In a land of ice and snow, a consciousness drifts....
Kalt’s moments of agony are surprisingly brief. He feels the troll’s claws strike him and dig deep, feels the teeth sink and and his chest begin to pull…apart. How can that be possible, he thinks to himself, and me still alive? Slowly, however, he understands the answer to this question. The lack of pain, the silence – unbroken except for a steady whisper of wind – bring him to the realization that he did not survive the battle with the troll and that, in fact, he doesn’t even remember it well. He struck the creature hard, and felt sure that they would defeat it quickly, and he exulted in that moment, and then it was over, and he was in this quiet place filled with…white.
Where am I? He stares into the quiet whiteness, and begins to discerns shapes, very vague at first, but then more recognizable. He sees what appear to be reindeer, their fuzz-covered racks of antlers more massive than any he’s ever heard of. After a time, they are followed by a small group of men, dressed in furs, one much older than the others and clearly their leader. Varki? Who else would follow the reindeer in a whiteout? Am I back in Icemark? Is that what happens when you die, you go home?
As this thought crosses his mind, another figure crosses before him, somehow unaware of his presence. This one is a maiden, though her face is hard to make out under her fur-lined hood. But something about her, an unnatural grace, and skin too icy white to be human, marks her as some kind of fey being. Could it be? If I am seeing my home, could this be my true mother? He tries to call out, but can make no sound. He tries to move to get a closer look at her face, but is unable to. He does not feel bound or chained at all, just that he is a fixed point as the scenes before him move past.
As Kalt watches what could be scenes from his past, a wind blows past him, strange as it does not carry the snow or chill from the world around him. In the distance, seemingly out of place, he spots a pair of bears. Curious, he tries to focus on them, and the world seems the phase around him. Suddenly he is right next to the bears, thought they seem not to notice the sudden appearance beside them. One is a massive brown bear, barrel chested and strong. The other, also carries the look of a brown bear, but her fur is more of a golden color. Movement atop the massive bear catches his attention, and he notices a squirrel sitting there, chittering furiously at a strangely shaped key.
As he watches, this strange vision fades from view, leaving behind a feeling of importance, but he cannot quite place its meaning. Turning back to the vision of the hunt, he finds nothing, a field of empty white. In his mind, a soft female voice echoes Come to me. Looking around, he finds nothing, the field of white remains, but again, stronger the female voice says Come to me! Closing his eyes, Kalt focuses on the voice, and again feels the world shift around him. Snapping his eyes open, he sees a white wolf, sitting before a darkened cave. The wolf’s pristine fur ripples in an unseen wind, and the eyes appraise the new arrival. You came, good. But will you follow? comes the voice again as the wolf tilts its head to one side. Rising up, the wolf slowly begins to pad its way into the dark cave, pausing to look back before it steps in. Kalt takes a step forward, and immediately begins to feel pain radiate from his chest.
Kalt looks in all directions, seeking the source of the woman's voice. Is that my mother's voice? Before he can answer this question, or even understand its implications, the world changes again, and he sees - and hears? - the wolf. A she-wolf speaks in my head? What is this place?
He follows the creature as it heads into the cave, slowing his pace as pain lances through his chest. Aagh! What is this? Am I returning to life, where I've been bitten and torn? His movement slows almost to a crawl, as if he's walking against a fierce wind, but he struggles on in spite of the pain.
Kalt slowly enters the cave, driving hard against the pain that slowly grows within his chest. With his first step within the cave, blackness consumes him and the cave entrance fades to a distant spot of light behind him. Oddly enough, the winterscape seemed warm compared with the void he finds himself in now. Come to me comes the voice again, Return to us Visions flash before Kalt’s eyes, a dress stretched beyond proportions, a little girl playing in the snow, the toothy maw of a troll…
The visions fade when suddenly Kalt bolts upright, odd, since he doesn’t recall lying down. Collapsing again, he finds himself in a darkened tent of hides, only a few candles illuminating the interior. A dense fog of incense has collected in the ceiling, odd smells to the ranger’s nose. He tries to look around, to move, but he finds his limbs sluggish and rigid. A female to his right begins to speak Halliti, but at the look of confusion that crosses the barely moving features of the prone ulfen, she shifts to that of a broken common, ”Welcome back Kalt Isson. You have endured much, but will endure much more before your time is truly over.” Leaning over to examine his chest, Kalt sees a wizened old woman whose eyes are stark white, matching her hair and the pelt of a white wolf she uses as a cloak. ”You have been dead many days. It may take a moment for you to regain mobility.” Slowly, she begins chanting in her native tongue, and sprinkles a fine powder across the ranger’s form. Seconds seem like minutes as her hands and eyes glow with power. Slowly, she begins pressing various points of Kalt’s body, and with each touch, feelings of warmth begin to spread. Satisfied that the spell has worked, the power ebbs from the woman as she takes a moment to catch her breath, ”You may ask me questions if you wish, but the chieftain demands your presence when you are ready.”
