I've been busy moving, but I whipped this together for my new fodder trainer's bio. :)
It wasn’t scenes of war that kept wizened Artemis up until dawn broke across the campgrounds: though, certainly, a number of armchair psychologists had proposed this to him. If anything, once he managed sleep, he found it all too comfortable. The campground sometimes grew loud with the voices of his circus neighbors. But rarely were they so rude that the tundra could not simply ignore them with the aid of earplugs and a good book. Perhaps a lifetime of travel had forced his internal clock into a time only the body could track. Whatever the culprit, the deep sense of unease that accompanied it rarely left. He had since accepted it as a companion. Another thing that should have given him difficulty.
When he was younger, Artemis would have sharpened his muscles before his mind. If he looked for guidance, it would have been within the Icewarden, not himself. Frequently before battle, the tundra evoked the name of his creator for the menial - an unyielding sword, stamina, victory. The funniest bit, too, was that he used to think that his prayers were actually answered. That the Icewarden had the time or care to guide his hand was the belief of a starry-eyed fool.
There was no denying that Artemis was a fright on the battlefield. He cut down sizeable floods of mages and swordsdergs while his companions overtook his scraps, as if he were slicing nothing more than bread. A callused drive foward, unaware or uninterested in the fate of those who stood in his way. His favored weapons, the sword and shield, found their target with unsettling success. Even riddled with arthritis, Artemis had little doubt he could still hold his own. His love for the Icewarden had not faltered with age, but his certainty had. Age had brought him to the realization that his wrath was the simple result of skill, not blessing. Somehow, that was worse. Then there was no one else but himself to blame.
Inevitably, some scrappy dragonling or two would come to his door, begging to be trained. No matter how quiet a life he led, his presence was electric to the desperate derg who scarcely knew pommel from edge. What they did tend to know, however, was that they wished to serve the deities in whatever manner possible. And all that stood between them and a life of service, they begged, was Artemis’ guidance.
Though he knew their motivations to be far more complex than that, as his had been at their age. A love for the deities flourished within them, yes, but few dragons wish to solely execute their masters’ will. They look heavenward and hope to see themselves immortalized within the stars one day, a legend worth stitching bits of the sky together in their image. Artemis now knew better.
After all, their light only traveled once the star died.
And yet, he trains them anyway. It occurs to him that this is what keeps him from sleep - knowing that even in his age, he is still another gear in the cycle of war, pushing endless dragons to an exalted future. What laid beyond for them was death or glory, and frankly, they were free to define either as they wished. Perhaps Artemis wants them to come to the conclusion he’s known all along.
Or perhaps, despite it all, war still appeals to the deepest confines of his heart, the only way he knows to properly honor himself and his God.
It wasn’t scenes of war that kept wizened Artemis up until dawn broke across the campgrounds: though, certainly, a number of armchair psychologists had proposed this to him. If anything, once he managed sleep, he found it all too comfortable. The campground sometimes grew loud with the voices of his circus neighbors. But rarely were they so rude that the tundra could not simply ignore them with the aid of earplugs and a good book. Perhaps a lifetime of travel had forced his internal clock into a time only the body could track. Whatever the culprit, the deep sense of unease that accompanied it rarely left. He had since accepted it as a companion. Another thing that should have given him difficulty.
When he was younger, Artemis would have sharpened his muscles before his mind. If he looked for guidance, it would have been within the Icewarden, not himself. Frequently before battle, the tundra evoked the name of his creator for the menial - an unyielding sword, stamina, victory. The funniest bit, too, was that he used to think that his prayers were actually answered. That the Icewarden had the time or care to guide his hand was the belief of a starry-eyed fool.
There was no denying that Artemis was a fright on the battlefield. He cut down sizeable floods of mages and swordsdergs while his companions overtook his scraps, as if he were slicing nothing more than bread. A callused drive foward, unaware or uninterested in the fate of those who stood in his way. His favored weapons, the sword and shield, found their target with unsettling success. Even riddled with arthritis, Artemis had little doubt he could still hold his own. His love for the Icewarden had not faltered with age, but his certainty had. Age had brought him to the realization that his wrath was the simple result of skill, not blessing. Somehow, that was worse. Then there was no one else but himself to blame.
Inevitably, some scrappy dragonling or two would come to his door, begging to be trained. No matter how quiet a life he led, his presence was electric to the desperate derg who scarcely knew pommel from edge. What they did tend to know, however, was that they wished to serve the deities in whatever manner possible. And all that stood between them and a life of service, they begged, was Artemis’ guidance.
Though he knew their motivations to be far more complex than that, as his had been at their age. A love for the deities flourished within them, yes, but few dragons wish to solely execute their masters’ will. They look heavenward and hope to see themselves immortalized within the stars one day, a legend worth stitching bits of the sky together in their image. Artemis now knew better.
After all, their light only traveled once the star died.
And yet, he trains them anyway. It occurs to him that this is what keeps him from sleep - knowing that even in his age, he is still another gear in the cycle of war, pushing endless dragons to an exalted future. What laid beyond for them was death or glory, and frankly, they were free to define either as they wished. Perhaps Artemis wants them to come to the conclusion he’s known all along.
Or perhaps, despite it all, war still appeals to the deepest confines of his heart, the only way he knows to properly honor himself and his God.
tundra monolair (except when i'm not)
