When you reach the little house, the place your journey started, you will recognize it, although it will seem much smaller than you remember.
The village of Heldren lives on the edge of two worlds. One is always watchful of the border with Irrisen and the threats that come from the witch queens; and the other cautious of the Grungir and what secrets are held beneath it’s leafy boughs. But rarely has the watchfulness been tinged with such worrisome thoughts of late. There are signs the ice troll of Irrisen grow restless and hungry, and those attuned with the Grungir are disquieted by cold weather unnatural to the season and a stilling of the voice of the fae. Being as it is at the height of summer there should be song and warmth, yet the cold within the wood bloomed like an unholy flower disgorging heavy snow and bitingly icy winds. Those that dare travel the wood speak of an uneasy presence, as well as new, dangerous predators.
No one knows what these events portend, but the town’s runecaster, Old Mother Theodora, claims dark times lie ahead. As if in proof of that dire prophecy, a badly wounded mercenary arrived in town yesterday, claiming to be a bodyguard of Lady Argentea Malassene. He told the village council that the noblewoman’s escort came under attack by bandits and strange, wintry creatures near the edge of the Grungir. He alone escaped, and Lady Argentea was dragged away into the forest. Now the townsfolk cast wary eyes at all, seeing ill portents and witch-signs where there are none. Fearful eyes flick between the border and the newly snowy forest, and bets are being made as to which will rise to swallow the town first.
Tavern Rumours and Village Malcontent:
- Everyone says the weather is unseasonably cold for midsummer—it even snowed in the Grungir!
- Most suspect magic is involved, and some fear Irriseni agents played a role in it.
- Old Man Dansby claims that someone keeps stealing from his fields. His farm lies closest to the Grungir, where half his crops have died from an icy frost and the rest have been carried off.
As you follow the beautiful fae-born lady she enters Heldren and after a brief pause makes to enter the local tavern.
This night, the elders of Heldren attend a þing at the local tavern – The Silver Stoat. Some of you are invited, some of you are compelled and some of you know nothing of it as darkness comes to the town and shadows play furtively across the village. By chance you look northwards as you approach the door and a chill wind blows across your face. Fate has plucked at your thread as you push through the door and into the assembly… whether it portends weal or woe will be truth-made in the telling.
"Snows too thick and sun too bright. Weather for wolves, not I. A gnome needs to rest, he does. Yes." the gnome shivers, muttering from the shade of an overturned wheelbarrow. Nestling down to rest, his pale bright eyes start open, and he takes a tentative sniff of the air.
Gnarled fingers emerge from under the barrow as the woman walks past, as does a hooked nose. He lifts the barrow and lurches suddenly to his feet, watching her disappear into the inn. The gnome's whiskers twitch, shaking loose a few flakes of snow and ice as he begins to mutter to himself again, oblivious to the eyes turning in his direction. "Busy kitchens. Too many eyes. No prize for Bastagar, oh no no."
Despite his mutterings, he begins to hobble toward the Silver Stoat, hovering by the doorframe. With some trepidation, he clasps his hands behind his back, stands on his toes, and tries to peer through the crack in the heavy door, shrinking from sight as somebody spots him. Cursing under his breath, he slings his rucksack over his shoulder and begins to pace around the building, trying to find a high window or back door away from prying eyes.
Standing 4'5" and weighing some two dozens stones under 200lbs, this ruddy-skinned dwarf's beard and hair resemble the color of fresh-packed snow. Wrinkles have formed about his blue eyes, mouth and forehead - a sign of Kelgar's good-humor and age, yet his body appears well-tended and casts a shadow of doubt on this dwarf's true age.
Presently, he is garbed in the attire of a traveler, yet his boots appear clean as if he has been off the road for several days. His blue shirt is faded with age, but obviously well-kept and patched by someone with care.
To a well-trained eye, the left side of his mustache appears ever so shorter than the the right.
**
Kelgar squinted at his reflection in the mirror, inspecting his mustache and beard from a bewildering assortment of angles.
"Y'sure this be even, coz?"
Turning his head slightly, the dwarf continued to cycle through a bewildering assortment of scrutinizing expressions ranging from scowls to frowns to grimaces. His efforts were cut short as the other dwarf in the room reminded him that the "good spot" by the hearth within The Silver Stoat might be the first one taken at tonight's þing.
As a wave of anxiety washed over Kelgar, the color drained from his face so quickly it began to match his snowy white beard. With surprising speed, he leapt from the barber's chair and in a single motion, grabbed both hat and coat before disappearing into the chilly streets of Heldren.
**
The sun still had several hours before it would make its descent to the horizon, but nonetheless Kelgar stepped into the Silver Stoat with an absolute determination to secure the tavern's warmest spot for himself.
For the second time today, the color drained from his face as he spotted an elderly woman basking in the the warm glow of the tavern's only hearth like a dog sunning itself on a porch on an autumn day. Clenching both fists and teeth, panic struck the dwarf as he quickly moved into the tavern and began to explore various locations in the common room in a relentless pursuit of his quest.
First he made his way into the deepest part of the tavern, finding the spot furthest from the door. Discovering a draft, he silently shook his head and migrated to the far end of the bar near the kitchen's entrance. Nodding to himself, he could sense some of the heat from the oven and appeared mildly pleased.
Yet, his longing gaze would not leave the flickering of flame, and his eyes continued to dance between hearth and woman.
Kelgar whispered absentmindedly to himself, while continuing to gaze at the older woman like a hypnotist might a patient.
"Thas' right y'old bat - th'warm fire's makin' y'feel a right bit sleepy and ye're cravin' the comforts o' home. Thas' right.. any moment y'will be leavin' that table there for ol'Kelgar..."
