Whunjo sat outside of the hall known as Jarnsalr, he had a knife in one hand and a chunk of bark in the other. His felt like writing, for yes, he was one of those whom knew the Mannish runes of the north. With this man in particular, it meant simple carving, which would appear crude. No magic that was obvious to the eye was held by these symbols. To Whunjo himself, it was practice and amusement. He looked over at his friends going about their daily lives and he smirked a little.
Each time he looked at someone, his knife's edge went to work.
Spring brings youthfulness and wild tempests.
Fresh sprouts wave and bend through the fiercest winds.
Growing where the old shall topple.
Froeydis sat proudly on the solitary rock jutting out of the nearby lake.
The touch of love.
Sweet is it's hurt.
The heart beats the mind senseless.
Aegaldred and Kenaz did not escape his gaze as they snuck off together.
Dumb minds do not amuse the great.
Brutality is often the seed of disgust.
A strong hand though, may always find a noble purpose.
His eyes went out to his beloved brother.
The wisest tongues speak the least,
Modesty is the river from which decency may flow.
Those treasures combined, belonging to the children of the Spirits.
The young woman named She-Bear did not notice him looking at her. Whunjo then walked to the lake and stared at his own reflection. His features rippling there, giving his appearance the resemblance of a red haired bear.
Hard work, not always bears reward,
Strong will, may lead only to early demise,
The Spirits are capricious in their demands.
He looked about him, but then realized the bark at hand had been carved full. Kalf saw him sitting there and asked, "Something amiss Whunjo?" The man placed the bark against the northern wall of Jarnsalr. He then looked at his friend while slapping an arm over his shoulder and leading him off towards the nearest keg of mead, "Age eats at my mood, hrm-hrm.."
