Shieldhaven
Explorer
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Haven
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Haven
The Cask of Winter -4 July-
- Thread starter ForceUser
- Start date
HalfOrc HalfBiscuit
Adventurer
What Shieldhaven said ... doubled. 
ForceUser
Explorer
Töskjel flew through the twilight realm that separated the mortal world from the land of the dead. A ghostly eagle, she beat immaterial pinions against insubstantial air as she sailed across a dim sky toward a coiling blackness that dwarfed the horizon. Below her, gray mountains sprawled like a sea of stormy rock, blurry and indistinct as dreams; ahead, malevolence sat upon the north like a festering contagion. She followed the lay of the Trollfell Mountains west to where it crawled from the womb of the glacier known as Hrungnir’s Hold—once upon the glacier, she turned south until she came to the place where the ice had carved the earth like daggers. Deep within Otrygg Fjord, she passed near by the blight that was Vvardenfell, the rugged city that was the seat of power of the Vitlings’ prince. At a distance of several miles, she saw nothing but darkness. With a prayer to Freyja, she slipped back into the world of men, where she soared high and immaterial below a dark thunderhead that threatened snow. The forest below her was thick with conifers and groaned under the strain of the gale-force wind that whipped through her insubstantial form. Soon, the storm would inundate the land with the winter’s bounty.
With sharp avian eyes, she surveyed the terrain for signs of life, but found no man or animal beyond the need of shelter.
She did, however, spy several vampires.
The cold ones slipped between darkened trees in search of prey that had gone to ground. One that had been a berserker in life took on the form of a great bear and rushed into a narrow cave. Töskjel resisted the urge to follow it. Instead, she flew on toward the city, whose dark walls swallowed light and hope. Soaring to within a mile, she offered praise to her goddess with a shriek, and received the spirit body of a great horned owl. With that the gloom came alive.
Vampire spawn crawled upon the walls and battlements like spiders—too many to count. Beyond, guttering lights from within lodges and multi-story longhouses spoke of the captive population of slaves that provided food for the undead. In the centre of the city stood a mighty fortress of gray stone: dark, forbidding, and no doubt warded with potent magic.
Closer now to the source of evil, she crossed back to the border realm between this world and the next. In the shadow world, the castle loomed like a black mountain and shone with the ruddy light of a thousand runes of power. Had she been herself, she would have gasped at the force that this presumed—as an owl, her feeble squawk was swallowed by the noises of perdition from below. Coasting upon a ghostly updraft, she gazed at the streets in horror.
In the mortal world, the corridors of Vvardenfell were dark and quiet in anticipation of the inbound storm. In the spirit world, they roiled with the mayhem of Vvardenfell’s founding—the resonating echo of the battle between the ancient Skordi people that once inhabited this land and the treacherous Vitling turncoats, led by their dark prince and his undying huscarls, that made the land run red with their blood. Below her, the unquiet spirits of the unjustly slain reenacted their damnation again and again. Thousands of ghosts and revenants wailed their demises as they had for a thousand years. She reeled with empathy and sorrow as she banked away from the warded castle.
Ahead, on the edge of the spirit world and the deep shadows which lay beyond, a figure wreathed in cold fire materialized under the black clouds which now violently issued forth the snow that had been locked within their heights. The figure, trailing a curtain of jagged night, swooped toward Töskjel with unholy swiftness.
Recognition choked her heart with fear.
Maligant.
Louis glanced at the sleeping form of—Ingrid? Olga? Ella?—one more time before donning his boots and heavy furs and quietly slipping into the pre-dawn mists wafting in from the turbulent lake of the Oski. Jagged morning frost coated the snowy ground, which crunched like glass as he trudged up the hill to the hall of his host. Slipping silently behind the great carved doors, he trod cautiously back to his spot on the floor. As he passed a carved wooden column, a voice broke the stillness of the slumbering chamber. “Did she make a man of you?”
“Sh*t!” cried Louis, startled.
Sitting in a chair behind the column was the warrior, Einar, with his great-ax across his lap. An empty skin of mead dangled from one hand. His eyes bored into Louis dangerously.
“Don’t do that!” Louis whispered harshly. A snoring man at his feet rolled over.
Einar stood and stepped close to Louis. From this distance, the bard could smell the reek of stale drink. “Take care that you do not abuse my lord’s hospitality,” the Vangal intoned ominously. He swayed a bit on his feet, but his eyes never left Louis.
“Of course,” the bard replied smoothly. “I would never do anything to jeopardize our good relations.”
Einar snorted and kicked the man at Louis’ feet. “Get up, Toki. Fetch wood to stoke the fire. The hall grows cold.”
The man awoke and sat up blearily.