Kelgar waited with the slow, determined persistence of a snow leopard stalking its evening meal.
He pulls his overcoat closer - a gloved, three-fingered hand adjusting the fox pelt draped across his shoulders. From his back hangs a wooden round shield, one that almost looks too large for a man of his size. Strangely he seems to carry no weapon, save for the hunting knife and crossbow on his belt, provoking the question of why he would have such a large shield at all.
Sunken eyes scan the town as he enters, squinting as he braces against the biting wind. A mane of hair frames his face, a tangled, greasy mess of slightly-greying locks. His beard is thick and crudely trimmed, and his lips thin and cold, curled into a look of displeasure. Every part of this man seems as cold and wild as the heartless winterland from which he comes.
A small furry head pokes up from the warmth of his coat, the weasel glancing around briefly before quickly climbing up onto his shoulder excitedly.
"Calm, Ormr." He says quietly, his dark eyes drifiting over the people of the simple town. "These ones are not worthy of excitement."
His grimace only worsens as he comes to the door of Silver Stoat, the thought of interaction nauseating him slightly. A sigh. He enters.
Kelgar's gentle insistence without words eventually proves fruitful, and he finds the prime location by the fire abandoned when the lady stands to move for another drink. Halfhand finds his entrance draws a sharp intake of breath... but it soon quiets... it appears that portents are bad enough to allow the townsfolk to look past many things when considering assistance.
The interior of the tavern is spartan and workmanlike – in line with much of the town’s general aesthetic. Long trestle tables with communal benches sit like hedgerows in the common room plus there is a small standing area near to the bar. There are already a smattering of people within, townsfolk and farmers all – most with a relatively dour countenance. Above the bar mounted on the wall is the item that gives the tavern its name – a stuffed large stoat that has a silvery sheen to its fur. The husband and wife team that service the tavern are behind the bar, polish rag in hand and serving tankards to the village folk.
At one end of the common a small area has been cleared where three chairs sit alone. The center bears the village headswoman Ionnia Teppen, of Varisian descent and slight – though steadfast to the town. To her left is the town runecaster Old Lady Theodora, gray haired and milky eyed... though still with an air of confidence. And to her right is an Ulfen blooded face you have not seen prior.
Bloodied and beaten his right arm is riven and the remains held in by red soaked linen tied as a sling. Blond braided hair is held back by further bloodied bandage and his beard is tinged scarlet also. Despite this he holds his head high and does not beggar any sympathy.
The Man in Question
As the last of you make your way to the inn, the room buzzes with a hubbub of rumour and loose words ”…bloody ice queens… saw some fae in the forest… iced right over… white haired bastard poking around… fecking crops are gone… we’ve enough to worry without…” most of it not worth the listening and very little to be gained through attention.
A young woman, only a few years out of pigtails, enters town, the thick wool and furs of her clothing heavily caked with snow. A happy smile adorns a face too beautiful for such a harsh land. Her feet sink deeply into the snow, belying her delicate features and a clear indication of the size of her pack. A pair of skis are balanced by a long lance, both lashed to a large backpack. From the tip of the lance a penon waves joyfully, it's green silk seeming to gather the twilight.
Striding up to the Stoat, a brief look of concern flashes across her face and her pace quickens. She removes her pack at the door, standing her skis and lance beside the portal. She removes the penon and rolls it into her pack before opening the door.
Entering the tavern, her eyes scan the common room before settling on the wounded man. Lowering her hood reveals long ears, almost eight inches in length. She shakes free golden hair and turns to survey the room with irises the color of gemstones. Her eyes suggest an elven heritage yet the length of her ears shows anyone familiar with her southern kin the error of their assumption.
Placing her pack beside the rack, she hangs her thick coat upon it, revealing a suit of mail which glistens in the firelight. A long fir bow follows the coat before she turns, her skin untouched by the cold.
Finally divested of her cold weather gear, Hilde approaches the three at the end of the room. Her eyes scan the crowd and then the three, detecting for evil. Approaching with care and concern, she directs her words to the woman in the center chair,
"Well met good woman, if I may be so bold. It is a fine night, though unnaturally cold. On whimsy alone did I approach this place, yet another I fear is in this race. The weather of weapons here makes no sound, and yet the pale rider dost stalk this town. To this feeder of ravens has battle-metal been laid, so how I must ask thee, can I render aid?"
Kelgar swoops towards the cozy spot by the fire with such speed, he leaves half of his drink on the floor where he previously stood.
Wiggling into the seat like a bird affixing itself in it's nest for a long winter night, a grand smile spreads across his mouth, obscured by his long, white beard.
He gives polite nods to many of the locals, closes his eyes to lose himself into the warmth of the fire and sets about to listening to their whispered conversations.
Picking out nothing more than what he suspects as worried townsfolk, he opens his eyes again as Ionnia, Theodora and the Ulfen take their seats.
"I wonder wha' mystery sa'brewin' here'n Heldren..." he muses, as his eyes narrow on a lithe white-haired woman who approaches the three.
The old dwarf waits with mild curiosity as she offers her services, wondering how the women and Ulfen may respond.
Perhaps some trouble with the wildlife? It'd take a bear or somethin' fierce to do *that* to an Ulfen of such a build...
The village of Heldren has been a convenient place for Olaf to rest for a few days, whilst he recuperated, and determined his next best course of action.
The invitation to the þing was unexpected, but not unwelcome - as an outsider, he had not expected to be involved in something like that.
Still, one must put one's best foot forward...
