Uploaded April 2019 | Updated September 2026, 3 weeks ago
If you're new here, this channel is inspired by people who write creatively in the comments section. There you'll find original poems and stories by talented, aspiring (and inspiring) writers. Write something for the prompt and I may pin your poem or story for a time for everyone to see. Write only what you are comfortable with sharing, as at least a few thousand people will read your work. (Also, please like and support each other's writing!)
As always, be kind, not only here and in your gaming, but especially out there, in all our shared lives.
If you're new here, this channel is inspired by people who write creatively in the comments section. There you'll find original poems and stories by talented, aspiring (and inspiring) writers. Write something for the prompt and I may pin your poem or story for a time for everyone to see. Write only what you are comfortable with sharing, as at least a few thousand people will read your work. (Also, please like and support each other's writing!)
As always, be kind, not only here and in your gaming, but especially out there, in all our shared lives.
![Hound of Tara & Oma Gosh Dance of Deaths Just a Jig (Read Description) [For Honor]](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/mILjgI1kzF0/mqdefault.jpg "Hound of Tara & Oma Gosh Dance of Deaths Just a Jig (Read Description) [For Honor]
FAMILIAR OAKS – Some had nothing to live on but bogs and rocky hillsides, if even that. As a poet once said, there is a problem with getting food when you have wounded land: with nothing to grow it in, there is nothing to grow. Souls must be the same way, thought the old man.
He didn’t recognize the habits of villagers these days. They seemed scarred deep from within. They were afraid of: invasion, silence, afraid of thinking and strange weather; worst of all they were afraid of each other. Out of fear or madness (or both, the old man didn’t know), he heard stories that people sometimes massacred large groups of innocents – even children – right in their own hometowns, for no apparent reason at all.
And yet the old man had hope.
True, the night has a way of making one strain to find light in the stars, and they seem like riddled gems on the ceiling of what is known.
However, by day the sky cast a certain regard over everyone, as if to say, “If only you all knew how capable you are of being light like this, everywhere at once, guiding all living things, as strong as noonday sun.”
High noon made shadows weak.
No matter, the river was always there, familiar and steady. The old man followed it, ate and drank from it, and long ago, when he was younger, he crossed it to find his true love.
Especially where great Oaks aligned by the river, the old man could see his wife in his heart, and the wind felt like her merciful hands once did through his hair. Deeper into the forests he sometimes found great Oaks, who were so mighty, and full of life unseen, that their branches and leaves swayed when there was no wind at all. The old man often took shelter beneath these leaves impenetrable.
He imagined the trees’ vast stretch of underground roots, intertwining with roots of other trees a great distance away. Trees share rain beneath the soil, and on occasion these roots showed above the ground, like a segment of sea-snake just seen in a Loch, and these above-ground roots were sometimes earthed over. Is it true that people are merely trees that walk and talk? the old man wondered, stepping over a tree root.
Had it been months or years, or more than a lifetime, since he himself was rooted back home?
A fellow Celt, known as the Hound of Tara, was nearby and happened upon the bramble-covered, old man talking to himself. They considered each other brothers in kind and the Hound decided to fight alongside him during this stretch of his journey, a journey that broadened like a sunset.
Or a sunrise.
Depending on how one views such things.
Once, long ago, as he was sharpening his Claymore, readying for a battle, the old man’s wife said to him, “If you leave here to defend us, you had better return. I care a great deal about the outcome of the battle, but moreover, you are my land, my home is you.” She then said, “You and I can go anywhere and bring our idea of home with us.”
This memory he still carried with him!
***
This channel has gameplay but it seeks to write short stories and poetry in its descriptions that go beyond mere fan-fiction. It is NOT based on any heroes in For Honor, nor does it wish to be constrained as belonging to a video game or strict lore.
In short, Im trying to do something I havent exactly seen anywhere else, and it’s difficult for me, it takes time, and I never really know what comes next. The future of this channel is limitless, or it may come to an abrupt end.
Hound of Tara’s truly wonderful channel is both top-skilled gameplay and hilarious For Honor content like no other. Here’s the link: https://www.youtube.com/user/xXTheGreenGruntXx
If you want to show support you can subscribe and share the stories in these descriptions with others who appreciate literature, short stories, poetry, history or all of the aforementioned. Fee free to share with people who may not play For Honor (or video-games) if you like.
As always, please, PLEASE keep it clean, and be kind, not just here on this channel and in your gaming, but out there, in all our shared lives.
Songs:
Animals As Leaders, CAFO
Freshly Wrapped Candies, And")
![Sword in the Stone [For Honor]](https://i.ytimg.com/vi/oiMmOFouXKM/mqdefault.jpg "Sword in the Stone [For Honor]
A FIRE WITHIN After years of searching for his Love, the Old Man felt like it was not a search but rather exile. He no longer felt that seething flame when his fingers wrapped around the hilt of his Claymore. The metal weighed more somehow. He looked up to the sky. He wanted to see the peace in her eyes again, as one evening the moon shone bright in the water of a deep well, and he thought he saw her looking up at him.
Somewhere, not that far off, sleek feathers of raven wings were bent and still in a tree. A chill went through the Old Man’s faded bones. A shot of lightning pierced the sardonic air.
Had the Banshee called upon one of his loved ones to carry them away, he wondered. If the night was telling him his wife was no more, he refused to give in.
In the cave he heard the drip drip of cold water sliding down the part of the cave that grows down into spikes. He could sense that the first snow of the season was upon him. He needed to warm himself. At first, he attempted to call upon the memories of his wife. It did not work. He could not see her face. But they had a bond that could not be broken, so he built a fire.
To build a fire is a ritual that we all must do at least once in our lives, he thought, but the Old Man had built many fires and none of them had warmed him the way the fire at home had, many many years ago. There are some feelings that a fire may only offer once in a lifetime. The idea is to try and carry the feeling from that fire onto your next fire.
Then the Old Man went out hunting, but he needed to feel the creature calling him. He licked the tip of his finger, raised it up to the wind, felt the wind’s compass on his fingertip, pointing due North. The Old Man heard the wind whisper her name, but it could have been the trees. It didn’t matter — he set out in that direction. When he stepped forward, the fire dissipated behind him, and even the smoky incense from the fire followed him at first, wrapping around his body like a ghost shield, and then letting go of him, like a traveler’s blessing.
If you feel True North on your fingers, you must follow it, he said to himself. That is the direction of the Goddess of the Hunt, and either you will find what you are looking for, or else it will find you.
***
The chapter from the Old Mans story is for those who missed it the first time around. If youre new here, this channel is largely inspired by the people who write in the comments. Check the end of the video for the writing prompt or do your own thing. Like other peoples writing and if you see someone new here, welcome them. Write something for the prompt and I may pin your poem or story for a time for everyone to see. Write only what you are comfortable with sharing, as at least a few thousand people will read what you write.
Sub sub bell bell, but moreover, be kind, here, in your gaming, and especially out there — in all our shared lives.")
