Legends of Belariath

Hesketh

Born to a shaman in the tribal council of his tribe Hesketh was raised by his father in firm beliefs of the spirits and their ways. Though at his comming of age he choose the path of the ranger and thus a form of warrior for his tribe. Spending much of his next few years in the forests surrounding his mountained home and leading war parties against the humans in the cities not far from his home. He became well accomplished with short spears and a bow. As well as the occasional use of the sword.

A while after his comming of age, he was travelling around the northern-most outpost of his tribe's domain, during that night the alarm horns where sounded, and his eyes flashed open like bolts of lightning. Gathering his weapons quickly he raced to the outpost to find it in the middle of chaos, dark figures clashing with each other in the night, moriel, it could be no other race with the armor and weapons they bore. The outpost was already in flames, highlighting the combatants as Hesketh and the other rangers that happened to be in the forest tonight came to their aid. For hours they faught the moriel warband in the blazing inferno of their outpost. Hesketh faught like a man possessed, looking about through the combatants as he knew both of his younger brothers where on their traditional guard here. With the morning light the moriel where driven back to their tunnel which was marked by the rangers before they returned back to the outpost, tossing the slain moriel from the clifftops for the ravens to feed upon, they where not worthy of being burned. Hesketh found his brothers back to back where they had made their stand against no less than ten moriel, finally they had fallen but not before they had taken four times their number in their attacker's lives. Thier eyes still open burning with the determination of a sheyka warrior. He ran his hand over both their eyes, closing them both before he carried them by himself one at a time to the pyre that was being constructed, he would allow no other to carry them. After the pyre was prepared the fallen where set ablaze as those still living raised their voices in the howling song of tribute taught to them so long ago by the wolf spirits of the mountains.

Once the pyre had burned to ashes Hesketh began to prepare the war paint of the ashe as he sent a runner for the main camp to bring shamans to claim the rest of the ashes. Himself and the other warriors and rangers began painting themselves and the thier armor with the ashes of their fallen and before nightfall they set out for the moriel tunnel. They entered the tunnels and worked their way down to the forward outpost, hopping across the rooftops and setting them ablaze before the arrows and spears began to fell the moriel when they came to arms. Throughout the night the battle lasted, just as the last but this time the sheyka had the advantage. During the slaughter Hesketh managed to find the visiting moriel matron that had ordered the attack on his lands and slew her in a great battle which actually proved to collapse the entire tunnel back to the moriel city. After slaying her he took her hands as he trophy and the sheyka all left the city, collapsing the entrance tunnel as well and leaving the few moriel within their outpost to burn with no escape. After reaching the main camps again after thier victory Hesketh took the matrons hands and worked to remove the bones, polishing them up and then braiding them into his hair as his own form of trophy. He continues to wear them as a tribute to his fallen brothers and a signification of justice done upon the moriel filth.

Two years after his first moriel incident at the age of twenty two he went on a hunt, alone as the tradition demanded, to learn of his spirit guardian. After several days of fasting in the mist covered mountains and hunting the deer and other game animals there, on the night of the full moon he heard the ghostly howls of the Mist Wolves, the protectors of his tribe. He stood and moved away from his campfire into the moonlight and the mists, looking about him slowly as he picked out the shapes of the spirit wolves. Kneeling down as was the custom all of them emerged from the mists nodding their heads in greeting to him. “We bid you greetings Hesketh, son of Orr.” Hesketh nodded respectfully to them as he raised his hands over his chest “I come to you spirits of the mountain. Guardians of my tribe.” He responded in the traditional way. All the wolves stood in a perfect circle about him as their golden glowing eyes seeming to pierce his very body and bare open his soul. “Welcome our child. We have summoned you here as we summon all the children of the tribe at your age. But you are a special case. Son of a shaman yet taking the path of the warrior. We have much we expect of you in your life. There is a place far from here that you must journey to. We do not know the name but when you arrive you will know where you are to stay and do your work for a time.” He nodded but once as he understood that it would mean leaving his world behind for the time for this new place. The wolves continued their speaking as they looked over him “You are a bit young for such a journey. You will know when the time has come for you to make your way through the lands to this place.” He nodded as the wolves moved back into the mists and left him in the night. He returned to his camp then and returned to the tribe the next morning with a smile on his masked face. Several years passed until the day the spirits told him about arrived, he felt it in his very bones. And so with a goodbye to his father and the rest of the tribe, telling them only that the spirits willed him to go. He departed the village at a run, leaving them behind for all he knew the rest of his life. He traveled for many days and through lands he never even knew existed, seeing many people and other things. He felt as if the very wolves themselves guided his steps through the world. He could feel it once again, like he was back on the mountain that fateful night, they where watching over him.

After over a year he would meet a group of centaurs, spending a few months with them and learning the ways of their people out of curiousity as they closely resembled his own tribe's ways, he set out again for the place the spirits willed him to go. After many months of time and finding his way through the strangest of places. Though one day he was attacked by a group of dark elves atop a cliff, his spear and bow where broken in the battle though he emerged victorious in the end, he had fallen down the cliff in the battle, having lost the way to get back up and in the same way loosing his way to return home, at least the way he knew. He gave a long sigh but it did not matter, if the spirits willed he would find his way home eventually he knew. And thus once again he started on his journey, running swift as the wind through forest and steam, and over mountains. Finally after two years of a rambling travel he managed to find his way to Nanthalion. Eyeing the city from afar with a bit of wariness born of a man who spent much of his younger years warring on cities he knew this was where the spirits wished him, and he knew it in his heart as he gave a sigh and then made his way to the city to make his way and discover how the spirits wished him to live his new life here.

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