“Did you sleep?” asked Louis. Red streaks shot through Einar’s eyes.
The warrior grunted in response, then resumed his chair.
Feeling awkward, Louis made his way back to the spot given him on the floor, near to the low-burning fire; it had taken little effort to entertain the Oski chieftain, Hrothgar, enough to have earned this “place of honor” next to the fire pit. A wretched pile of sleeping furs greeted him, and he longed once again for a hot bath and a clean shave. Yesterday, he’d heard that some crazy missionaries were on their way up from Athingburgh once the worst of the weather had passed. He glanced across the hall at Einar, who was sitting in his chair and absentmindedly petting a hound and fingering his ax. A suspicious gloom fell upon Louis then, and a chill ran up his spine.
If missionaries can come up, then we can go down, Louis reasoned, So why is he keeping us here?
His only answer was the wind.
With sharp avian eyes, she surveyed the terrain for signs of life, but found no man or animal beyond the need of shelter.
She did, however, spy several vampires.
The cold ones slipped between darkened trees in search of prey that had gone to ground. One that had been a berserker in life took on the form of a great bear and rushed into a narrow cave. Töskjel resisted the urge to follow it. Instead, she flew on toward the city, whose dark walls swallowed light and hope. Soaring to within a mile, she offered praise to her goddess with a shriek, and received the spirit body of a great horned owl. With that the gloom came alive.
Vampire spawn crawled upon the walls and battlements like spiders—too many to count. Beyond, guttering lights from within lodges and multi-story longhouses spoke of the captive population of slaves that provided food for the undead. In the centre of the city stood a mighty fortress of gray stone: dark, forbidding, and no doubt warded with potent magic.
Closer now to the source of evil, she crossed back to the border realm between this world and the next. In the shadow world, the castle loomed like a black mountain and shone with the ruddy light of a thousand runes of power. Had she been herself, she would have gasped at the force that this presumed—as an owl, her feeble squawk was swallowed by the noises of perdition from below. Coasting upon a ghostly updraft, she gazed at the streets in horror.
In the mortal world, the corridors of Vvardenfell were dark and quiet in anticipation of the inbound storm. In the spirit world, they roiled with the mayhem of Vvardenfell’s founding—the resonating echo of the battle between the ancient Skordi people that once inhabited this land and the treacherous Vitling turncoats, led by their dark prince and his undying huscarls, that made the land run red with their blood. Below her, the unquiet spirits of the unjustly slain reenacted their damnation again and again. Thousands of ghosts and revenants wailed their demises as they had for a thousand years. She reeled with empathy and sorrow as she banked away from the warded castle.
Ahead, on the edge of the spirit world and the deep shadows which lay beyond, a figure wreathed in cold fire materialized under the black clouds which now violently issued forth the snow that had been locked within their heights. The figure, trailing a curtain of jagged night, swooped toward Töskjel with unholy swiftness.
Recognition choked her heart with fear.
Maligant.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Louis glanced at the sleeping form of—Ingrid? Olga? Ella?—one more time before donning his boots and heavy furs and quietly slipping into the pre-dawn mists wafting in from the turbulent lake of the Oski. Jagged morning frost coated the snowy ground, which crunched like glass as he trudged up the hill to the hall of his host. Slipping silently behind the great carved doors, he trod cautiously back to his spot on the floor. As he passed a carved wooden column, a voice broke the stillness of the slumbering chamber. “Did she make a man of you?”
“Sh*t!” cried Louis, startled.
Sitting in a chair behind the column was the warrior, Einar, with his great-ax across his lap. An empty skin of mead dangled from one hand. His eyes bored into Louis dangerously.
“Don’t do that!” Louis whispered harshly. A snoring man at his feet rolled over.
Einar stood and stepped close to Louis. From this distance, the bard could smell the reek of stale drink. “Take care that you do not abuse my lord’s hospitality,” the Vangal intoned ominously. He swayed a bit on his feet, but his eyes never left Louis.
“Of course,” the bard replied smoothly. “I would never do anything to jeopardize our good relations.”
Einar snorted and kicked the man at Louis’ feet. “Get up, Toki. Fetch wood to stoke the fire. The hall grows cold.”
The man awoke and sat up blearily.
“Did you sleep?” asked Louis. Red streaks shot through Einar’s eyes.
The warrior grunted in response, then resumed his chair.
Feeling awkward, Louis made his way back to the spot given him on the floor, near to the low-burning fire; it had taken little effort to entertain the Oski chieftain, Hrothgar, enough to have earned this “place of honor” next to the fire pit. A wretched pile of sleeping furs greeted him, and he longed once again for a hot bath and a clean shave. Yesterday, he’d heard that some crazy missionaries were on their way up from Athingburgh once the worst of the weather had passed. He glanced across the hall at Einar, who was sitting in his chair and absentmindedly petting a hound and fingering his ax. A suspicious gloom fell upon Louis then, and a chill ran up his spine.
