A World of Steel

The roughspun blanket offered little comfort against the chill that seemed to emanate from the very air of this new existence. Gordon, or rather, the infant who now bore his ancient soul, stirred in his swaddling. His tiny fists clenched and unclenched, a primal instinct to grasp, to hold, to *be*. The scent of woodsmoke and something earthy, like damp soil after a spring rain, filled his nascent senses. It was so unlike the polished stone and lingering perfumes of Rustle. Yet, within him, the memories of a king, of a life abruptly extinguished, remained sharp and clear, a poignant counterpoint to the utter helplessness of his current form.

Days bled into weeks, and weeks into months. The passage of time was marked not by the turning of seasons, but by the steady growth of his small body and the slow, deliberate nurturing he received from the woman he came to know as Anya. Her hands, calloused from labor, were gentle as she bathed him, fed him, and soothed his cries. Her husband, Borin, a man of few words but quiet strength, would often watch him with an unreadable gaze, his eyes holding a depth that hinted at a life lived hard. They were simple folk, their dwelling a small, sturdy cottage nestled at the edge of a sprawling, untamed forest. There was no opulence here, no courtiers to attend to his needs, only the quiet rhythm of a life intertwined with the land.

But within Gordon’s mind, a different kind of rhythm was beginning to assert itself. The whispers of Ruidoso, the god of his rebirth, had been subtle at first, like echoes in the void. Now, as his infant mind expanded, they coalesced into a newfound understanding, a burgeoning awareness of the world he had been thrust into. It was a world of stark contrasts, where beauty and brutality walked hand in hand. He sensed a palpable energy humming beneath the surface, a raw power that flowed through the earth, the trees, and, he suspected, through its inhabitants.