"I have been dead?" Kalt asks in confusion. "What does that mean? Am I no longer dead? How can that be?" As the woman begins to poke and prod him, and some feeling returns to his body, he tries to understand where he has ended up. He lifts his head slightly and looks around, but the effort of even such a simple thing is too much. It's like trying to lift a drunken Sven off the floor of a tavern with his little finger and, as his head drops again, a thought occurs to him, Sven! All of them?! I died, what happened to them in the Pale Tower?
A slew of questions occur to him, but his sluggish mind is unable to corall them properly. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting the questions percolate, until the most vital of them rise to the surface. "How did I come to be here? Where are my friends?"
The woman chuckles slightly at the questions posed to her, ”Yes, you were dead. Nearly torn apart by the troll you fought. Your friends have brought you to us, begging us to return you to them. After some, negotiation, the tribe agreed, and I corralled your spirit and returned it to your body. Your friends are in the village, and you will see them in time. For now, you must either rest, or see the chieftain. He will tell you of your debt to the tribe.”
When Kalt does not respond, the woman peers into his eyes, checking to ensure there are not any unforeseen issues with the revival. Satisfied that the ranger is simply quiet due to the fatigue of his ordeal, she rises from the bedside, blows out the flickering candles, and leaves Kalt once again alone in the darkness. The throbbing in his chest fights of sleep for a few moments, but quickly suppresses even that as his body demands the rest it requires.
Awaking the following morning, he gingerly tests his limbs and finds their movement much easier and the throbbing chest pain to barely register. Sitting upright, he slowly examines his new scar tissue and the pink latticework that decorates the fae touched skin of his torso. The tent flap opens, letting in an intense glare and bracing blast of winter chill before it closes again. ”Ah, you are awake. Good. Chieftain Katz Wyrmslayer said you would break fast with him. There are cloths at the end of your cot. I will be outside” comes a familiar voice, though Kalt has trouble making out the woman as his eyes try and readjust to the darkness. The cloths are of good make, stout and warm, there is even a few wolf pelts to help protect from the winter chill. Donning his new gear, Kalt exits the tent, and shields his eyes from the glare of the sun. As his eyes adjust, he finds himself in a tent village built in the cleft of a mountain. Dozens of tents built from a variety of animals dot the landscape, and the villagers seem to be going about their work, paying the newcomer very little heed. The smells of roasting meat waft up from the various fire pits remind the ulfen that he hasn’t had anything to eat in quite a while.
Motioning for him to follow, the blind woman pulls her cloak tight and leads the ranger easily through the village toward the largest tent, nestled in the highest point of the cleft. While chieftains usually decorate the outsides of their tents with pictures of their victories or small trophies, what frames the flap on this tent takes Kalt’s limited breath away. The skull of a fabled linnorm sits atop the tent, with two claws framing the opening. Reassessing the tent, Kalt is awed by the fact that nearly the entire tent was made from the hide of this beast. Entering the tent, again the smell of roasted meat and also ale assaults his senses, and the sounds of a conversation in Halliti can be heard. Turning to great the new arrivals, a trio of men appraise the ranger, clearly sizing him up. The largest, only a hand smaller than Sven finally beckon him forward and point to a small bundle of skins for him to sit upon. Looking around, Kalt sees multiple fine weapons of war within easy grasp of the men, and multiple collections of finery, undoubtedly trophies from victorious campaigns. The one who motioned him forward speaks, his voice rolling out of his robust frame in a thunderous bass, ”You are Kalt Isson, yes. I am Chieftain Katz Wyrmslayer. You must be hungry boy.” at the look on Kalt’s face, a grin cracks the serious expression on the chieftains grizzled face, ”Bring us MEAT and ALE!” he bellows, followed shortly by a small girl carrying in a few haunches and another rolling a cask. Once they are gone and the food distributed, he continues, ”You have been brought back from death, a privilege reserved for only a few of our mightiest warriors. Your friends requested we make an exception for you, and though one bears the mark of a rival, you were also supported by one who would be like my daughter. However, there is a price yet to be paid for this gift. Your friends have paid some of the price of this, and you must pay the other. I said this was a privilege reserved for only a few of our mightiest warriors. You are lucky none require this service at this time, or you would have been turned away outright, but to keep this gift, you must become a blood brother of the tribe, and you must defend its people in times of war. Oric here will see you trained for 5 days, and Hatten will conduct your Warrior trial at the end of that time. Now, do you accept the terms of this deal?”
Kalt is relieved to discover that he can move again, though he is shaken when he sees the massive scars he now bears down the length of his torso. Gods of winter! That thing nearly tore me to pieces, if this is what it looks like now. And my friends brought me here, in the hopes of bringing me back. I owe them a great debt. His thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of the blind witch-woman, to whom he also appears to owe his life. The blinding light and stinging cold come as a shock at first, but Kalt welcomes the sensations as further sign that he has returned to the land of the living. He dresses as directed, and follows her out of the tent. The simple feeling of walking is a pleasure after the silent, immobile whiteness of the place in between worlds, and the profound lethargy he felt upon waking, and he revels in simply putting one foot in front of another.