If missionaries can come up, then we can go down, Louis reasoned, So why is he keeping us here?
His only answer was the wind.
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ForceUser
Explorer
The prince regarded the shimmering, translucent owl as it veered away from him. His eyes, flat bits of coal, saw through the many layers of magic that enshrouded it. Expressionless beneath his rangy black beard, he uttered a single, rasping word.
“Töskjel.”
The owl screeched against the black arcana that bound the prince up in flight, and a blistering column of divine fire engulfed him—a maximized flame strike. An instant later, the fiery wreath had dissipated revealing his untouched, hovering form. It winked out an instant later.
An illusion, Töskjel despaired, Where is he? As she craned her feathered head to look about, a force slammed into her from behind—her body, though incorporeal when materialized within the mortal world, was fully real to other creatures that walked the shadow realm. Eldritch energy ripped through her body as an impossibly strong grip seized her.
She shrieked and twisted, but Maligant’s hand held her fast. His face remained impassive, registering no emotion. Töskjel beat her wings and scrabbled ineffectively. The prince’s dead eyes flickered, and she felt the energies binding her into the shape of an owl unravel violently. Suddenly, she was an old woman again, clawing feebly at the stone-like hand that held her by the windpipe, immobile.
“Why have you come, crone?”
Töskjel’s eyes flashed murder, but she said nothing.
Maligant regarded her. The restless dead thronged far below, and the cacophony of their grief wafted upward like smoke. “The ancestral memory you keep for your people is an old thing—older even than I. As old, perhaps, as Yggdrasil itself. Speak, or I will end your distinguished line forever.”
Töskjel sputtered around his steely grasp. “My line ends with my death. The Oski have turned away from the old ways.”
“The Celestine cancer has infected even your noble tribe? That is a sorrow.”
”It is the weave of my skein. It matters little if I die here by your hand or there in my bed.”
“And yet you have come to spy upon my domain.”
“I have seen your ruin.”
The prince squeezed. Töskjel choked helplessly, her rheumy eyes rolling back into her withered skull. Maligant’s visage twisted, revealing a violent sea of emotion, a deep upwelling of black hate that had sustained him for over a thousand years. But the spasm of rage passed an instant later, and his demeanor once again became impassive. “Speak.”
“The Sleeper will soon awaken,” she gasped, “The Jöten will march upon Vvardenfell. They will reclaim that which was stolen.”
Within the unholy nimbus of gray radiance that surrounded him, Maligant’s alabaster cheeks darkened with a faint upwelling of purloined blood. His brow furrowed, and his coal-black eyes glinted unfathomably. Hate glimmered there, perhaps, though Töskjel suspected it was fear.
His hand tightened relentlessly. The witch coughed and gasped for breath that would not come. Her legs kicked uselessly.
She shuddered. A voiceless prayer to the goddess Freyja—her mentor, her sustainer—escaped her lips. Suddenly her face bulged; her form swelled and exploded with rippling fur, and in an instant Maligant held not an old woman, but a massive dire bear. His grip slipped, and eight thousand pounds of predator plummeted toward the howling morass of wailing spirits far below. Töskjel flailed, roared, and winked out of existence the instant she impacted upon the frozen earth.
At that very moment, hundreds of miles away in a tiny hut, the crone writhed in her bed with a wretched wail, and then immediately collapsed into a catatonic slumber. Her fetch, a dire wolf, growled and gnashed his teeth at unseen demons in the air. Then he sniffed the hand of his mistress, whined low in the back of his throat, and lay down upon the dirt floor with a heavy heart.
Wisps of shadow writhed around Maligant like a cloak. Still in the border realm of souls, he alighted upon a spectral tower. “Bera,” he said. The name ricocheted across the breadth of Vitland*, propelled by his towering will.
Minutes passed before a diminutive body manifested. A pale blond girl of eight, dressed in peasant garb, regarded him solemnly. Her eyes held the wisdom of lifetimes.
“My lord?” When she spoke, her voice was both girlish and ancient.
“The sons of Thrym begin to stir. It is time to reclaim the tribes.”
Slowly, the girl nodded.
Ilse looked unbelievingly at the interior of the tiny chapel that sat behind Hrothgar’s hall, a stone’s throw from Lake Oski. Many of the planks had been removed from the floor, the eaves were full of birds’ nests, the thatch upon the roof had rotted away in places, all but three of the pews had disappeared, and the vessel for the altar flame, which should have been lit with oil year-round, sat cold and empty. The shutters on the northern window had long since blown away, and dirty snow had compiled in the corners. She turned to the Oski woman, Lofnheid, who had been charged with maintaining the chapel by the departing priest two years ago. “What is the meaning of this?”
