Gunrud the Oracle waited in her cave. A visitor was coming, a meeting she had anticipated for a decade. She minded the water boiling upon her her, oblivious to the darkness around her, her blind eyes unblinking as she stirred and threw tea leaves upon the water’s surface.
“Soon,” she murmured. Her toothless mouth parted in a grim approximation of a smile, a motion that drew the layers of wrinkles upon her face into new arrangement.
A hundred feet below her, a gaunt figure, wreathed in a weather-beaten, ragged cloak as grey as the mist that covered the ground, fought for another purchase for his foot. He pulled himself higher, using the waning strength in his arms to lift himself against the hard stone, and give himself the few extra inches he would need to push his foot onto the ledge. He groaned, as the motion sent lances of pain throughout his body, as his muscles screamed with exhaustion.
He turned his one good eye upwards, up the jagged wall of the cliff face, towards the small opening which still seemed so far away. A few hundred more feet, and he could rest. A few hundred more feet, and he would have answers.
His body trembled with fatigue. His bloody fingers clung to the sharp outcroppings of rock, his feet balanced precariously as he sought to rest for another moment, to gather his strength again.
He freed one hand, scratching his face and the growth of grey stubble. His body ached, the socket of his missing eye still itched, and as his face turned upwards, he felt the first drops of rain of the coming storm.
“Perfect,” he muttered. “Just perfect.”
“Rotten place for a thief. Climbing rocks with no riches. Scaling cliffs when I could be warm and cozy in a fine bath, enjoying all of the delicacies Kirk has to offer…” He grumbled as he reached up again. His purchase quickly grew slicker as the storm released itself overhead. Soon, his cloak, his face, the cliff he climbed upon, were soaked with rain. The wind whipped his cloak away from him, biting through the rags he wore as clothes, piercing like a spear into his side. He leaned his head back and roared.
“And all because of you, you rotten bastard! Take my eye, grey my hair! I don’t want you! I never have! Take your bloody legacy and shove it up your – “
One of the rocks of the cliff face broke from beneath him, and he fell the length of his arms, his body slamming against the stone and his breath leaving him in a rush. He hung, his fingers still holding tightly, and let out a long groan.
He whispered, “Think your funny do you?”
He sighed, and pulled himself up again, finding firmer purchase, and beginning the climb again.
“Ancient responsibility…welfare of the people…wisdom of the ages. None of them know what a cruel master you are, do they? And to say nothing of your error in judgment.” He paused, catching his breath. “Let me clue you in…I’M A VENDEL! I’m not some ancient tattooed warrior with no sense whose only … ergh … concern …unh… is swinging a stupid axe. I don’t care what happens to your stupid …umph… longboats, or your stupid …gaah!... skaerjen, or your stupid….eee…he… he jarls.”
He pulled himself to an outcropping, kicking up his legs and rolling into the only small shelter from the wind and rain. He wrapped the wet cloak around himself, reaching into the small pocket of his frayed breeches, and pulling free the last of his morning’s breakfast. He put a few bites to his lips, sucking the juices of the berries greedily. He finished the last few, then considered the leaf he had wrapped them in momentarily before popping that into his mouth. It was bitter and milky, an odd counterpoint to sweetness of the berries. He looked up the face of the cliff again.
Soon.
It was hours before he finally pulled himself to Gunrud’s outcropping, the darkness of the cave like the Oblivion he feared so much as a child. He lay upon the ground, his feet and hands bleeding, his muscles screaming, his breath ragged. He pushed himself, slowly, to his feet, then glanced down the two hundred feet of the cliff he had ascended. Thunder crashed, and for a moment the rock was illuminated as it had not been during his entire ascent.
“Getting down is likely to be even more fun,” he grumbled. He turned, mentally preparing himself to enter the void of the cave. He squared his shoulders, drew a breath, and was stopped short by the ancient, wrinkled apparition that walked blindly past him. She carried a thick coil of rope, and hummed tunelessly as she walked past, before throwing the coil over the side of the cliff. He watched as she dusted her hands, and saw the coil tighten and grow taut against the stalagmite it was tethered to. She turned back towards the dark of the cave, then blinked at the man who stood in the entrance to her cave.
“Well hello, Grumfather. You’re early. Would you like some tea?”
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