In preparation, Olaf spends the rest of the day oiling his armor, honing the cutting edges of his weapons, shining his beard-rings, brushing down the fur of his great white cloak, and generally attempting to make sure that he presents the veritable image of a competent warrior, accentuating his natural physique - after all, being a big bear of a man, with ruddy skin, criss-crossed with scars, flaming orange hair, and great a bushy beard, has helped him to earn respect in the past.
---------------
That evening, he arrives early, hoping to hear a few tales, maybe a song or two; the recent rumors have been troubling, but to one used to living on the border with Irrisen, nothing too out of the ordinary.
Blasted witches, and their damned Fey, always attempting to take our land from us, and enslave our children. I wish they would all just return to their 'First World', and leave us normal folks alone...
The Halfhand's arrival causes him to raise an eyebrow.
I was not expecting that one here! There must indeed by some real trouble afoot if they have asked for aid from the Halfhand... unless he is being accused...? No, surely not...
Olaf is enjoying a fine mug of mead when Hilde arrives, her lilting, rhyming voice nearly causing him to spray his drink across the table.
What on Golarion? Surely... It can't be? This will definitely be a night to remember...
The Halfhand weathers the glares and stares of the townsfolk as he moves through the crowd. Despite his dishevelled looks, he carries himself proudly, narrowed eyes constantly scanning his surroundings.
As his hand brushes against a table, the weasel on his shoulder rushes down his arm, cheekily nipping a sliver of meat from the plate of a slightly inebriated farmer before disappearing into the crowd to find more scraps to steal.
His eyes move across towards Teppin and he gives her a nod, waiting for her to approach him or beckon him over. Before either can happen though, a young woman strides into view, strutting over to the headswoman’s side. Her beauty catches him off-guard, her youth and exuberance hitting him in the gut like a well-placed punch. It sickens him.
The Halfhand scowls. He didn’t appreciate playing second string.
He approaches the three as the young woman speaks, smirking at the odd manner of her speech. Before she can quite finish, her cuts her off, pulling off his gloves and tucking them into his overcoat as he begins to talk over her.
he says loudly, tilting his head slightly towards her as he ignores the young woman beside him. ”I hope you have good cause in calling me here. You should know I am no hound that answers at its master’s beck and call.”
His speech has a thin veneer of courtesy, but it is clear that it is little more than a social convenience.
.
Unsatisfied with his perch, Bastagar tuts and makes to climb down, pausing as Hilde glides across the inn. He stares, transfixed, and nestles himself, shivering, into the windy threshhold. He casts an envious glance toward the hearth, and the Dwarf sitting beside it. Once, in another life, he had quite liked the Dwarves. But now he held them in contempt. " Wagging beards, sharp eyes, find you in the dark, throw you out in the cold. Poor hosts the Dwarves make, yes." His eyes glaze over the skald and the outcast, eyes fixing on Olaf's fur cloak. THAT, certainly, would keep him warm for the winter. A fine prize.
He cups a hand to his ear and watches as the otherworldly woman tosses aside her hood. He grins cannily.His guess was right. His nose had not lied.
As Hilde approaches the headswoman, she listens intently but you can tell that she struggles somewhat with the formality of your address. When she opens her mouth to speak it is the milky eyed and white haired lady who puts hand upon her arm to quiet her and speaks in her place "Well met get of the never-dark. Though this house has no locks, you are welcomed within freely. Please sit at our table, drink and eat... the payment for the gift offered need only be your ears and time." and the white haired crone touches fingers to lips, then forehead and bows while sitting deep enough to render her unable to hold gaze upon you.
You detect no falsehood of heart or spirit upon the three.
At this moment Halfhand makes his brusque call across the tavern, and though it is answered immediately by grumblings of malcontent nearby to him - Teppin quietens them with a raised hand and affixes Halfhand with a level stare "The door is open Halfhand, should you wish to leave us... however I believe you have interest vested in what we will speak of tonight. Eat, drink... fill your mouth with sustenance while we fill your ears with our words. If at evenings end you still think this unworthy of your time you can stalk into the wild with my blessing."
Olaf finds his presence welcomed by most of the villagers, those both of Ulfen and Varisian descent clearly happy to have a skald in their midst... and no doubt have enjoyed a call or two over the last few nights.
Kelgar's exuberant seat stealing elicits a shake of the head from the lady of the house - Kale Garimos moving to sop up his excess with a rag before fixing a stare on him and raising an eyebrow to wordlessly ask Have ye enough in your cups still Kelgar... or should I get you another?
Bastagar remains perched without looking over proceedings... though the attention of the milky eyed old lady has been drawn away from him and unto the young woman of the rhyming tongue.
The man raises an eyebrow, running his fingers through his scruffy beard. "Very well." he says. "I'll grace you with my presence a moment longer, and hear what you would say."
He turns, sparing a glance at the gorgeous stranger, before hefting his shield from his shoulder and finding a nearby seat. As he does so, Ormr scampers out from the crowd and up his leg, climbing up onto his shoulder perch. The weasel sniffs the air, growling quietly.
"You smell it too?" the Halfhand whispers, his eye twitching. His piercing glare sweeps the tavern, his teeth clenched tight. He fidgets where he sits, his paranoia growing as his imagination is provoked by the imagined scent. ”The stink of agaric... ozone... moss... an ancient stench.”
He grips the rim of his shield tightly as his agitation grows, eyes darting about as he searches for the source. Words escape his mouth, an inaudable mutter spoken beneath his breath. ”…They’re here.”
"My thanks to thee for a drink and meal, my ears and attention our deal will seal. Ill portents long shadows have cast on this place, I will gladly give aid to my father's race."
She withdraws from the three with a bow and makes her way to the fire. One hand absent-mindedly swings the tip of the sword on her back to the side as she lowers herself to sit cross-legged, warming both hands on the stone hearth.
