Kingsley Family/David II/Bitter Cold

Burial

(11/3/2020)

David Kingsley shoveled the last bit of earth over the hole that held his father's body. He scratched his beard and grimaced at the local hunters and loggers. They had gathered in an unremarkable place at the foothills of the mountains. The first patch of land with dirt enough to bury an old man's remains.

"What." He growled at them, somewhat annoyed. "The old bastard was never one for speeches." And he didn't feel like giving one. The other David, his father, had been deaf the last few years of his life anyway. They communicated in hand gestures sometimes, but mostly they barely spoke. His father would do things around their modest little home when he could, but the old man's bones were weak from fighting and years in the cold of the South Island. As much as he had wanted to get out of the hellhole, the old man had stayed with him since he was little. He abandoned everyone and everything, but at least he had kept his son. One of the only things that had meant anything in the bitter cold of South Island. And now it was gone.

As the hunters shrugged and began to gather their things, David sighed and grumbled.

"David Kingsley... was a real bastard."

Everyone stopped and stared at the grim looking warrior, shovel in hand, as a light snowfall fell over the gravesite. They were quiet as they allowed him to finish. "He... was grumpy, and cynical and unsympathetic. But... he was my father." He finished with a sigh, sticking the shovel in the earth, and gathering his own things. He looked back over to the grave, and felt real freedom for the first time. Nothing to tie him down. There was nothing there.

There's nothing here. David thought to himself, now considering what he would do next. He gathered the last of his things, and grabed his sword, slinging it onto his shoulder. Time to go.

And he did, into the foothills, and more than likely, he knew in this damnable wasteland, another fight.