Lofnheid glared at her sullenly. In a thick northland accent, she said, “Last year, vinter came early and stayed late. Ve needed firevood.”
“You do not ransack a church for firewood!” Ilse responded hotly.
The woman, twice her age and two-thirds her height, nonetheless thrust her ruddy, chapped face into Ilse’s and angrily retorted, “Eye’ll be damned if me children freeze to death to preserve your bloody church!”
Ilse locked gazes with the woman for long moments. She saw the fierceness lodged in her eyes, an intensity born from carving a life out of an inhospitable wilderness. Slowly, she relented, releasing a tension that she had not realized she’d been keeping. “Well,” she said, “We need to fix it. Can you help me find some wood?”
Lofnheid looked at her suspiciously before slowly nodding. “Me brother is a carpenter. Ve’ll see vhat he has in his verkshop. Come.”
Ilse followed her across the frozen mud trails that constituted streets in the tiny community of Oski Faste. She estimated that no more than two hundred souls lived under the protection of Lord Hrothgar. She wondered again at the assignment of two clerics to this barren land. She looked at the sky—it was scarce past midday, and yet twilight approached! Reverend Barozzi had assured her that this was the sun’s normal course this far north, but it still unnerved her.
“Well, hello,” said a silky voice to her left. The voice spoke in Sturmmen that was tinged with an Arbonnese accent.
Leaning against a longhouse was a short man wrapped in the white furs of snow foxes. His hair was thick, curly, and reddish brown, and his brown eyes danced with amusement. He was handsome in the way of a courtier, but had a burgeoning beard to match the local men. He was slightly shorter than she, and as he stepped forward and extended his hand, he moved with a grace that belied his bulky dress.
She held out her hand like a soldier, but he gripped it in both of his, turned it over, and kissed her palm lightly, while the hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. His eyes never left hers.
A tingle of something she refused to think of as pleasure twirled in her stomach as she quickly withdrew her hand. “You are Louis, the Arbonnese bard.”
He stepped closer to her, improperly so. “I see that my reputation has preceded me.” He winked at Lofnheid, who beamed at him.
Ilse grimaced. “Indeed. You may cease your advances. I do not consort with pagans.”
“Pagan!” he exclaimed as though offended. “What, because I am aelfborn? I’ll have you know, madam—“
“—Reverend,” she interrupted sternly.
“Reverend, of course. My apologies. I’ll have you know, Reverend, that I am a devout servant of the Celestine Church.” When he said the word “devout,” he tipped his head and smiled in such a way that butterflies fluttered around her stomach once again. I have got to get away from this man, she thought.
She reached out and gripped his shoulder. He smiled at her warmly. Then she pushed him roughly back to the distance of an arm’s length, and his smile faltered. “Brother Louis,” Ilse began, “Perhaps you can help us serve the gods today, since as you no doubt know, it is in fact Sunday. There is much repair work that must be done upon the chapel.”
“Ah,” Louis replied, “Hm. Well, you see, dear Reverend—”
Lofnheid embraced Louis and giggled, “Do come, good skald! I shall enjoy your stories vhile ve do the gods’ verk. Besides, ve need a strong man to cut and lift the lumber.”
Ilse smiled and gestured toward the workshop. “After you.”
Louis grimaced.
*Homeland of the Vitlings.
“Töskjel.”
The owl screeched against the black arcana that bound the prince up in flight, and a blistering column of divine fire engulfed him—a maximized flame strike. An instant later, the fiery wreath had dissipated revealing his untouched, hovering form. It winked out an instant later.
An illusion, Töskjel despaired, Where is he? As she craned her feathered head to look about, a force slammed into her from behind—her body, though incorporeal when materialized within the mortal world, was fully real to other creatures that walked the shadow realm. Eldritch energy ripped through her body as an impossibly strong grip seized her.
She shrieked and twisted, but Maligant’s hand held her fast. His face remained impassive, registering no emotion. Töskjel beat her wings and scrabbled ineffectively. The prince’s dead eyes flickered, and she felt the energies binding her into the shape of an owl unravel violently. Suddenly, she was an old woman again, clawing feebly at the stone-like hand that held her by the windpipe, immobile.
“Why have you come, crone?”
Töskjel’s eyes flashed murder, but she said nothing.
Maligant regarded her. The restless dead thronged far below, and the cacophony of their grief wafted upward like smoke. “The ancestral memory you keep for your people is an old thing—older even than I. As old, perhaps, as Yggdrasil itself. Speak, or I will end your distinguished line forever.”
Töskjel sputtered around his steely grasp. “My line ends with my death. The Oski have turned away from the old ways.”