Kalt's sensory pleasures increase further when he enters the larger tent and smells food and drink, and he realizes that he is starving. He regards the three men quietly, imagining that the largest must be the man who slew the linnorm that makes up the great tent, and this view is confirmed when the man introduces himself. Kalt takes a seat on the bundle of skins, and replies to the chieftan. "I am Kalt, as you say, and it is a great honor to meet you, Chief Wyrmslayer. And I am as hungry as I can ever remember being, as if I had not eaten for many days - which I suppose is true," he finishes with a grin.
The food is quickly served, and Kalt tucks into it with abandon for a moment, the needs of his body outweighing any consideration for the company - though he's fairly sure these men do not dwell much on social niceties. Once his most insistent hunger is sated, Kalt continues to chew contentedly, listening to Katz's words about the debt Kalt owes, and the gift he's been given.
"I would gladly take you as my chieftan, Wyrmslayer, and would be proud indeed to be made a member of your tribe and to serve to defend it," Kalt says in reply. "Your tribe has given me a gift beyond price. For that I give my deepest thanks, and would willingly give much more. I accept the terms you offer."
The men grin over Kalt’s answer and toast to their newest warrior prospect. For the next few hours the four men drink and tell tales, each one trying to one up the other as the tales grow ever more outlandish. Eventually Katz tells of his slaying of the linnorm and him earning his surname. It is a vicious tale, and one he’s clearly told before, as both other tribesmen listen with only some of their attention. It ends with him, nearly swallowed, hammering the spike of his axe up into its brain and rolling out of its death throes before he succumbed to his own wounds.
With the chieftain having played his trump card, the storytelling winds down and not too long afterward Oric makes to leave, motioning for the ranger to follow him. ”Ye’ll be staying with the Mother, Mother Mai if’n ye want to use’er real name, but everyone calls her Mother” says the shorter tribesman. ”She’ll want ta make sure you’re well enough to go through the trials, but you look strong enough, hehe. Now, I’ll be training ye, but first I’ll have ta know what ye can do. What skills ye got. Weapon of choice, all that.”
Kalt raises a mug of ale to Katz, downing its contents, then says, "I thank you again, my chief." He follows Oric out of the tent, his pleasure in life redoubled by a gut full of meat and ale. In response to the man's question, Kalt says, "I fight with bow and blade - usually a longsword, though I've a mind to pick up a greatsword, since I always seem to leave my shield on my back. As to my skills, I know a thing or two about the wilds, and can track and hunt them as well as most men who boast about such things. I was raised in Icemark, where I learned to survive and fight in the cold - though I suppose there's much we could teach each other on that subject. Is that what you wish to know?"
Oric nods as Kalt lists off his skills, his eyes darting here and there as he listens, ”Well, Sounds like ye’ll be a good addition if’n ye survive the trial” he remarks with a playful, yet very firm swat on the shoulder, ”Let me show ye around.”
After a brief tour where Kalt is shown the more militaristic aspects of the tribe, the two men begin a rigorous training regimen. For the next few days the two are nearly inseparable as Oric first assesses the fae-born’s skills, and then begins to tutor the man in the finer points of the realms species and fauna. During the combat training, the two quickly realize that they know similar techniques by different names. What is Whistling through the reeds to Kalt is Cracking the ice to Oric and the list goes on. Since Kalt has expressed interest in the claymore, Oric spends much of their combat training teaching how to handle the excessive weight, and that unlike a more traditional long sword where you might return to a ready position to assist with defense, the claymore functions more with continuous momentum behind it. While it does leave your back open more often due to the occasional spin, the added length of the blade helps prevent much shorter weapons from finding flesh before the killing arc comes back around. He shows Kalt an interesting technique he calls Shield of Swings where there whirling of his weapon actually makes him harder to target and hit, though it does lessen the strength of any blows delt.
The two spend hours in the nearby forests, discussing plants, animals, scat, and even life on the plains. In this, Kalt is able to give as well as receive as Oric seems remarkably curious about the lands to the west. Eventually, his days of accelerated training come to an end and the elder tribesman says good bye and hopes Gorum watches over his newest pupil during the upcoming trials. ”Ye’ll be able ta ask for whatever gear ye feel ye need. Nothing magical mind ye, but whatever ye need’ll be provided. Think about it and prepare.” are his last words as the two part.
In spite of the trauma of his recent death and resurrection, Kalt finds the intense focus of his training with Oric to be wholly engaging, even restorative. The physical challenges he faces in combat training, particularly with the new, larger sword, restore much of his faith in his body's ability to push through hard work and pain. And the mental effort required to learn the myriad details of life and death on the vast plains, as well as the companionship he feels with Oric as he shares his own knowledge, restore his spirit as well.
When Oric mentions gear for the upcoming trials, Kalt responds, "Just before I...died - gods, that's a strange thing to say! At any gate, I had ordered a mighty composite bow, with a powerful draw, to replace the smaller bow I had. I never got a chance to pick it up - in fact, if I had, I might have killed that troll before it killed me. But a longbow would be of great use, particularly one with a draw strength suited to me. And since I've been training with it, a greatsword would be a fine thing to have. I've got two longswords - one very well-made, the other of cold iron - I could part with one or both in exchange for a suitable greatsword."
