Sawtooth Spire brandzahn

sooo, this post got unexpectedly deep.

you have seen much history, brother,

brought forth to him in this manner, wintersbane considers mahler's words. it's fair and easy enough to say that he's never thought of it like this. that he's stood on the frontlines of history — or almost history — in these wilds. mostly, he's considered that he's been in the wrong or right place at the wrong time. like church ruins crumbling with the passage of time. working for both sides; shelter. a sniper's nest. his true allegiance is his own; fluctuating with the pivot of 'who got there first'. i suppose i have. someday, perhaps, if he lived to see his elderyears he would consider turning this history, this experience into stories for the young. or perhaps he'd consider it now. there were young about and there was no better time than the present ...and no guarantee that he would survive to see old age. nothing, wintersbane knows, is guaranteed them in life.

consider yourself lucky, then. war, wintersbane knows now, is not half as appealing as it was to the starry-eyed boy he'd been once; too eager to fight. he was a warrior because he was good at it, because his tundrian ancestry meant he was built for it. but victory doesn't taste like ambrosia of the gods, it tastes like ash in his mouth; same as defeat. he can't say he takes pleasure in fighting anymore. not as he once had. i wish i could say the same. and he means it.