I actually have a rather lengthy complete story in my head for this, but it's proving difficult to move it to paper.
The Scourge of the North stood at the parapet, composing
poetry for the crows. A chill breeze
swept up through the surrounding peaks and whistled through the spires of his
fastness, drowning out the raucous critique of his supercilious audience. Winter would come early this year. This was not quite enough to bring a smile to
his face. Not any more. But the crows might have discerned a faint
glimmer of satisfaction in the glowing embers of his eyes, had they been less
indifferent.
He cast a
long gaze to the south and surveyed the passes through the foothills, and saw
no traces of anything larger than a
rabbit. Perhaps this year would pass
without any approaches from the foolhardy or the insane. It had been a long while since the last time
his isolation had been left undisturbed for an entire questing season. He had actually lost count of the years,
which was unfortunate, as there was little but counting to do in this desolate
citadel at the edge of the world. He
sighed, turned on his heel, and stalked back into the keep.
Sleep
beckoned, but he knew that he would be mocked by dreams of Before, so he sat on
the throne and sulked for as long as possible.
In the end, he drifted off anyway, as he always did. Death would not indulge him, and yet life was
still a series of inevitabilities. He
dreamed....
* * *
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