“The Celestine cancer has infected even your noble tribe? That is a sorrow.”
”It is the weave of my skein. It matters little if I die here by your hand or there in my bed.”
“And yet you have come to spy upon my domain.”
“I have seen your ruin.”
The prince squeezed. Töskjel choked helplessly, her rheumy eyes rolling back into her withered skull. Maligant’s visage twisted, revealing a violent sea of emotion, a deep upwelling of black hate that had sustained him for over a thousand years. But the spasm of rage passed an instant later, and his demeanor once again became impassive. “Speak.”
“The Sleeper will soon awaken,” she gasped, “The Jöten will march upon Vvardenfell. They will reclaim that which was stolen.”
Within the unholy nimbus of gray radiance that surrounded him, Maligant’s alabaster cheeks darkened with a faint upwelling of purloined blood. His brow furrowed, and his coal-black eyes glinted unfathomably. Hate glimmered there, perhaps, though Töskjel suspected it was fear.
His hand tightened relentlessly. The witch coughed and gasped for breath that would not come. Her legs kicked uselessly.
She shuddered. A voiceless prayer to the goddess Freyja—her mentor, her sustainer—escaped her lips. Suddenly her face bulged; her form swelled and exploded with rippling fur, and in an instant Maligant held not an old woman, but a massive dire bear. His grip slipped, and eight thousand pounds of predator plummeted toward the howling morass of wailing spirits far below. Töskjel flailed, roared, and winked out of existence the instant she impacted upon the frozen earth.
At that very moment, hundreds of miles away in a tiny hut, the crone writhed in her bed with a wretched wail, and then immediately collapsed into a catatonic slumber. Her fetch, a dire wolf, growled and gnashed his teeth at unseen demons in the air. Then he sniffed the hand of his mistress, whined low in the back of his throat, and lay down upon the dirt floor with a heavy heart.
~~~~~~~~~~
Wisps of shadow writhed around Maligant like a cloak. Still in the border realm of souls, he alighted upon a spectral tower. “Bera,” he said. The name ricocheted across the breadth of Vitland*, propelled by his towering will.
Minutes passed before a diminutive body manifested. A pale blond girl of eight, dressed in peasant garb, regarded him solemnly. Her eyes held the wisdom of lifetimes.
“My lord?” When she spoke, her voice was both girlish and ancient.
“The sons of Thrym begin to stir. It is time to reclaim the tribes.”
Slowly, the girl nodded.
~~~~~~~~~~
Ilse looked unbelievingly at the interior of the tiny chapel that sat behind Hrothgar’s hall, a stone’s throw from Lake Oski. Many of the planks had been removed from the floor, the eaves were full of birds’ nests, the thatch upon the roof had rotted away in places, all but three of the pews had disappeared, and the vessel for the altar flame, which should have been lit with oil year-round, sat cold and empty. The shutters on the northern window had long since blown away, and dirty snow had compiled in the corners. She turned to the Oski woman, Lofnheid, who had been charged with maintaining the chapel by the departing priest two years ago. “What is the meaning of this?”
Lofnheid glared at her sullenly. In a thick northland accent, she said, “Last year, vinter came early and stayed late. Ve needed firevood.”
“You do not ransack a church for firewood!” Ilse responded hotly.
The woman, twice her age and two-thirds her height, nonetheless thrust her ruddy, chapped face into Ilse’s and angrily retorted, “Eye’ll be damned if me children freeze to death to preserve your bloody church!”
Ilse locked gazes with the woman for long moments. She saw the fierceness lodged in her eyes, an intensity born from carving a life out of an inhospitable wilderness. Slowly, she relented, releasing a tension that she had not realized she’d been keeping. “Well,” she said, “We need to fix it. Can you help me find some wood?”
Lofnheid looked at her suspiciously before slowly nodding. “Me brother is a carpenter. Ve’ll see vhat he has in his verkshop. Come.”
Ilse followed her across the frozen mud trails that constituted streets in the tiny community of Oski Faste. She estimated that no more than two hundred souls lived under the protection of Lord Hrothgar. She wondered again at the assignment of two clerics to this barren land. She looked at the sky—it was scarce past midday, and yet twilight approached! Reverend Barozzi had assured her that this was the sun’s normal course this far north, but it still unnerved her.
“Well, hello,” said a silky voice to her left. The voice spoke in Sturmmen that was tinged with an Arbonnese accent.
Leaning against a longhouse was a short man wrapped in the white furs of snow foxes. His hair was thick, curly, and reddish brown, and his brown eyes danced with amusement. He was handsome in the way of a courtier, but had a burgeoning beard to match the local men. He was slightly shorter than she, and as he stepped forward and extended his hand, he moved with a grace that belied his bulky dress.
