"I'm sorry." "I know." "I'm so sorry." "Lad." and the old hand gripped a young shoulder. "I know." "They'll sing songs of you. A hundred. A thousand." the youth proclaimed, as slight tears fell about him. "Aye, maybe. But just something to get the blood stirring 'fore the real tale is spun, I think." and his grey eyes turned away from the cavern, and looked up into the face of his protégé, his kind and faithful novice. “You’re special, boy. I could say that a thousand times, but today, here and now, I mean it. I mean every word.” And his twisted, cankered hand gripped tight as an iron vice. “There’s something inside you. Something…terrifying. I saw it the moment I found you in that ditch, and I see it now. You could set this world alight, or remind us what a Hero truly is.”
A cough racked his broad frame, and the aging Templar turned away. But his companion looked pale as old snow, and as the wind brushed through his sandy hair, he took a long breath. “I’ll never forget you, Gjorn.” “I should damn well hope not!” he responded, “Now get you gone, boy! I’ve a darkness to face!” and his iron grip turned to a push, even as he found the fear in him fading. Gjorn had seen much. Too much. He’d seen the best of men, and the worst. But now? Now, it had all come crashing to an end. Maldred, his initiate, fled. He disappeared across the rocks, a lupine frame dancing from stone to stone like a seabird. The great ocean beside him was calm. Far calmer than Gjorn had ever seen it. A tragedy, perhaps? He’d have hoped for a storm, a tempest to mark his last moments. No. No tempest. No storm. Just an old man, an older sword, and an aging enemy. Gjorn edged inside the cave, and instantly, his every pore was filled with despair, with sorrow, with a lifetime’s worth of anger and bitterness wrenched from a loss too great to bear. Cean Gúla. His Cean Gúla. A love so strong it bound the stars in awe, and a betrayal so callous it…it angered them. Gjorn did not know who, or what, had cursed Alania with such a fate. Only that he had tried a thousand times to save her before…before…before…he’d realised she had no wish to be saved. She was going to kill him. And he deserved it. “He looks just like you did, Ally…” the old warrior croaked, as he began the final journey down the stone hole, his feet finding steps hammered into the rock. “…a strong jaw, though. I…” and a few tattered sobs interrupted him. “…I..couldn’t have asked for a better son.” “NOT MINE! NOT MINE! NOT MINE!” The shrieking was a kin to that of the wind, of the ocean. Oh, Gjorn had found his tempest. It struck into his ears, and he wept yet more. Yet he continued downwards, every fibre of him filled with sadness. She was waiting. As his soft boots found the bottom, he felt a cold hand upon his shoulder.
Will the Ranger Companions have any effect on storylines? Or will it just be a cookie-cutter assistant to the Ranger?
