The World Walker.

Ravens. Portents of death. He had been seeing more and more of their number as of late, circling, waiting. The priests called them the messengers of the gods, but all he saw were birds flocking to wherever the feeding was the fattest, no matter the land he travelled. Perhaps the gods knew where the most carrion lay and told their messengers to feast so they do not starve he thought, letting a small snort escape.

Men called him Wanderer, World-Walker, Explorer, he never once paid them heed when they chanted his titles nor his name. He was curious, so he sailed. That was the simple truth. Nothing more, nothing less. So what if his prowess would’ve given him command of great armies of warriors to lead to war, to win glory with? That was not his dream. That was not his purpose.

Why should men make prisons out of their borders? It was a big and beautiful world. Why should any man be satisfied with the things in the same corner of the world they were born in? How could any man be satisfied without experiencing all the highs and lows of what life had to offer?

Shore to shore, for years he sailed, seeing all that he could see. Tasting all manner of new foreign delicacies and listening to all the tongues of the world. Countless were the wonders he saw, much more than he could’ve ever hoped to imagine if he stayed in the Empire. Travelling, fighting, exploring that had been his life, his dream, and now he led dozens of similarly minded companions in pursuit of more.

The Empire… He wondered what became of his home. There was no need to wonder, the merchant-quarters and ports would be ablaze with news if something of interest occurred. Last he heard, some general or another was preparing an army to ride into the wastes to face yet another threatening army, nothing out of the ordinary. The Empire would dash them to pieces, their shield wall the rock upon which the would-be invaders would crash and break upon as the thousand others who came before them did. If there was no news, it meant that all was as it was and his home was secure.

Yet he could not suppress the feeling in his stomach. It was not quite homesickness, nor melancholy, but sheer restlessness. He felt like he had to do something. Anything. But to what end? For what reason?

He rose from the seat he made from the edge of a wharf, one of his companions calling the matter of their supplies to his attention.

The man was a good warrior, a better sailor and the finest second in command he could’ve asked for on his journeys. He nodded absently as the man listed all the items and provisions they acquired for the next leg of their journey.

Satisfied with the knowledge that he assented to all that he had done, the man smiled and turned away, leaving him to his devices as he shouted at the men to pass on the order to muster and make ready for the trip. On the morrow at dawn’s first light, they would leave the port and set sail.

There they were again. Crowing at him, taunting him, screeching at him, tempting him to rip his sword he wore at his side from the scabbard to drive them off even if they were out of reach and he could never hope to strike one down.

Ignoring the grating gurgling croaks of the messengers, he looked down the port. A vast array of ships, all shapes and sizes, from his own eight simple longboats, with the image of dragons and serpents carved onto their prows, to great hulking carracks with sides as tall as three men, one atop another, and small boats of the local fishermen, full of the day’s haul in their heaving nets.

He saw all manner of colours and heraldry, from simple faded white sails to golden lions to red, twisting figures of serpents. This port was one of the greatest of the world, rivalling, perhaps even surpassing the largest of the Empire’s harbours. Here men and women from all over the world gathered, coming by land and sea both. Talking with, trading goods with, marrying those they would never have had the chance to meet if they all stayed in their home nations.

From his position on the pier, he could see as some of his men returned to their ships, loading the final barrels and bundles onto their ships. One man had clambered onto the mast, readying the sails in anticipation of their departure, other below him in the keel, hacked steadily at a spare length of thick rope with an axe.

Yet despite all he had seen, why did he feel gradually feel more and more empty within? Why did every wonder seem to grow duller than the last? Why did the world grow more and more colourless by the day?

Why was his wanderlust dulled and blunted, replaced by the sense of dread that he felt as if all that he ever knew was threatening to come crumbling down?

Even in battle, as their foes’ blood-curdling screams filled the air and they held the shield wall, swords and axes in hand against an enemy ten-fold their number, he had never felt such unease. Such a sense of… trepidation. So why now did this restlessness seize him when he was but sitting on a pier, watching his men prepare, in a friendly port safe from harm?

The ravens had quieted down, circling above as the sun began dipping below the horizon, casting a brilliant bright path across the still stirring sea.

A lone bird landed on a quay next to him.

He watched as the bird bathed in the last rays of the setting sun, twisting, ruffling, before settling down. The feathers were black without exception and rippled in synchronised perfection mirroring the muscles beneath.

The raven suddenly looked straight at him, as if finally noticing it had an unnoticed spectator. The bird and the wandered stared into each other’s eyes, beady black against his own blue.

The creature opened its beak, and let out a cry that pierced his very soul. A long sound, and clear. Clear enough for him to understand.

“Cawwww.”

Having delivered its message, the bird then it flew away with a flutter, leaving nothing but pitch-black feathers in its wake as it flew towards the heavens, joining its compatriots in the air. Circling. Waiting. Waiting for him.

He made up his mind. He would announce it on the morrow, when the men were gathered. The gods called them home as there was nought else left to see now as the world turns black.

Where they began their journey, they would return to witness the beginning of the end of their way of life.

The wanderer was gone. Dead. For he wandered no longer.