She held out her hand like a soldier, but he gripped it in both of his, turned it over, and kissed her palm lightly, while the hint of a smile played at the corners of his mouth. His eyes never left hers.
A tingle of something she refused to think of as pleasure twirled in her stomach as she quickly withdrew her hand. “You are Louis, the Arbonnese bard.”
He stepped closer to her, improperly so. “I see that my reputation has preceded me.” He winked at Lofnheid, who beamed at him.
Ilse grimaced. “Indeed. You may cease your advances. I do not consort with pagans.”
“Pagan!” he exclaimed as though offended. “What, because I am aelfborn? I’ll have you know, madam—“
“—Reverend,” she interrupted sternly.
“Reverend, of course. My apologies. I’ll have you know, Reverend, that I am a devout servant of the Celestine Church.” When he said the word “devout,” he tipped his head and smiled in such a way that butterflies fluttered around her stomach once again. I have got to get away from this man, she thought.
She reached out and gripped his shoulder. He smiled at her warmly. Then she pushed him roughly back to the distance of an arm’s length, and his smile faltered. “Brother Louis,” Ilse began, “Perhaps you can help us serve the gods today, since as you no doubt know, it is in fact Sunday. There is much repair work that must be done upon the chapel.”
“Ah,” Louis replied, “Hm. Well, you see, dear Reverend—”
Lofnheid embraced Louis and giggled, “Do come, good skald! I shall enjoy your stories vhile ve do the gods’ verk. Besides, ve need a strong man to cut and lift the lumber.”
Ilse smiled and gestured toward the workshop. “After you.”
Louis grimaced.
*Homeland of the Vitlings.
HalfOrc HalfBiscuit
Adventurer
Excellent stuff, Force user. Very well written and evocative. Your world is already revealed as having a depth that many never get close to. And the characters are also already standing out as individuals. Looking forward to more ....
ForceUser
Explorer
”Can we talk?” Stefano peered into the gloom of the disheveled chapel, which was lit by a single guttering candle.
Ilse glanced at him over the refurbished altar. “I don’t see what there is to say. The Magistratum apparently sanctions your wizardry.”
“I studied under one of the great minds of the south. He was an abjurer—a specialist in ways to defend against creatures of the Abyss.”
“Abjuration is also the magic of entrapping souls, is it not?”
“It is more complicated than that.”
Ilse stood up and wiped her hands upon her apron. “Of course. What of this bound demon of yours? Does the church sanction this too?”
“Avido is not a demon. He is a familiar. He…I summoned him with the permission of my superiors. The Vangals revere ravens as messengers of the gods.”
“As they revere warrior maidens?”
Stefano stood silent in the doorway. The night lurked behind him. The flickering shadows created by the beeswax candle made his face appear gaunt and hollow.
“Why are we here, Reverend Barozzi?”
“Reverend Reifsnyder…Ilse. I have told you all that I can. We are missionaries, and we are here to minister to these Oski.” The wind howled forlornly behind him, kicking up accumulated sawdust and dirty snow from the doorway.
Ilse made as if to reply, but then her eyes widened and she reached for her weapon. Stefano stole a glance over his shoulder, and for an instant what he saw took his breath away.
A massive figure stood behind him—a gigantic man with a sloping brow and scraggy hair and beard. Tusk-like incisors protruded from his lower jaw, and each meaty hand could, if he wished, engulf Stefano’s head. The priest stepped back reflexively and stumbled over the chapel’s threshold.
The creature husked in a voice like crushed gravel, “Father. May I take confession?”
Stefano recovered himself, waving Ilse down. She hesitated, then lowered her mace. “Of course, my son. You are Rurik, am I correct?”
The bestial man nodded and wrung his large hands. His shoulders exceeded the width of the doorway. A pained expression haunted his face.
“Please,” Stefano swallowed, “Come inside.”
Wigliff nodded slowly and tasted bitter bile as he digested the tidings. His brother Hyglack stood before him under the awning of a longhouse, a sympathetic expression on his face.
“That is all he said?” Wigliff asked.
Hyglack nodded, “Aye. But ye never know—win a few battles, bring honor to the Oski name, and ye may be welcome in father’s house again.”
Wigliff snorted and kicked a drift of snow.
“Well, what did ye expect? Ye left,” Hyglack said, exasperated. “Ye know how highly our lord values loyalty. Especially from his sons. Ye knew this when ye chose to go, so I hope it was werth it.”
Wigliff looked up the hill at the lights burning in Hrothgar’s hall and brooded.
Hyglack sighed, “I’ll see ye later.”