He ponders a moment, then continues, "Aside from that, it's hard to know, without some idea what the trials involve. Can you tell me anything about them, or should I just prepare as broadly as I can?"
Oric nods with a knowing smile and leaves you to collect your thoughts on the upcoming trial. The following morning you awake to the smell of hot meats roasting, however when you try and take some, your hand is quickly swatted away. A voice booms out through the village, Dressing quickly, you find that everything but your basic cloths have been taken; weapons, armor, survival gear, all gone. When you ask about this, you are met with a stony stare and nothing but a finger point toward the chieftain’s tent.
Making your way up, you find much of the village has come out to witness the beginning of the trial, and all of the elders stand behind the Katz, who stands in full battle regalia and warpaint. ”Kalt Isson.” he says, his voice booming out of his barrel chest, ”You came to us seeking new life as a tribeman of the Night hunt, and it is time to see if you are worthy of this life.” Katz nods, and a young warrior steps forward with a chain shirt and a massive sword with carvings of wolves racing along the blade. ”Your armor was damaged beyond repair, but the tribe provides for its own. The trial will take place in three stages. First, we will test your body, then we will test your mind, and finally, we will test your spirit. In the test of body, you will fight your brothers until you your strength fails you. Now go.” The crowd part with a murmur, leaving a clear path to the combat area.
Kalt slips the chain shirt over his head and settles it in place, noting that it is at least as well-made as the one the troll tore apart. He then accepts the sword from the young warrior's hands, nodding respectfully at him as he does so. He gives the blade a couple of experimental swings and is amazed at the quality of its build, at the way he can strike with the flat or the blade with equally good balance and power. He looks calmly at Katz and, with great respect in his voice, says, "Thank you, my chief, for my life, and for this opportunity to show that I am worthy of it."
Without another word, he brings the great blade to his shoulder and moves through the gap in the crowd, his eyes intent on the cleared circle ahead where his first test awaits.
Kalt enters the ring and finds it lined with warriors young and old, and none carry any weapons. Around the edge of the ring, sounds of betting and discussion of the upcoming fight can be heard. Katz enters after the ranger, and pulls a dagger from his belt, equally as ornate as the blade just granted to Kalt. ”Fights will be 1 on 1 until the 10th battle, if he gets that far. To keep this interesting, they will progress upward in strength and skill, so we shall see where this PUP measures up!” With that said, he hands the dagger to a very young man who looks like he’s barely begun to grow his chest hair. ”Oh, and 100 Gold to whoever finishes Kalt off, to buy drinks for those that softened him up!”
The lad shifts the dagger in his hand a few times, testing the weight. It is clear from the boys stance he has fought before, but his blows are easy to predict and that gives the ranger a quick advantage in the fight.
Kalt studies the lad a moment, then gestures to indicate the difference in the sizes of their blades. He says apologetically, "I hate to fight a man with the odds stacked against him, but there are nine more lined up behind you, so..." With a sudden lunge, Kalt steps to the boy's side and strikes him hard in the stomach with the flat of his blade, knocking a great breath out of him and dropping him to the dirt.
The boy is lifted bodily by the force of the blow and lands, unmoving, a few feet away. A hush falls over the crowd at the power displayed before a smattering of applause breaks the silence. A few warriors drag the poor victim out of the ring and an older warrior limps his way into the field of combat. The man is far past his prime, and covered in battle wounds that have left him slightly lame and a liability in normal battle. Kalt has actually seen the man offering advice during his combat training to a group of the younglings. Grabbing the dagger, he takes a few swipes before lunging forward with a crossbody slash, surprising Kalt with his speed.
But in his attempt to surprise the nimble ranger, the man forgets a cardinal rule and nearly slips on an ice patch. He wobbles slightly, regaining his footing but the attack never seeming to materialize.
Kalt returns the man's silence, eyeing him warily as he approaches. A wilier fox than the young lad, this one. Kalt is briefly surprised by the man's quickness, but Kalt's own speed allows him to take advantage of the man's brief, off-balance moment. The lithe Ulfen strikes fast and hard, leaving the grizzled older man unconscious on the ice.
The older man sways some as he tries to stave off the blackness, but eventually succumbs. A few more cheers go up as Kalt is getting closer to the number of victories they bet on. As they remove the latest fighter, a lithe woman glides into the arena and retrieves the dagger. She dances around the edge, bobbing and weaving, blonde hair blowing in the wind as she gracefully sets up a defensive posture.
Kalt considers his new opponent a moment, and decides that accuracy may matter more than force with this one. He shifts his grip slightly, then strikes at the agile dancer. It appears the effects of his recent return to the living have not fully worn off, for the strike is neither strong nor well-aimed.
The woman slips around the blow, working her way in close as she lashes out with a series of short jabs to try and position the ranger for an upward thrust to the gut.
Luckily for the ranger, the dagger blade gets caught in the links of his chain shirt, preventing the strike from touching flesh.
Kalt steps back quickly, before the woman can take advantage of the dagger snagged in his armor. He sweeps his sword defensively across his body, then raise it high, as if to strike her in the neck or shoulder. As the blow drops, though, he swerves his stroke slightly, catching her a mighty blow to the thigh.