"Honor to thy Clan and well met good dwarf, be thee willing to share this fire, warmth and hearth?"
As if on the Halfhand's cue, heavy boots stamp up to the door outside. The door opens wide and the heavy footfalls enter the hall. No large Ulfen enters the hall, but instead a gnome on the short side of 3 feet. His large black boots, indeed, resound with a sound way beyond his size.
The gnome has a scruffy appearance. His clothes tattered, seemed patched with lichen and moss. His hair matted with leaves and twigs, has taken on a spiked appearance. His most obvious feature, was the number of knife handles the protruded from boots, belt, even from his hair. Less obvious on initial glance was the earthy aroma that followed in his wake.
He meets the stares of each patron as he crosses the room, although he finds he doesn't care for the old crone's gaze. He pulls one of his knives as he approaches bar. Picking up speed, he jumps and strikes the blade into the face of the bar. He swings from the pommel to land himself on a stool.
He pulls out a scrimshaw horn and pushes it toward the bartender to be filled. He risks another glance toward the crone and sees the bandaged Ulfen. "Looks like I missed all the excitement." He wrenches his knife free and idly spins it on the bar awaiting his filled horn.
Kelgar squints across the room at the woman cleaning up his spilled drink, but his thoughts quickly return to the gathering of the townsfolk of Heldren. He absentmindedly raises his mug, more in a gesture of thanks than in any recognition of the words she mouths in his direction.
Ah'wonder what Ionnia's got planned fer tonight...
As the dwarf begins to consider the possibilities of a real danger looming amidst the Grungir, he blushes at the advance of the white-haired woman with the ethereal features and the honeyed tongue.
"Erhm..."
Kelgar gives the spot on the hearth a guarded look, but relents the precious space with the demeanor of a husband who often yields to his wife's will.
".. of course, lass, of course. 'Ave a seat n' warm ye'self."
Uncertain of how much studying the woman's features would be too much studying, Kelgar feigns greater concentration on the three elders and the white-haired man's gripes about his being summoned to the gathering.
As though expecting Caerb's arrival the milky eyed lady nods to Ionnia. With that the headswoman ”Welcome friends and neighbours all… and those that are not of our flock. Before we tell of portents and deeds to be done… let us remember.” to this she breathes deep and her voice grows ethereal and shadowed as she speaks with sussurant tone: "To those that have left and those that remain, be wary of the shadow and the light for both are worthy of your fears. Put trust in your kinsmen and women, by blood or bond - for they will vouch-safe your life."
Taking her seat after the prayer, Ionnia continues to speak and the room listens to her words ”By now all of you will have heard… whispers or strong words of the coming of ice and snow. The boughs of the Grungir hang heavy with snow that should not have come for months yet. And now creatures of the deep cold have been unleashed, and prey upon those unwary.” nodding to the injured man next to her. ”Ill portents all and worthy of pause… but yet the iss trow and beasts of the ice queen are seen restless across the border in Irrisen. Wary and watchful, we must always be… though we cannot be deaf to cries for aid.”
Ionnia’s voice dies off and Theodora's quiet yet spellbinding voice takes it’s place ”The man that sits beside us is Yuln Oerstag, guardsman to the Lady Argentea… who was taken from him by bandits and worse within the wood. Though his body has been broken, his will remains and he was able to ride out to us... lone survivor of those bound to safeguard the life of the Lady. While he heals... he has asked for aid to be given... and given it shall be. But I have called upon my heart and runes to aid me to see how such help may be given. Winter fae... a foe beyond the mortals that safeguard our walls and homes... nay a greater power need be called - blood of both this world and that beyond the veil needs be sought to see this through.”
Yuln himself then speaks, voice holding but a fraction of what power it likely usually does ”I am not a devout of the gods... but I believe in the lay of the runes. The runecaster has thrown... and forsees only two outcomes.” grunting with some pain and effort as he raises his riven arm slightly "One path involves darkness and death." letting his arm return to his side and extending his other hand before him with palm up "The other no less perilous... but contains also hope. I beg of you... heed the call."
Old Lady Theodora then stands and closes her milky eyes, speaking with the quavering tone of a soothseer as she points out figures in turn... five within and then... a shutter in the wall? "The Walking Skald... The Booted Orphan... Never-dark Princess... Reluctant Hearth-Beard... Half-hand and Heart... and Bleach-light of the Lantern King. The future is in your hands... will you walk into winter?... or wait for it to o'erun us all?"
The crowd is deathly quiet and watchful... there is some comfort that the call to stride into the snow has not fallen to them... but by the same token the words of Theodora are well measured by all... and there is fear that can be smelt upon the air.
"...Never-dark Princess... The future is in your hands... will you walk into winter?... or wait for it to o'erun us all?"
Hilde rises to her feet, her eyes sympathetic and resolute.
"My dark cousins be forever bold, this land they drape in eternal cold. Good Oerstag, your duty please let me lift, but know thee now, this is no gift. Though it may lead to a frozen tomb, let no man say I fear my Doom."
The young maiden stands to the side, allowing others to step forward unimpeded.
The Halfhand's head twitches, still assailed by the phantom smell, growing even stronger. The irritation worsens as the old lady speaks, enveloping him like a cloying aura. The young woman steps up to speak, but her words little more than garbled nonsense to the Halfhand's ears, his mind growing more and more distant from the words of those around him
Kelgar mumbles to himself as Ionnia gives her speech.
"Sudden summer snows..."
"Bustling border beasts..."
"Argentea, abducted..."
Shaking his head from a dream-state within which he suddenly possessed alliterative skills, Kelgar's eyes bulge as he hears Theodora's voice, yet his mumbles continue.