Wigliff leant against the house for a time, then he pushed off and marched through the snow toward a smaller home. At the entry he rapped upon the post. Moments later, a young woman wearily pushed aside the skins covering the door and looked at him in surprise. “Wigliff! By the Norns, what’re ye doin’ here?”
“Hello, Olga.” He noted the dark circles under her eyes. Her dress was disheveled.
“Well, don’t stand there in the cold like a witless goat—come in.” He stepped inside, and she dropped the skins behind him. Her home was much as he remembered it, though there was more clutter than when he’d last come calling. Three years ago.
“D’ye want some supper? I have a bit of broth on the fire.” She bustled about the place, clearing a spot for him to sit.
“Thanks,” he answered. He let his unfocused gaze meander around the room. Something was different.
“So yer back, then? For how long?”
Wigliff shrugged.
Olga poured soup into a wooden bowl and handed it to him. “Careful, it’s hot. What did yer father say when ye saw him?”
Wigliff took the bowl and looked into it. Bits of carrot and meat swirled within a greasy liquid. “He wouldn’t see me.”
“Ach,” she nodded, “Not surprising.” She sat down across from him.
“It’s good to see ye.” Her eyes shone large and luminous in the firelight. She appeared older, he thought, and more worn. Lines had appeared upon her face since the last time he’d seen her, creases of worry that folded the skin of her brow. Her hair, he realized, was in disarray.
“Olga…I wanted to see you.”
“I’m married now, Wigliff. To a good man.”
That, he realized suddenly, was the owner of the possessions that he’d not recognized. His eyes focused on a pair of heavy boots next to the door.
“Who...?”
“Sven.”
Wigliff nodded slowly. He’d overheard something about Sven yesterday—what was it*?
“Ye can sleep by the fire tonight, if ye wish. My husband’s out hunting and won’t be back until the morning, but don’t you get any ideas.”
“That’s fine,” he said, “Thank you.”
She nodded and stood. “I’ll find ye some furs.”
As she bustled about, Wigliff retreated to his place of comfort, the place around which he’d hovered all afternoon, the place in which he spent the majority of his days—the mindscape of the arcane, where figures, formulae, and strings of esoteric symbology danced before his inner eye.
Somewhere within his consciousness, a distant part of him felt an indistinct sense of loss. He quickly disregarded it.
Rurik finished his tale. Stefano exhaled and considered this complication. He looked at the half-ogre. “Could you find this place where you left the sword again?”
Rurik nodded miserably and said, “If Einar led me back to the place, yes.” Stefano scratched his pointed beard and glanced askew at Ilse. She met his gaze and nodded. “If his tale is true, this is a great danger.”
Stefano regarded Rurik again. “His tale is true. And I agree.” He stood.
“Time is short. Frostmourne has lain upon the ground for weeks, but in that time it may have been found by someone else. We must make preparations to depart at once. I will ask this—Einar?—to lead us back to the moor whereupon he found you and Louis.”
Stefano stood before the sitting half-ogre. “Rurik. Do not be harsh with yourself. You meant well, and events clearly spiraled out of your grasp. This weapon is evil. You were right to want to destroy it, and your heart meant well when you cast it away. Pray with me, and then let us make haste.”
Rurik clumsily kneeled and grasped the hem of Stefano’s robe like a drowning man that clutched the branch of a tree. Fervently, he prayed.
*See post #1.
Ilse glanced at him over the refurbished altar. “I don’t see what there is to say. The Magistratum apparently sanctions your wizardry.”
“I studied under one of the great minds of the south. He was an abjurer—a specialist in ways to defend against creatures of the Abyss.”
“Abjuration is also the magic of entrapping souls, is it not?”
“It is more complicated than that.”
Ilse stood up and wiped her hands upon her apron. “Of course. What of this bound demon of yours? Does the church sanction this too?”
“Avido is not a demon. He is a familiar. He…I summoned him with the permission of my superiors. The Vangals revere ravens as messengers of the gods.”
“As they revere warrior maidens?”
Stefano stood silent in the doorway. The night lurked behind him. The flickering shadows created by the beeswax candle made his face appear gaunt and hollow.
“Why are we here, Reverend Barozzi?”
“Reverend Reifsnyder…Ilse. I have told you all that I can. We are missionaries, and we are here to minister to these Oski.” The wind howled forlornly behind him, kicking up accumulated sawdust and dirty snow from the doorway.
Ilse made as if to reply, but then her eyes widened and she reached for her weapon. Stefano stole a glance over his shoulder, and for an instant what he saw took his breath away.
A massive figure stood behind him—a gigantic man with a sloping brow and scraggy hair and beard. Tusk-like incisors protruded from his lower jaw, and each meaty hand could, if he wished, engulf Stefano’s head. The priest stepped back reflexively and stumbled over the chapel’s threshold.