Though the strike is mighty, the woman still stands after the blow, all be it, a bit more haggard. In perhaps an act of desperation, she dances backwards and flings the dagger end over end at the ranger, hoping the move will surprise him enough to let it strike.
And it works, the blade strikes Kalt just inside the neck hole of his chain shirt. Kalt can feel the blade touch his skin, and it seems to drain the strenght from his limbs. His muscles become tired from fatigue and his movements less fluid.
Kalt is startled by the woman's desperate move, and stunned by the effect of the blade touching him and draining his energy so unexpectedly. He takes a deep breath and gathers himself for a counterattack, uncoiling like a spring and launching himself at her. His blow knocks her onto her back, where she stays, unmoving.
The nearly all the witnesses cheer over the battle they just saw, and even Katz offers a slight nod of approval. The fourth warrior who enters exemplifies the typical northman, Big, sturdy, and rugged. The dagger he picks up looks like a toy in his hand. ”Take a minute to rest, dis vay when I best you, der can be no doubts!” he says in a thick accent. With that, he retreats to his side of the ring and waits for the fight to begin. A rumble of approval washes over the crowd, only serving to heighten their anticipation for the coming battle.
Kalt can't help but think of Sven when his burly opponent enters the ring, though this man can't compare in size to the giant Bjornson. It'll be good to lay eyes on him again, once I've finished here, he thinks to himself. It'll be good to see all my friends, through living eyes - and to thank them.
Knowing the risks of distraction in combat, Kalt quickly brings his attention back to the matter at hand. As in the previous bout, he sizes up his opponent, and alters his strategy slightly. He keeps his blade close, in a defensive stance, avoiding the wide, even wild, swings he often uses. He chuckles at the northman's comment, saying, "I thank you for the chance to rest, now let's see if I can't return the favor and set you up for a nice nap, eh?"
He takes a couple of quick steps forward and attacks, but his focus on defense causes the swing to go wide.
The man chuckles as he easily dodges the rangers swing. "You'll need to do betta than dat, PUP!" he mocks as circles around. Perceiving an opening, he dashes forward with round slash for Kalt's legs only to reverse his grip and bring the dagger up towards the tender flesh of the ulfen's belly.
And the blow strikes true, getting under the armor and again seeming to bite deep into Kalt's spirit, draining his energy and sapping him of his strength.
Kalt grits his teeth in frustration as the man dodges his attack. I have to show the tribe I'm worthy of them, and going down in the fourth bout isn't good enough. Once again, however, his attention is not on the fight, and he pays for it, the man's dagger scoring him deeply and making him feel weak and wobbly.
This is not the time for defense, he tells himself. I must strike and end this! "This pup bites, where you bark!" he calls out, as he whirls the great, wolf-etched blade in a wide, flat arc and strikes his burly foe solidly. "How's that for a bite?" he asks, a nearly feral grin on his face.
The man grunts as the blow rocks him back, clearly surprising the might warrior. "So there is some fire in ye afterall!" he says, all showmanship gone as he realizes he cannot withstand another blow like that. Working his way around the arena, he dips his toe into the snow, flicking it up towards Kalt's face as he darts in, hoping to use the distraction to his advantage and finish the fight.
The man grins as he feels the blade strike the flesh of Kalt's leg, sure that he's finished his foe. He stands up and begins to celebrate his victory. "He was a worthy foe, do not judge him too harshly for the defeat!"
Kalt reels back at the force of the man's blow, barely keeping his feet. His eyes lose focus for a moment, giving his foe the idea that Kalt is about to drop. But when Kalt's vision clears, he sees the man exulting in his victory, before he has truly won it, distracted by having bested the outlander 'pup' who would join the tribe. "Woof," Kalt says, in a voice so low only Oric and any other woodsmen present are likely to hear it.
As the man raises his arms in triump, Kalt catches him under the armpit with the full force of his strength, the blow lifting the hulking tribesmen off the ground. When he next hits the cold dirt, he lands as heavy and limp as a sack of flour. Kalt takes a quick breath to recover himself, then lifts his head to the crowd and clacks his teeth together loudly before calling out, "Now THAT is a bite!"
He sets the tip of the sword on the dirt, as if casually awaiting his next opponent, forces a grin onto his face, and cries out "Next!" As he does so, he is quietly grateful that the sword serves to keep him from crashing to the ground, as boneless as his last foe, from the pain and utter exhaustion in his injured leg.
At the defeat of the latest warrior, a few tribesmen gawk at the lithe ulfen, amazed that he is still standing. After a few moments of hushed discussion, it is broken by the cheer of “GOOD FIGHT!” A few minutes go by as the remaining fighters do not seem eager to rush out and face the one who felled one of their strongest fighters in two strikes. Eventually, another young man is goaded out by his peers. A gangly youth, he has the look of one who will match the size of the man Kalt just fought… a younger brother perhaps?