"Reluctant Hearth-beard? Issat s'posed to be me, now is it?"
Kelgar stood from his spot near the hearth, already feeling a new chill working its way up his back.
His next words find few listeners beyond the ethereal white-haired woman standing near him, who seems to have already put her lot into investigating the kidnappers.
"M'sore legs - s'posed to be retirin', I am..."
Kelgar's mouth and beard move, as if the dwarf is chewing on his thoughts like some gamey meat. His eyes continue to regard the lithe lass at his right, but his gaze is more like that of a protective father than a overly curious townsperson.
Finally, he addresses the room in a clear and loud voice.
"Aye, ah'll see th' Lady returned, safe n' sound. At least, before it gets any colder."
Cearb takes the horn proffered from the barman. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an acorn, two berries, a few coins, and a collection of crystals and places them on the bar. "I suppose something there might interest you. I gots to carry a selection of currency 'cause I never know where I will put my head down. If I need more, I got some carvings to show later, once the prattling dies down." He points with his thumb over his shoulder as the Headswoman gives her speech.
He gives an over the shoulder look once he hears a man speaking, but he soon turns his attention back to his drinking horn. The injured man is of no matter. Stupid bigguns always go missing in the Grungir, and this one looks dumber than most to manage to get this far in life.
It was when the Crone stood that he felt his fate changed. He felt her point at him, even with his back turned. Booted Orphan...that must be me...She be staring too hard at me earlier. He wiggles his head as if something itched the back of his neck, until he finally spun and his black eyes met her white....He gives her a look that says "Fine...enough with the pointing...I just got here."
Everything changes when the young maiden stands...Milady...you look lost too.
Cearb drains his horn and wipes his mouth on his sleeve. He slowly raises himself up, standing upon his stool. "I had hoped for a meal before ya booted me out, as it were, but better fae than me have fought hungry, gives you an edge i suppose, but I don't like making a practice of it, but iff'n you think there are ice witches in the Grungir, and that is why my burrow had frost in it last night, then I guess I can go without a meal, though it is not my custom, as me and witches have a bit of unfinished business, and I don't care for sleeping in much more of this cold, if you can call it sleeping, shivering and trying to get a badger to stop snoring......" He pauses for a breath and sees the room full of quizical faces looking at him. "What? I'll do it. I said I'll do it. What more do you want?"
He pushes his horn across the bar, "Here. I think I just earned a refill."
Olaf listens with deepening disquiet as the tale unfolds. He gives a start when he realises that he has been named, and carefully appraises the others indicated.
Finally, he speaks.
"If the Runes have spoken, then I would be a fool to ignore them. My intended travelling companions," he glances warily at Cearb, Hilde, and Halfhand, "give me pause, but I will do what must be done, for the greater good of us all."
Olaf then smiles.
"I sincerely hope that we survive, but either way, sagas and stories are what drive me, and this sounds like it has the makings of a truly magnificent one."
Finally, it becomes too much to bear. Each person that speaks only compounds the feeling in his head. So distracting is it that he doesn’t even hear the damning words of those before him. The dwarf. The skald. The gnome. The elf. Something is not right.
”Prophecy? Sagas?” The Halfhand snaps, rising to his feet. ”This is talk of fools and madmen.” The irony of the statement is lost on him. ”You speak of divination, you speak of destiny… Great foes and dire winters, but you are not fooling me.”
The Halfhand staggers, blinking rapidly as his eyes move over the group assembled. He seems to get more frantic as he speaks: ”Tell me what is your agenda? What truth is there in this?” He glances over his shoulder, past the windows, past the walls. His interest in the conversation seems to vanish, overwhelmed by his paranoia. ”They are here…”
”Even now the fey are watching. I can hear them in the walls… But you know of this already.” he turns towards the Theodora with narrowed eyes, accusation in his voice. ”It was you that brought them here.”
He scowls, hair whipping as he turns on the spot. ”I smell your stink, faerie! Quit the shadows and show your face!”
The crone Theodora nods knowingly as each of you accept the task before you - clearly expecting no other outcome to occur. Even as Halfhand begins his ascending rant against the darkness and those creatures that lurk within... she remains calm... and expectant.
Cearb puts down his horn and stands back up on his seat. He points his drawn knife at this insulting old man "Listen up you fool, because you seem to see less than that blind woman up there, for even she saw me enter, but one more mention of stinking and it will be you bathing in the Thundering River, and fae ain't the issue here, i've seen the white witches in action, ain't really a prophesy to feel it getting colder, destiny didn't nab this ladyfolk, so maybe you want to try blamin' someone else who ain't pointing a knife at ya."
The Halfhand turns to the source of the noise, his eyes fixing on the gnome. "You think it is you I sense?" the Halfhand laughs. "No... A filth-caked slip such as you is not even worthy of attention."
The weasel on his shoulder lets out a yap, its body pointed and eyes fixed on something in the shadows.
"You see it?" the Halfhand glances at his familiar as the weasel leaps from his shoulder, streaking towards the unseen threat. "Ormr, no!"
Olaf narrows his eyes at Halfhand's paranoid outburst, before trying to reason with him.
"Calm yourself! We are all guests here, but your lack of propriety shows a total disregard for the ancient traditions that govern the interactions of host and guest. I know that you are not from these lands, but surely you have an inkling of them, after being here for so long? Sit down, maybe have a drink, and we can talk about this like reasonable men."
When the weasel jumps from the mad human's shoulder, and dashes off into the shadows, Olaf sighs inwardly.
What foolishness is this? I hope his pet does not cause more trouble...
Rubbing his stubby hands together, Kelgar waits patiently for an indication of the identifies of Walking Skald, Booted Orphan and Bleach-light, having already surmised those of the Halfhand and the Princess.
