Orskaf Prepares His Troops

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==Summary==
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==Full Text==
The Judge looked into the mirror, the gaze of his reflection reflexion boring into his soul. He felt his shoulders tense, and relax, and then tense again as he shifted his body. It wasn’t like the one he had before. In many ways, the face in the mirror didn’t match the body he now had. His resurrection had been a strange one. His old body still lay, decayed in the ground. The one he had now, the one Odin had given to him, was of a striking resemblance to that one. Only this one was younger, the face a little more angular, the skin a little more firm. To Orskaf’s surprise he noticed that his skin tone was even a touch darker than before, like a lighter version of his grandson’s skin. 
He remembered how he had snarled his curses at Blunt in private. He remembered the disparaging remarks about the boy’s mother. He pressed down the feeling that would have allowed his face to flush. Perhaps this was irony...perhaps it was just a tan.
Orskaf’s hands dipped down into the wash bin before him and, after a moment's pause, ran the water over his face. How old did he look now? Seventy? Seventy five? And yet his body held the strength of a thirty year old man in his prime. The Valhallan fields, the endless battle, and the godly food had seen to that. But his face...when he looked at himself he still saw the much older man, weak, and sniveling. The one that was foolish enough to break a useful tool. The one that put obsession over survival. The one that shamed him in his last moments alive. He let a hand trail down the wispy mushcance strands under his nose. It was time to put away his old image.
As the scissors clipped and razor ran smoothly around the base of his neck, feelings fell away with the snippets of hair. 
The heritage of Tal’s wife…
The mark of the slave…
The traits of halfbreeds…
Orskaf would never allow himself to hold or alter his tongue. 
I owe the world nothing. I owe nothing to anyone.
But some things...just didn’t matter to him anymore. Not in the name of efficiency, survival, and victory. 
The small set of scissors set gently down next to a wash bin, and Orskaf brought a handful of water into his face, momentarily letting his palms cover his eyes. He huffed once and patted himself dry with a nearby towel. He had trimmed back the wispy moustaches tails, and evened out the thickening grey scraggle that had started to become unruly during his time running the regiment to and fro across the land. 
Now his face was lined with a clean, thin, yet refined beard that melded evenly into the hair on his upper lip for a change. His eyes were steely grey as he faced himself in the mirror. His men had to be prepared. He...had to be prepared, for whatever he was destined to face on that battlefield. 
Orskaf’s armor was carefully placed on his shoulders, and fastened around his waist once again. His fingers curled into the opening of the plated gloves. He stepped outside, seeing his soldiers lined on either side of his tent, his army standing in waiting. He strode down between them, glancing to look at their face, his helmet under his arm. He drew a thin line of air through his nose.  
“My first order to you all…” Orskaf breathed. “Is do not underestimate our enemy... Victory is in our hand, but lack of caution will see good people die for nothing.”
The lesser judges and field commander dipped their heads to him in acknowledgement as he passed them. The assailant stood among them, his eyes unfocused as he thought of other things, and other people. A self gratified grin slowly touched the corner of his mouth.
Orskaf placed his hands behind his back and somehow...he knew...he knew that either in this moment, a moment shortly before, or a moment that would surely come soon...Haddock...the Slave King...would be standing with his soldiers, speaking words of inspiration and expectation to them as well.
Had not so long ago the slave also looked in a mirror...and realized the ghosts of the past? Saw the reflections of who they were...and what they were to become…For that. Orskaf couldn't be sure. But something made him believe he had. This meant something. Something obvious perhaps. But the Judge stowed the thought away. There was no time for it.
He turned his shoulders, facing a line of armor clad teenagers, standing at perfect attention. He eyed them, and then leaned down to study their expressions. “No good people...no good soldiers...will die unnecessarily will they?”
The boy he was addressing pressed his lips together, his eyes remaining rigid in where they were set. Orksaf tilted his head, and then reached forward to grip his shoulder with one hand. “That was for you boy...No good people, and no good soldiers...right?”
The boy came to an even fuller attention, if possible, at the touch. “Aye sir!” He affirmed. 
“You’re young.”
The boy drew a breath, his face puzzled for a moment. Orskaf snorted and lifted his hand to tap the boy’s cheek with his four fingers. It was perhaps the lightest touch the Judge’s hand had even been on a child’s face. “Don’t gawk.” He said evenly. “Answer me. You’re young.”
“Aye sir!”
“But you’re a soldier.”
The boy’s fists clenched tighter at his sides as his words hissed out to affirm the Judge’s words. “Aye sir!”
Orskaf pulled away from him, turning in a circle. “And he is a good one!” He declared. He took a few more paces down the line. “Who here is old?” In no mood to have the Judge repeat himself, several soldiers shifted their stance in response to his question. Orskaf nodded. “But you are soldiers…”
“Aye sir!” The line courses. 
“Yes, you, are!” Orskaf bellowed with passion. “Young, old, female, ill bred, it matters not. You are all soldiers, Odin’s soldiers, my soldiers! And you will fight this war knowing that! I would not risk you to a fight with the wilderwest kingdom. I would not risk you fighting beside buffoons. I would not risk you to the madness of fiery dragons, and the hail storm of arrows from an ice slick fortress! Not when there was a choice! But today! Today there is no choice. Today we must go head on into war. Not an attack, not a skirmish, war! And I will be damned if I am not among you! Damned if I lose any of you! Damned! Damned!”
The area fell to silence as Orskaf’s voice cut out, his breathing heavy in his ears as he felt his heart surging in his chest. He turned to look at all of those around him again, and he then slowly held up a closed fist. “And one maniac at a time...we will fight them back...we will have victory...we will secure every, last, soul...for Odin...”
“For Odin!” The army coursed.  
The assailants hands slunk into his pockets, his long fingers curling around the leather pouch. “For…bodies…” He murmured quietly, and then pivoted in his stance, and filed out behind the Judge who had begun the march to the battlefield. 
The time had come.
Category:BOTGD
Category:Events
Category:Season 5
Category:Orskaf Donz