The youth tests the blade and performs the typical few practice swings before assuming the ready stance. Sensing that Kalt is tired, he tries to use his speed to his advantage, feinting high and then darting back, hoping to maneuver Kalt’s sizable sword into a better position before his strikes out. Feeling the timing right, he darts in, trying to catch the ranger on his wounded leg.
But the ranger deflects the blow at the last moment, moving past the boy into a better position to riposte.
Though he tries not to show his exhaustion, Kalt is grateful for the break he gets as the tribe determines who his next opponent will be and calls the hulking young lad to the circle. But he is beyond grateful, to the point of being thrilled with renewed energy, by the cheer that goes up from the watching tribesmen. He knows he has little chance of making it through this round, and decides to play it as carefully as he can.
As the lad enters the circle and prepares himself for battle, Kalt studies his movements, eyeing him for weaknesses in his body and his fighting style. Kalt is thus well-prepared for the first strike, nimbly moving his tall, lithe frame clear of the attack, and blocking the smaller blade with his larger one.
In his counterattack, he keeps his weapon defensively close, taking a probing stab at his opponent, but failing to connect.
The lad is surprised that after his failed attack, he does not get an immediate gash across the backside. Seeing Kalt’s defensive posture, the boy mistakes caution for fear, and begins to show some of the showmanship of his brother. Feeling more confident, the lad darts forward with a more direct strike, hoping to simply overwhelm the rangers defenses with a flurry of stabs.
However, that patch of ice that led to another fighters defeat comes into play again as the boy loses his footing in his daring attack, slipping, and leaving himself open for retaliation.
When he sees his opponent slip, Kalt reacts instantly, giving up his defensive stance and bringing his sword around in a lightning-fast arc at the youth's legs. Kalt gives the blow all the power he can, and it is placed to perfection. The boy's feet fly out from under him, causing him to cartwheel sideways and come crashing to the ground. Once he has landed, he is as limp and inert as his brother before him.
Kalt stares for a moment at his defeated foe, amazed that he has come this far. Five foes. That's respectable. I wonder who I'll face next? As he thinks of this, he turns back to the crowd, raising his great sword in one hand and saying, "Well that was a nice rest! Who's next?"
At the latest victory, much of the crowd is conflicted. Many of them have lost gold or items by betting this foreigner would have lost by now, but they are in awe of the physical prowess that he’s shown in defeating many of their warriors. While before, warriors seemed eager to rush in and try their hand at earning the 100 gold reward, seeing the row of unconscious warriors lessens that quite effectively. It takes a shout from Katz to inspire another warrior to step into the ring. Scars across the face of this one clearly show he’s had a run in with a fearsome clawed foe, and the eye on that side is angled out oddly. He doesn’t wave the dagger around, but immediately assumes a defensive stance, motioning for Kalt to come forward, hoping to retaliate before the ranger can bring the weapon back around.
Kalt can’t help but feel bad for the scarred warrior stepping into the circle. This isn’t playing out quite how I pictured it, it seems to have taken a sad turn. But this man would rather I fight him honestly than show him pity, which he’d never live down. I’ll show him all the honor I can, for the fact that he’s stepped up after I’ve bested five other fighters.
The sinewy Ulfen raises his blade in salute as the wobbly-eyed tribesman gestures for Kalt to engage. Kalt gives the man a respectful nod, then steps in, feinting low before twisting his blade high and dropping it in a powerful stroke where the neck and shoulder meet.
The echo of steel on steel reverberates as the man barely deflects the blow, mostly due to the incredibly defensive stance he took. The force of the blow numbs the warrior’s hand and sends the dagger careening to the snow. A hush comes over the crowd as they watch, knowing that in the second it takes him to grab the blade from the ground, he would leave himself wide open. Then, in a surprise move to everyone, the warrior balls up his uninjured arm and tries to slug the ranger in the head. Clearly an experiencing brawler, the man leaves no opening for Kalt to strike first.
A look of shock and surprise comes over Kalt's face as the meaty fist connects with his jaw. Spinning around, the world seems to slow and the cheering from the crowd blurs in his ears. Then, a rush of white that fades to black.
Kalt awakes with a groan to find himself in a darkened tent. A few candles illuminate a lengthy parchment before him. Beyond, the elders of the tribe stand in observance. Katz comes forward as you stir. "Now that your head be fuzzy from the beating you received, it is time to test your brain. Anyone can be taught to swing a sword, some may even do it well, but only a few have the intelligence to lead men and see beyond their own noses. You shall find 10 questions of an unusual sort. Each correct answer will grant you a boon for the final challenge. I feel safe to say the first will be a dose of healing to wash away the trial of combat weariness, so do try and get one right." With that said, he steps back into the shadows leaving Kalt alone with a quill, ink, and parchment.
1: I touch your face,
I'm in your words,
I'm lack of space,
and beloved by birds.
What am I?
2: Stealthy as a shadow in the dead of night,
Cunning but affectionate if given a bite.
Never owned but often loved.
At my sport considered cruel,
But that's because you never know me at all.
What am I?
3: The more of it there is, the less you see.
What am I?
4: I am a precious little thing, dancing and eating all the time. Watch me from a distance, so you can feel my warm and gentle love. But don't come to close or my next meal you could be!