Ah wonda who th'orphan is, mayb--
As the wee one at the bar turns to add his voice, Kelgar wonders upon exactly what criteria Ionnia is selecting individuals to find the lost lady.
Perhaps hees some sort o' wee ranger-kind... Ah wonda who th' Skald is?
As Olaf chimes in his agreement, Kelgar sizes up the Ulfen's axe and can clearly understand his role in their little search party.
Now, Bleach-light... I wonder...
Kelgar's thoughts are interrupted as the Halfhand begins yet another tirade, coupled with much pointing into the room's rafters.
"Wha are we lookin' fer lad? Is there a mouse up in th'attic or somethin'?"
The dwarf gives the shadows a long meaningful look, with some sense of trepidation at to what he may find - the Chelaxian man's paranoia not being able to be fully ignored by the sometimes superstitious old dwarf.
"Nuthin' up there at all-- wait jes' a minute- is that a...?"
The gnome stands bow-legged on his perch by the ceiling, staring down at the proceedings below with some amusement, and his mutterings begin to be heard as the room falls into silence. He answers the snarling weasel with a conversational chirp. The two share a brief exchange before the gnome springs from his hiding place, managing to land on his feet on a table below. For a moment he pulls a face like a cornered animal, eyes darting between the unfamiliar faces, all turned to him.
His face rests on the Halfhand, cocking his head to one side as if to take him all in before muttering bitterly at the man's boots. "What manner of man has half a hand? Bastagar knows. He has heard it by the hearthfires. Witch, demon, scavenger. That is what they say from the dark of their homes, yes."
He turns his face upward. "It is a terrible omen to meet a weasel at the beginning of a journey. Unless you know the proper courtesies." he says, almost accusingly. "Ormr says he is quite healthy, by the way, but he is feeling a bit of a chill." he adds, chirpily, turning away and opening his mouth to speak, before turning back to the Halfhand again. "... and ill fortune comes quick to those who speak of prophecy. It is spoken, now speak no more." he says, wagging a crooked finger in the man's direction as he hobbles to the table's edge, clumsily climbs down and clings his rucksack close to his chest, casting suspicious glances at those present, suddenly looking very alone.
"...'nother gnome?!"
Kelgar stands with his mouth agape as Bastagar makes his way to a table while clinging his rucksack.
"Ach! Two of the wee folk on our journey. Thas' gotta be good luck, somewhere, right?"
Kelgar, fluffy white eyebrows arched, looks to Hilde, then to Olaf, certain that the man called "Halfhand" might not agree with the assessment.
"Right? Somewhere? Some tale? No?"
Kelgar shifted as the room went silent, never comfortable when his own home was under a similar quiet for it usually meant he was the one to blame for leaving muddy prints scattered all over Brundir's favorite rug (again).
The dwarf nervously kept the conversation going by turning to the wounded Ulfen.
"So, wha' can y'tell us about th' men who took th'lady Argentea from ye? How many? How were th'armed? 'N such?"
"Ha! There was another!" For a moment, the Halfhand looks victorious, overjoyed that he was right. However, his elation quickly turns to consternation as he appraises the gnome. The dwarf's words seem to think in. "Wait, a mere gnome? But ... That is it? I was sure there was... Something purer..."
The Halfhand grips his head, both relieved and disappointed. "I suppose... I suppose this is better." he grows quiet, reclaiming his seat at Olaf's insistence, his mind turning inwards. "Yes. Talk. Of course." he seems to mutter, still a little stunned. Ormr returns to the man's side, climbing once again onto white fox pelt draped across his shoulders.
Kelgar's questioning refocuses the Halfhand's mind, and he decides to listen a for a while longer.
"Bah! That's no Gnome. It's all withered and white. More likely a butter boggart that got caught spying on a banshee doing her washing." The sudden arrival of the strange creature, lets Cearb's mind slip from the old biggun's insult. He settles back down and draws his horn, deciding to see where this boggart is taking things.
"The Walking Skald... The Booted Orphan... Never-dark Princess... Reluctant Hearth-Beard... Half-hand and Heart... and Bleach-light of the Lantern King."
The Walking Skald must surely be the shield-man, for his heart clearly lies in the weaving of soul-cloth.
The Booted Orphan must also be the spinning-blade for did his approach not sound as a horde of raven-tenders a-marching?
Never-dark Princess is surely me and while this runecaster be wise, my Doom be known well.
The Reluctant Hearth-beard must be the kindly, old dwarf beside me with the fall-knees and rust in his back.
Half-hand and Heart can only be the moon-touched old white-hair, bitter-filled and hearth-chilled.
That leaves only the Bleach-light of the Lantern King. Oh, what tragedy that one of the bright-folk now walks in darkness, away from the sound of laughter and lights of faerie fire.
Rising to her feet, her eyes focus sharply for just a second, detecting evil, lest he be too far gone for safety. Approaching, she sweeps into a deep curtsy, her fingers lifting imaginary skirts. Sliding onto one knee, she speaks to him alone as the rest of the room fades around her,
"Please tell me, Lost One, what has cost thee so much, for I am a princess of faerie and would give you no such. Only pain and betrayal could drive a trickster so, and there will be no mercy, where both of us must go. If thou but comest with me, my arms will take you in, for whether bleached or colored, thou art still my kin."
Hilde waits for his response before returning to the fire.
Bastagar's nose twitches at Caerb's insult, spinning on his heel to face him and nearly barreling into Hilde as she approaches. He stumbles backward, stunned, moreso when she speaks, and his mouth twitches momentarily into a wicked grin, as if her sincerity were another cruel jest and he were determined to have the last laugh.
