Art located: http://www.chickensmoothie.com/Forum/viewtopic.php?f=53&t=1441715&hilit=wtd
- Name: Sigrún, meaning:
Old Norse name composed of the Germanic elements sigr "victory" and rún
"secret," hence "victory-secret.".
History:
Sigrún sprung up from the grass, each blade bending back out of shape as he padded through the fresh crisp, grass. It was wet and dampened with dew and rain as it caught onto the fur of his legs and feet as he kicked up moistened dust and dirt. Sigrún was still young - just a few months old, but it never caught or crossed to his mind that what he was doing was dangerous. He was out in the luscious fields, rain sprinkling and pouring down like drizzled disease. As he ran through the grass, he soon took shelter under the soon, many trees that slowly formed a leaky roof. He very much wanted to see the effects off very heavy, nonstop rain. The rain had been going for over two days, and had never taken a break from the tiring effects it had on the environment and ecosystem.
Sigrún was very well aware of what the effects were. But being a child, he wanted to see it. To let his own young eyes feast on the appearance of natural disaster. And he was getting what he wanted; the very obvious, thick, even over pour of murky liquid fell from over a small hill, racing down towards him. Sudden realization flashed through Sigrún's mind: he had to run. Now. Before his thought could even finish, his legs had turned his whole body and taken off in an uneven rhythm as his claws and feet thumped against the both soft, and hard spots of the ground. His heart pounded just as hard as his legs did as they bashed against the ground, racing nature itself. A few minutes of running, and he was beginning to tire. His legs were slowing, and his whole body felt as if it were covered, no built of fire itself. It took him another few, precious moments before he started running on an angle, in an attempt to stay clear out of the rushing waters way as it rampaged in a fashion much similar to a stampede.
And he made it, he collapsed with victory, heart pounding, but slowing as he got many heaves of good air. A smile curled and tugged at the corner of his lips as he watched the water slink and slither down, avoiding him. He imagined that he had raced with some sort of god; and won. This made young Sigrún very proud of himself, and bounced off in another direction, void of rushing water, and to his home where his family were. He was to stretch the truth and tell a tall tale like any other child his age. And like any mother, she humoured Sigrún's tall tales of luck and misfortune. This story was no different.
Many years later..
Deep voiced scowls, hissing and yells raced through the air and to Sigrún's skull, the screeching, or at least that's how Sigrún thought of it, was quite normal. They were getting ready for a war of sides - and since Sigrún had grown with the pine trees and wet weather, he was forced upon the side, or territory, called and named the "Wisproad". His apposing side was dubbed "Weepking". Their territory consisted of many rocks, stones, caves and creaks - all blooming with life and greenery. The sky was gray, like a fine-weaved net in the distance, casting off any other colours. Clouds were in sight, yet untouchable, unreachable, to the fact it had not rained in many months. The clouds that hung in the sky were useless and of importance. This scene troubled Sigrún, - the lack of rain. However, he was quite fond of fighting, - being a warrior. To him, it was as enjoyable as basking in a sunless, damp night. It was all too natural for him.
Getting ready to attack his sparing partner on command, he moved into a fighting stance, bracing himself for a leap. He always attacked first - it was how he won. His endurance was quite low, for such a mighty warrior of war. So he had to strike first - and fast. The alarm of more screeches went off and he went to pounce, only to have a blow of sharp, thick claws running down his face. They had paired him up with someone with a much similar technique and fighting abilities; Sigrún had no idea until now. Sigrún's leader, his teacher in many ways, couldn't help but smirk. Sigrún looked very surprised. Though he was quite aware Sigrún would have to improve if he were to fight in the war and come home alive. So he gave him the hardest thing he could think of; someone with the same technique and fight abilities, but a better endurance. His claw gripped into the crumbling earth and he jumped back, wincing at the pain the new, open wound brought as air came in contact. Fresh blood dribbled down the side of Sigrún's face, and down his muzzle all the same. It crept onto his lips which he took no time to dry off as he got ready for his attack. He bounded forward with a brave leap, claws digging into his opponents flesh of his shoulders as all his weight pushed down.
His opponent snorted in pain, clenching his teeth as he began his retaliation. Leaping back caused more skin to be torn, but didn't stop as he raised an arm, swatting Sigrún a clean blow to the head, that nearly instantly brought him to the swirling black abyss of unconsciousness. Sigrún stumbled back as tunnel vision took over, a black veil quickly taking a hold of his mind.
Just a few, near months passed by..
Time had passed, and Sigrún had healed, and his fighting techniques had grown in a fast pace, leaving himself strong and buff. He was much like a machine by now; and they we ready for war, ready to take a chunk out of the enemy. And he felt ready, - still, but ready. And with an alarm from the throat of a captain,
Sigrún and the army, his teammates, began to clash at the ground, thumping in a stampede that would take many lives.
The Weepkings were just as ready as Sigrún; even more so. They had armored their army to the bones, leaving no room for improvement. The Wisproads were unaware of such tactics from the Weepkings, running straight into their trap. Sigrún and many others fought with bravery and integrity, but much to their fears, lost. Sigrún had died, - well thought to die, as he was left there to rot, to die in his pathetic struggles after he had watched his family be brutally murdered. Just as he had murdered many others during this short war. Sigrún tried to stay strong, it would be obvious if there were anyone to watch his agony. But there were none, just a hopeless, destroyed land, set fire and battered by dragons in cased in metal armor.
Many years later, the growth of new land began to flourish and bloom..
Sigrún had won out against the odds, living to see day after day. But he had nothing much other than he survival and the remains of his family. - The remains he cleaned, instead of leaving them to rot, and cherished with all his life. He had even picked the skull of an enemy, wearing it to hide his scars, both physical, and mental. This was his respect, the way he gave respect to his loved ones; they were still with him, he thought - at the very least, parts of them.
Sigrún still refuses to leave, chasing out any intruders that may enter his homeland; because the day the way started, the day the land dyed, the day his many deceased.. he vowed he would protect them, and this land he calls home.