The creature husked in a voice like crushed gravel, “Father. May I take confession?”
Stefano recovered himself, waving Ilse down. She hesitated, then lowered her mace. “Of course, my son. You are Rurik, am I correct?”
The bestial man nodded and wrung his large hands. His shoulders exceeded the width of the doorway. A pained expression haunted his face.
“Please,” Stefano swallowed, “Come inside.”
~~~~~~~~~~
Wigliff nodded slowly and tasted bitter bile as he digested the tidings. His brother Hyglack stood before him under the awning of a longhouse, a sympathetic expression on his face.
“That is all he said?” Wigliff asked.
Hyglack nodded, “Aye. But ye never know—win a few battles, bring honor to the Oski name, and ye may be welcome in father’s house again.”
Wigliff snorted and kicked a drift of snow.
“Well, what did ye expect? Ye left,” Hyglack said, exasperated. “Ye know how highly our lord values loyalty. Especially from his sons. Ye knew this when ye chose to go, so I hope it was werth it.”
Wigliff looked up the hill at the lights burning in Hrothgar’s hall and brooded.
Hyglack sighed, “I’ll see ye later.”
Wigliff leant against the house for a time, then he pushed off and marched through the snow toward a smaller home. At the entry he rapped upon the post. Moments later, a young woman wearily pushed aside the skins covering the door and looked at him in surprise. “Wigliff! By the Norns, what’re ye doin’ here?”
“Hello, Olga.” He noted the dark circles under her eyes. Her dress was disheveled.
“Well, don’t stand there in the cold like a witless goat—come in.” He stepped inside, and she dropped the skins behind him. Her home was much as he remembered it, though there was more clutter than when he’d last come calling. Three years ago.
“D’ye want some supper? I have a bit of broth on the fire.” She bustled about the place, clearing a spot for him to sit.
“Thanks,” he answered. He let his unfocused gaze meander around the room. Something was different.
“So yer back, then? For how long?”
Wigliff shrugged.
Olga poured soup into a wooden bowl and handed it to him. “Careful, it’s hot. What did yer father say when ye saw him?”
Wigliff took the bowl and looked into it. Bits of carrot and meat swirled within a greasy liquid. “He wouldn’t see me.”
“Ach,” she nodded, “Not surprising.” She sat down across from him.
“It’s good to see ye.” Her eyes shone large and luminous in the firelight. She appeared older, he thought, and more worn. Lines had appeared upon her face since the last time he’d seen her, creases of worry that folded the skin of her brow. Her hair, he realized, was in disarray.
“Olga…I wanted to see you.”
“I’m married now, Wigliff. To a good man.”
That, he realized suddenly, was the owner of the possessions that he’d not recognized. His eyes focused on a pair of heavy boots next to the door.
“Who...?”
“Sven.”
Wigliff nodded slowly. He’d overheard something about Sven yesterday—what was it*?
“Ye can sleep by the fire tonight, if ye wish. My husband’s out hunting and won’t be back until the morning, but don’t you get any ideas.”
“That’s fine,” he said, “Thank you.”
She nodded and stood. “I’ll find ye some furs.”
As she bustled about, Wigliff retreated to his place of comfort, the place around which he’d hovered all afternoon, the place in which he spent the majority of his days—the mindscape of the arcane, where figures, formulae, and strings of esoteric symbology danced before his inner eye.
Somewhere within his consciousness, a distant part of him felt an indistinct sense of loss. He quickly disregarded it.
~~~~~~~~~~
Rurik finished his tale. Stefano exhaled and considered this complication. He looked at the half-ogre. “Could you find this place where you left the sword again?”
Rurik nodded miserably and said, “If Einar led me back to the place, yes.” Stefano scratched his pointed beard and glanced askew at Ilse. She met his gaze and nodded. “If his tale is true, this is a great danger.”
Stefano regarded Rurik again. “His tale is true. And I agree.” He stood.
“Time is short. Frostmourne has lain upon the ground for weeks, but in that time it may have been found by someone else. We must make preparations to depart at once. I will ask this—Einar?—to lead us back to the moor whereupon he found you and Louis.”
Stefano stood before the sitting half-ogre. “Rurik. Do not be harsh with yourself. You meant well, and events clearly spiraled out of your grasp. This weapon is evil. You were right to want to destroy it, and your heart meant well when you cast it away. Pray with me, and then let us make haste.”
Rurik clumsily kneeled and grasped the hem of Stefano’s robe like a drowning man that clutched the branch of a tree. Fervently, he prayed.
*See post #1.
Last edited:
Shieldhaven
Explorer
Three updates in three days, and a great story to boot.
Wow.
Rock on!
Haven
Wow.
Rock on!
Haven
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