He bows so low that his moustache sweeps the ground, voice taking on a sing-song tilt to mimic Hilde's own manner of speaking.
"My nose it does not lead me wrong
Of Alfheim born, the blood is strong."
He kneels reverently, gnarled hand over his heart, but his gaze is calculating as he eyes her appraisingly, and his tone turns solemn and wistful.
"The kind heart in that noble breast
Sets thee, sweet lady, above all the rest.
Yet my tale is quite long, you see.
Not for the ears of the likes of thee.
But let no man say my heart is hollow.
Where thy lead, Bastagar will follow."
He bows once more, and true to his word, scurries after her toward the hearth, but not before snatching a heel of bread from a nearby table and wolfing it down as if he had not eaten in weeks, snarling at anyone who tries to wrest his prize from him.
"A faerie princess?" the Halfhand laughs to himself. Then, turning to Ormr, one eyebrow raised. "And they call me mad."
Despite his words, his heart races. Could this be true? Was this the creature he could sense? He swallows, the fear inside him steadily growing as he wonders what horrific powers that this young woman could have.
Would she cut him open and bathe in his blood as the wicked redcap? Or would she charm him at a glance, as a nymph, and make him forever her slave? She certainly had the beauty. The thought both terrifies and excites him.
A bead of sweat trickles down his brow. While the idea of walking alongside such a fearsome creature was almost inconceivable... It was also a rare opportunity. One that he may never have again. This could undo everything he had worked to preserve these last seven years. Even so...
Nodding resolutely, the Halfhand stands and looks over to Theodora and Teppin. "My mind is set. I will lend my aid to this task." He looks over at his soon-to-be traveling companions for a moment before turning back. "But know that if I am to walk this wintry road into the unknown, I walk it for my own purpose and not for the sake of this damned land, nor the portents of an old woman and the rattling of her rune-bones. Are we in agreeance?"
The room full of Ulfen is quiet as the strange guests play out the words and exchange between them... though if one were to look there are shaken heads, warding gestures and muttered words enough at all of those within. Bastagar's appearance in particular brings gasps and curses... one bearded Ulfen makes to stand and take physical umbrage... but is calmed by his wife's hand on his arm to quiescent observance once more.
Yuln looks ever more exasperated and turns to Theodora for some kind of succor that his trust was not misguided. The milky eyed runecaster just sits benevolent and smiling, like a matriarchal figure... nodding occasionally and smiling even wider as even the Halfhand falls in step. At the end she dips her head slightly "Of course child... reasons you must have for yourself... as fate has reasons for us all." she turns to Yuln and speaks quietly "Trust and faith kinsman... trust and faith"
Yuln sighs and nods before addressing the six who have put their lot against his request "Aye, come - we should speak above... I will tell you what I can" moving slowly through the room and up the stairs to a private room on the second floor.
______
Once above, Yuln looks to answer Kelgar's earlier query:
Taking charcoal and parchment Yuln sketches out a rough map to help him convey the tale "We were skirting the North of the river, just about to the Northern ford where we would have cut South to Heldren. At the first... we thought it was mere bandits. The bastards hide like cowards in the forest and emerge to strike when they feel bold or foolish. We turned their arrows and blocked their blades... we had thought the battle won... but then" a chill visibly running up his spine and his words become less certain.
“The unseelie flowed from the shadows like poison and smoke... blood chilled, hearts froze and blood was spilled. We fought as best we can... but with the very cold-hearted fae at their side, we could not ably respond. Of the numbers I cannot say with confidence of heart... we were ten... and they were more."
“The unseelie are the threat that steels my heart. Bastard fey who have sworn themselves to the White Witches of Irrisen." spitting to one side as he speaks the epithet "Tiny sprites no taller than the length of a man’s forearm it is true. But don’t be fooled by their small stature. Legends say they have taken a sliver of ice into their hearts, and their touch bears the harsh bite of winter.” holding his riven arm up as proof of that.
"As I fled to the South, they took my Lady North... into the Grungir."
I can't say this is particularly surprising - that the unseelie would have human thralls, although it will be more disconcerting if it proves the other way around. Either way, our course seems clear, best to get to it.
"Your words have been most helpful, and will aid us in this task, yet before leaving tomorrow, there are questions I must ask:
Bandits I can understand, but darklings are most dire, was this all a random chance or had she earned their ire?
Travelers surely be most rare, since the weather has turned cold, can bandits simply lie in wait, or were they maybe told? Thy wounds are real, I certainly see, but could another live, from battle maybe flee?
Thy say the fight was yours, in the forest thick with snow, if the dark ones used but simple pawns, why join so late if that be so?
Lastly please, good sir, before I retire to my room, could you guess from orders given, exactly who it was, that fateful day, that must have worked for whom?"
To Hilde's Questions Yuln answers readily:
“Aye, they sought to take her. I don’t know why... but if one of Irrisen's witches have her... then no good shall come of it. The unseelie do not act without the leave of those who chilled their hearts. If they’re here, it’s because a White Witch sent them... and much worse will follow.”
"It's possible that another of my kinsman still draws breath... but my heart does not think it so. When I chose to run... there were none of my brothers on their own feet."
He struggles a little to try and remember the details that Hilde asked of the attack "It was quick milady, arrows and blades turned to ice and claw within a hand of seconds. They fought beside... but I would have to think that the winter fae would not sully their hands with men unless they had a deeper power to compel them... but that power was not on the field."
The Halfhand looks visibly uncomfortable when the man mentions fae.
The Halfhand strokes his beard as he listens. "The Grungir..." he folds his arms, staring at the map. "There are few good places for men in this land. The Grungir is not one of them."
