Hear the wolf howl, and in the distance, a haunting reply.
Birds make their feast on the first of the spring berries,
stalked by a feline form. Water falls furiously,
urging the current against my legs. I wait, and listen.
I hear clearly. The wind, whispering amongst the trees,
seducing them to the weather's bidding. Silence.
Then thunder. Trees mutter and bustle,
their will to be silent broken by the fresh and falling rain.
A tremendous litany, yet to be sung by my own folk.
I take my mind to the roar of the sea,
the flutter of flags and banners atop the great walls of Mithlond,
home to my spear, home to my father.
The call of the sea birds echo in my ears,
I am at peace,
and I begin. My grip tightens on my spear,
though not to strangle it, I urge it up from the rushing waters,
my right foot bringing the the counter balance ringing from the water.
I close my eyes.
My spear punches forth and then retreats,
my feet find their place amongst the rocks beneath the heavy current.
My spear swings left, it seems to come to life, I alter,
pivoting my left foot as my right comes around.
The ornate blade, engraved with waves fleeing from its tip,
hisses through the air, parting the falling rain.
My feet now tread backwards swiftly, with each step,
my spear still punches forward,
as my father taught me.
My spear, Alagreg has awoken.