What am I?
5: A precious stone, as clear as diamond.
Seek it out whilst the sun's near the horizon.
Though you can walk on water with its power,
Try to keep it, and it'll vanish within an hour.
What am I?
6: Ripped from my mother's womb,
Beaten and burned,
I become a blood-thirsty slayer
What am I?
7: Round she is, yet flat as a board
Altar of the Lupine Lords.
Jewel on black velvet, pearl in the sea
Unchanged but e'erchanging, eternally
What am I?
8: A horrid monster hides from the day,
With many legs and many eyes.
With silver chains it catches prey,
And eats it all before it dies.
Yet in every cottage does it stay,
And every castle 'neath the sky.
What am I?
9: At night they come without being fetched,
And by day they are lost without being stolen.
What are they?
10: I forge bonds with strength of hardest steel,
And place kings upon their thrones.
You wil find me on the battlefied,
And in the heart of every soul.
What am I?
Kalt grits his teeth in frustration as the man blocks his attack, knowing that he has only so much strength left to see him through this challenge. As the dagger skitters across the crusty snow, however, Kalt feels triumph surging in his veins, knowing the man doesn’t stand a chance unarmed. Unfortunately, the tribesman is unaware that he doesn’t stand a chance, and drives a fist like a hammer into the side of Kalt’s head. Kalt clings to consciousness just long enough for a smile to cross his face, but it is a complex smile, that leaves the odd-eyed warrior slightly puzzled. Only Kalt knows that behind the smile is a blend of emotions - pride, rue and a tinge of self-mockery. Pride, because he knows he has fought well and defeated five opponents in a row. Rue, because he imagined that this man would be an easy opponent, and feels he should have fought better against him. And self-mockery, because he told himself that he would leave this man’s honor intact rather than offering him mercy, and the scarred fellow instead managed to defeat him bare-handed, while Kalt still held his blade.
Kalt opens one eye, his head hurting enough that he’s not sure it’s a good idea to open the other. He sees there’s something written on a parchment beside him, and with a groan he sits up to take a closer look, fighting the other eyelid open just enough to realize the tribal elders all stand nearby, watching him. He’s about to lift a hand in greeting, when Katz steps forward and explains the next challenge. Kalt casts his eyes over the page and says to himself, Riddles? It seems the Mammoth Lords and the Ulfen have similar ways of passing the long winter nights. It has been long since my mother tested me with a riddle, but it is a game I once knew as well as the one I played today in the fighting circle.
In spite of the physical discomfort he feels from the many blows he took in his recent bouts, Kalt’s attention is caught by the written puzzles before him. He forgets the bruises and bumps, and sits up fully, lifting and tilting the parchment to see it more clearly in the candle’s glow.
He reads through them all. Some of them come to him quickly, others he’ll have to return to and take a closer look at. A quiet smile creeps across his face, as he’s reminded of his mother again. The answers to these riddles are all things she knew in life, some she loved – the ice, for gifting her with a son, and the moon at night, or the stars when the moon hid itself – and some she feared, or merely tolerated, like the wolf spiders that she would find in her kitchen, or the cranky old tom-cat who liked to visit Kalt as a boy.
”All right,” Kalt tells himself, ”time to get serious and answer these riddles. Sit here reminiscing and they’ll think you’re an idiot who can’t answer a single one.” He taps the sheet of parchment with a fingertip, saying quietly, ”In your words…beloved by birds…that sounds like air or wind. At my sport considered cruel…that’s so many things…I’ll have to think on that one. The more there is the less you see?” As Kalt thinks on this, he looks away from the candles to the gloomy far end of the tent, then says, ”Of course! Darkness. And the opposite, right here in the tent, dancing and flickering – fire. And then fire’s opposite – how clever, that they’re ordered like that – ice, that lets you walk on water.”
The next riddle gives him some pause. ”Mother’s womb, beaten and burned – sounds like an egg. Not sure about the bloody slayer, but I guess a rich man who eats too many eggs pays for it with his life, maybe that’s it. And look! Another clever pairing – from the great round egg to the great round moon, for that’s surely the Wolf Lords’ altar.”
”A horrid monster with silver chains? Gods, I hope never to fight such a thing…wait, it’s but a spider! They used to give my mother a fright when she’d find a big one nesting in a pot, but I think I could take one on, even now. And what’s this last one – bonds of steel, kings on thrones, on battlefields and hearts? Well, I know more of battlefields than of those other things, and what you find there is sweat, tears, and…blood. That’s it! Now, that one I skipped, what could it be?” As he asks himself this, a small bulge appears in one of the walls of the tent, near the floor, and then the tent wall lifts slightly. Kalt is briefly alarmed by this, but his alarm quickly fades when a scruffy-looking cat, all mottled greys and whites to blend in with the northern lands, slips under the fabric of the tent wall and curls up on a soft fur on the tent, paying Kalt not the slightest attention. ”Good day, sir, and welcome to my tent. Alas, I have nothing to offer you to eat, to earn your affection…ha! That must be the riddle! Stealthy, cunning, cruel…never owned but loved. ‘Tis a cat, indeed. And I thank you, Sir Cat, for I think I’ve solved them all! Well, that should help me in the final challenge, that many boons. Though really what I’d like for a boon is a flask of ale and a night or three of solid sleep.”