Halfhand's knowledge confirms what Yuln has said - that the winter fae are tied to the service of Irrisen's white witches in many ways. Without seeing the fae in question he does not know any more about the sprites themselves - but you know that cold forged iron and fire are the best weapons against them.
As to the other Grungir Forest is the primordial heart of the Linnorm Kingdoms’ wilderness. While fey, wild animals, monsters, and linnorms reside everywhere humans do not, in Grungir Forest, they rule. The forest is home to Fafnheir, said to be the oldest and most powerful of the linnorms, as well as to numerous enclaves of strange and powerful fey creatures. Portals to the legendary First World flicker within the woodlands’ tangled depths, and in places the very trees themselves move and speak in thunderous tones.
They say Grungir Forest has eyes, and that it sees everything within its borders... the only civilized people who make their homes within Grungir Forest itself are gnomes—and even they avoid delving too deeply into the forest depths.
Olaf listens with rising disquiet as further details are given.
"I agree, whatever plans the White Witches and the Unseelie have for your mistress will not be pleasant. If she is to be rescued, an expedition into the Grungir must be organised as quickly as possible."
Of course, only the foolhardy, the insane, and creatures not of this world would willingly consider doing so. Fortunately, it would appear we have all of those in abundance!
He then draws his axe from his back, placing its head upon the ground, crossing his hands on the upturned haft, and bows his head.
"You have my word that I will do what I can do turn back the Winter, and rescue the damsel in distress."
The Halfhand tells the others what he knows. There is no point in holding anything back.
"...It is not a place which we should travel lightly." he states. "Preparations must be made. Do any of you carry cold iron? A charm, a dagger?"
He looks across his fey-blooded companions. "Hrm, maybe not...
Olaf chuckles.
"I have plenty. A proper warrior needs to prepared for Fey incursions around here."
He taps his axe meaningfully, and then gestures to the morningstar at one hip, a coiled whip covered with wicked metal barbs on the other, and a dagger in a sheath at the back of his belt.
"I also have some barbed, cold-iron wire if we wish to interrogate Fey..."
"Armed as you are, I think is wise, but were I to do so, I can see my mother's eyes. Bring your weapons, forged alone by strength, but look not at one of us, down their cold iron length."
Knowledge (geography)
Knowledge (geography)
Bastagar wrings his twisted hands as the man recounts his tale, eyes darting to his companions suspiciously. He chuckles to himself at the mention of witches. "Much talk of witches in this land, Bastagar hears, yes. But sees none. They have no power in Grungir, Bastagar knows, only power in the foolish heads of men."
At Olaf's suggestion Bastagar spits, turning to meet his gaze with a vicious glare before returning is gaze to the floor. "Such cruelty this one has, perhaps he is the witch you seek." He hoists his rucksack on top of the table, pulling out a large frying-pan cast seemingly from cold-iron. "Many charms Bastagar has, and the biting-iron as well. But fire he has not." he says, turning away. "...those secrets are forgotten, yes."
Hilde is ready to retire. She enquiries if the Stoat has rooms and a bath or steam room. She will bring in her lance and skis, polish her weapons and armor, bathe and then sleep. She will arise at dawn, perform calisthenics, dress, and be ready to go within a half hour.
I assume we are walking, so Hilde will be wearing her snowshoes.
Olaf narrows his eyes at Bastagar's comments.
"Little one, do not speak to me of cruelty. My home village of Whiterook is annually assaulted by forces loyal to Irrisen; many good warriors and humble townsfolk die every time. Moreover, Fey spirits continually attempt to possess babes born during Winter; such unfortunates have one of two fates - a humane death at our hands, or eventual capture and indoctrination by the Winter Witches, whom everyone knows grind the bones of those they care not for into meal to make bread!"
He then sighs.
"However, I can accept that one such as you may not be aware of such things..."
Despite it being nothing more than an ordinary chair, Kelgar coaxes it to rock back and forth as the Ulfen tells his tale and answers the questions of the others.
Mostly rhetorically and without expectation of confirmation he adds, "th' white witches, are y'sure?"
The old dwarf sits, obviously deep in thought, a distant look in his eyes as if he is simply expecting to be awoken from a dream - the events unfolding nothing more than smoke.
Shaking his head somewhat violently to bring himself back the present, Kelgar's eyes focus again on the others, and his voice takes on a pacifying tone - speaking calmly more for his own benefit than anyone else's.
"Ah, I'm sure it's jes a big ol' misunderstandin', to be sure. Probably some crooks got t'thinking if they make it look like th'Unseelie, they'd be a right bit more scary. No, no - nothing major happenin', just some ordinary ruffians needin' to be reminded tha' th' folk o' Heldren aren't t'be fewled by such tricks."
"Quick n' easy, but might as well bring some o'th iron o' cold jes in case the wee sprites are bitin'"
Yuln nods at some of the words, though still looks upon the gnomish and fey with some degree of skepticism. "Morning would be best... you wouldn't want the bastards coming upon you when the world is shrouded by shadow."
"Ah, but we are many miles from Hagsreach, Master Northman, but Grungir is too fierce and cunning for intruders. Even Bastagar cannot reach its depths, yes." he says, sounding somewhat less convinced. He conjures a wisp-like sphere of light in the palms of his hands, that dances in and out of sight before disappearing. "... and there be other things that feast on bones of men. I think Master Dwarf has the right of it!" he says, cheerfully.
The Halfhand nods slowly, absorbing the conversation. "Yes. Good. 'til morning, then." he hefts up his shield from the ground and slings it over his shoulder before heading down to the commons once more. There he'll spend the next hour or two etching protective runes into the face of his shield, and imbuing them with abjuration magic.
When this is done, he retires for the night.