Arturo is a fine name, the Warlord thinks.
Not that the Warlord has a personal name, that sort of thing must be given up with the rank. A Warlord is not a man, a Warlord does not serve himself and needs no name to call himself, the Warlord is the Warlord, the embodiment of the Wovvolken.
The Warlord, not Arturo, never Arturo, perhaps in another previous life, a simpler life, but the Warlord’s name is not Arturo.
His own wife is the daughter of the previous Warlord. An uncommon situation, but an odd way for the previous Warlord to grant his blessing to an odd situation. The Warlord, no one would say it, was not born in Granae.
But who would oppose the conqueror of the South, the chosen one of the Warlord? None, no one even offered their name as a candidate when the time came. There was only one name on the ballot, but then after a moment that name meant nothing, it was gone, useless, nevermore.
The Warlordess, so like her mother, beating bears into submission, sometimes the Warlord wondered if he was not unlike that bear. The previous Warlord had been a wise man, and had wanted very much to open the Wovvolk to new blood, but then he had saddled it all with the stone hard determination of these women and they had seen to it that everyone kept in line. The Warlord most of all, he wonders if his wife had been trained by her mother or her father to watch out for him, keep him in line, to keep the whole Empire from turning Norse.
Not that the Warlord would ever do any such thing, but life comes without trust and safeguards are safeguards, he understands.
But for all the fear about impure blood, there were some things that it made possible for the Warlord. The Norsemen in the army received better treatment than before, were treated like brothers.
And there is more yet to do.
“But the Warlord always follows us on our campaigns,” the General is saying, exclaiming, yelling.
“You are a fine General Himclair, you will lead the men with honor. A Warlord, you must know, has to cultivate leadership to serve the people even into the future.”
“You are young yet, Warlord.”
“And our people need leaders.”
Point taken, Himclair bows his head, “As you command sir.”
And out into the snow he goes, the Warlordess sits the bear down and walks over to him, “Do you intend to stay and sleep in a warm bed while your men are afield!”
The rage, the righteous rage, The Warlord feels almost domesticated.
Almost.
“Of course not, my dear.”
She calms down for a moment, “But what then?”
“There are some things, only the Warlord can do,” and he takes his Axe from the bottom of the bed, pulls thick bear hides over his back. He catches the Warlordess in an embrace and vows to return.
A large, imposing figure marches North alone.
