneers awoke, they found twenty of their companions to have been smashed flat by the falling timbers of the feeble building, and twenty more (mostly children and babes) turned into Dark, Frozen Corpses.
Men cried doom and gloom and mourned for their lost ones, but they soldiered on, as fremennik always do. They spent the morning digging the graves of the fallen. Then they spent the afternoon digging a bigger foundation and erecting another longhall, this time more formidable than the last. Or so they thought.
^ "Some of those words were
STUPID.
" - Mod Raven
31-Aug-2014 00:05:11
- Last edited on
31-Aug-2014 00:05:35
by
Captain Lime
