Summer. Back home we would be breaking sweat by pulling the oars; our galleys scudding through the shallow waters, as we’d reach the shores of Rhûn. Those were the times, glorious plunder and the thrill of a good skirmish. Gods know I miss that. But I am stuck here, in this tedious town, where you won’t even taste the difference between a horse’s waste and a gulp of mead. My fraying old purse becomes lighter each day, all the copper spent on drinking miserably and fumbling with old whores.
It’s days like these that I think back on the better years, when I wasn’t a breathing example of reprehensible sin and a bloody cur. I remember the days of my childhood, play-fighting my brothers under the mighty canopy of birch trees, that seemed so damn tall to a child. It really beats a man how the world changes around him, and time just passes by, how age burdens him with toil and rough deposition towards one and all. But no matter how much I strain and groan, I will more than likely continue living in the endless pattern of doing everything a sane mind condemns. I have been pulling the threads of my wyrd all my life, I see no reason in stopping now.
I just wish I could stand at the prow one last time, and feel the salt spray on my face. It is the best feeling a man could ever have.