He falls back against the pile of fur-covered cushions, realizing how very tired and sore he still is. But he summons his strength, telling himself, They’re not testing your ability to nap to see if they want you in the tribe. You can always sleep later, eh?
”Hey there!” he calls out as he struggles upright once again. ”I’ve got your riddles done! I’m ready for your next challenge!”
Katz swipes the parchment away, and begins showing it to the elders. Reading it over, they seem pleased, nodding at various times. Occasionally a puzzled look comes over their faces, but they quickly move past it. After a few moments, Katz offers Kalt a mug filled with an interesting smelling liquid. "Drink this, and then we can move on to the final challenge."
Kalt watches as the elders study the parchment where he has indicated his answers, feeling quite hopeful that he has done well. Their reactions on the whole seem positive, and he allows himself to relax a bit, sinking back into the cushions again. When Katz hands him a mug, Kalt is very pleased, as it represents half of what he wished for - though he doesn't expect he's about to get the three nights' sleep that is the other have of his wish. "Thank you, my chief, I look forward to hearing about the challenge." he says, raising the mug to Katz.
He takes a deep draught, not even noticing the somewhat odd smell until he's drunk down a couple of swallows. He lowers the mug, a quizzical look on his face, and tips his head down to peer inside it. The tipping motion continues, Kalt's head dropping further, as the candles in the tent seem to all go out at once, though no one has touched them and no breeze has blown. His chin meets his chest, and stays there, his eyes shut, the mug held in one hand and somehow still balanced on his knee.
Kalt awakens with a shiver to find himself lying in the snow, some distance north of the tribes summer campsite. He rises with a stretch, and finds all the exhaustion and fatigue of the combats washed away, feeling as energetic as he has ever been since his revival. Before him are eight small piles, consisting of his armor, a Masterwork composite bow set for his strength, two quivers of arrows, a masterwork greatsword etched with what look like icicles on the blade, a tent, a rather large mound of odd clay, two small bottles of a pinkish liquid, and his back pack with a note tucked under the flap.
Kalt, you have done well so far, and so for the final challenge you have been granted the boons you see before you. The potions will mend any moderate wounds you may come across in your trial. A day to the northeast you should find a small trade caravan with markings of the Raptor Scale tribe. We've recently slain a number of them in a dispute over some land holdings, including the chieftains only son, Hroth. Within this caravan you will find a goodly number of items. Take what you want, but bring me the bag of diamond dust they will use to revive Hroth. They do not know you are one of us yet, and therefore cannot trace the theft back to us. Cover your tracks, you have until sundown on the third day. Do not fail.
Kalt awakens and takes a quick look around to study his surroundings, to ensure that no part of this challenge involves taking him by surprise at the outset. Satisfied that he’s safe for the moment, he regards the boons he earned from his riddling. Though it’s quite cold to the touch, he dons his armor quickly, then begins to assess the other items. He lifts the bow and gives an experimental pull on the string. Now that’s a bow! Some power in that, stronger than Uncle Kjartan’s, even. He studies the sword a moment, admiring the beauty of its design, then slices the air with it and nods in satisfaction before sheathing it. He sets to organizing the remainder of his gear, discovering the note when he opens his pack.
That’s my challenge? To be a common thief? Hmm, there must be more to this, some matter of pride or even survival. What do I know of life in these lands, beyond how to feed myself and fight? And regardless, these people gave me back my life, it’s not for me question how to repay that debt.
He gathers up the rest of the supplies, laying a hand on the clay for a moment and trying to determine why it’s been given to him, before loading it into his pack. He places the potions into a belt pouch and looks to the sky, to get an idea of the weather he’s likely to face. He then sets off northeast, careful to leave no tracks behind, thinking, Off I go to prevent a man from being raised from the dead, sent by those who raised me from death. Life is full of surprises, that’s sure.
Well, the weather could be worse. If this caravan is a day’s travel away, I may be able to use the snow to cover my visit to them tomorrow. Just have to find something to eat along the way, which shouldn’t be too hard.
He travels steadily through the day, eyes and ears alert for any surprises. As afternoon wears on, he begins looking for a sheltered place to set up camp, so he’ll only have an hour or two to travel the next morning to reach the caravan.
That evening as Kalt is about to settle in for the night his ears pick up on a slight sound, that of the crust of snow breaking under weight. Crouching low in the snow, he brings his cloak up hi to mask his presence, and is greeted by the sight of a white wolf slowly padding its way past the camp. It sniffs the air, tilting its head as it peers around the site.
Kalt keeps still as stone, hoping the wolf's nose will conclude that humans used this campsite and then moved on, and that there is nothing here worth investigating further.
Kalt then lowers his cloak, keeping his face low toward the ground, and only looking at the wolf with sidelong glances. He does not wish to antagonize the creature, and hopes that the wolf will decide they are just two wild beasts, passing in the woods, who can go about their business.