Author: Frank Dominick

The sun hung low as the old fort bustled with the sounds of a new life—wood scraping stone, tools clinking, shouts echoing off weather-worn ramparts. A new structure was tucked up against the walls, though the stone matched the Fort surrounding it, its timbers new and still smelling of sap and sweat. The Valerian Porter’s new Warehouse.

Felix, chief porter for the Valerian Porters, wiped his brow, setting down a crate and overseeing the final unloading of cartloads—grain, preserved foods, miscellaneous tools. He stood tall, his voice clear and commanding.
“Stack the rye near the east wall. It’ll keep cooler there,” he called out in Rogalt to the porters hauling the crates in. They made a sound of affirmation and moved eastward.
Gilbert, the warehouse’s quartermaster and poet laureate, was leaning against the wall near the entrance, his feathered hat shading tired eyes. “I still say we should’ve left the grain near the gate. Easier for offloading to the mess.”
Felix shook his head. “And easier for looters. No, we keep the stores where stone walls watch over them.”
He frowned, recalling what had happened while they were dealing with whatever those anacrusis… things were that the Fire Mages brought on them. He gave a small prayer of thanks his brother had been away from Forum for it.
He looked back to Gilbert “What do you think of the warehouse?”
“Fine place, Felix,” said Gilbert as he tapped on a ledger, the quill matched his hat. “Better than that leaky shed in Brackenford.”
Felix grimaced at the memory. “Only benefit was you never had a chance to nap in there, ‘it’s too chilly.’ Not like this last Forum”
Gilbert stretched in response to the memory. “While you were fighting off rituals and Rimelanders, I was preparing—for logistics, mentally.”
Felix shot him a look. “Sure. ‘Mentally preparing’ by napping through an assault.”
“I absorb the glories of war through dreams.” Gilbert grinned. “Victory’s exhausting, even secondhand.”
Felix sighed in mock exasperation. “You’ve got uncanny timing. One of these days you’ll sleep through a dragon.”
“Maybe I have. Hard to tell with all the snoring.”
They laughed, the sound echoing through the half-full hall. Outside, some porters offloaded the last of the barrels and began to move it into the warehouse.
“Besides, it gave me some inspiration, ‘I seek thee, Sleep, with open, aching hands, And flee the world within thy shadowed thralls.’” Gilbert clearly dictated as the two moved back into the courtyard, out of the way of the porters. Felix gave him the same look he always did when he shared his poetry. Supportive confusion.

“Strange to think this courtyard held bones and gargoyles just a season ago,” Gilbert mused, squinting at his ledger and making a mark as a porter hauled past with a barrel of dried lentils. “Now it’s grain, arrows, and some new wagons.”
“That and Java’s apology.” Felix shook his head in incredulity. “Say, you heard about that bomb Lucian got delivered to him, right? We’ll need to make sure to keep a real close eye on what’s moving into the warehouse.”
“That one that Peter delivered?” Gilbert shook his head “Disappointing to hear the people that Lord Xavier has surrounded himself with.”
“Ever the younger sibling, Lord Xavier.” Felix sighed, “I would have hoped he kept better company. Taking her Ladyship’s scraps does not look well on him. Hopefully he will be guided by her Ladyship in etiquette and constructing a reliable retinue. Did you hear about that carpenter he picked up, Brightwood? Used to work in the Port with Guy, claiming Guy was always his understudy. Haughty, a little unkempt. Honestly, I would have guessed he was drawn with my left hand.”
Gilbert visibly perked up at the news, “No, which means if it was true Guy would have mentioned it. He moving in the market already?”
Felix shrugged, “I’m sure he’s gonna be trying to show up Guy soon, something to watch for.”
Gilbert grinned, while there was some mirth there, there was something threatening about it. “It’ll be good to see him try.”
“That reminds me, we’ve got Peace Day coming up soon. You planning to make any peace this year?”
Gilbert shook his head “I made my peace last year before we left port.” he smiled at the memory.
Felix returned the smile “Ah, that fool’s gold you gave that mariner really did shut him up didn’t it. He had a great laugh about it after the shock wore off.” Gilbert raised an eyebrow to Felix, returning the question.
Felix just shrugged. “If anything, I’m hoping a few people come to me. We’ll see. If the Njords accepted something as ridiculous as Tressertag from the Gothics, I hope they took on a more civilized holiday like Peace Day. I’ve tried to… inform a few parties that the holiday is forthcoming though. I sincerely hope Sir Logain makes amends with Her Ladyship over his behavior.” He sighed heavily.

Gilbert leaned against the exterior of the warehouse, and tucked his quill and ledger away, having marked the last of the barrels entering the warehouse. “Word is your brother’s doing better.”
“Yeah,” Felix said, smirking as he looked past Gil, “He’s been working odd jobs—messenger, light hauling. Nothing that has anything to do with Magic.” A hand reached out and touched Gilbert’s shoulder, and two voices spoke in unison as the distinctive sound of a flintlock hammer being drawn back rang out, “Making himself useful. That’s how things get done.”

Felix gripped the cold, weathered strap of his shield and surveyed the frosty city of Runeheim. The convoy had arrived late the previous night, tired and disheveled, and now the work began. The northern cold clung to their bones like an unseen weight. He wiped his brow, though the chill made it feel useless.

“Careful with that crate, lad!” he called to a younger porter struggling with a heavy chest of supplies, oils for the Knight’s blades jostled menacingly in the crate. Directing another porter to help him handle it, Felix waved them off.

Gilbert, the Quartermaster, was pacing nearby, muttering under his breath, occasionally pausing to jot down lines in his ledger or whisper fragments of his latest poem. He’d been inspired to write after Forum, and Felix was never any help with them.

“Yet ‘neath the snow,… a promise glimmers bright,” Gilbert recited to himself, tapping his quill against his lips.

Felix flashed Gilbert a weary smile, but didn’t say anything. The city walls were tall and suspiciously quiet, with the locals watching from their doorways, eyes narrowed. The guards had barely spoken as they passed through the gates.

As they unloaded their goods—clothes, tools, and crates of travel rations—the cold gnawed at their fingers. Yet, Felix kept the crew moving. He barked orders, kept the crates organized, and Gilbert ensured no goods were left behind or mishandled. Felix’s boots crunched in the snow as he crossed the courtyard to the warehouse, moving steadily despite the chill.

Pausing to look out towards where the sun still hung low in the sky, and failing to feel any warmth from it, he thought of Damian and Silvester. It would have been good to have more of the lads here, but they were both engaged moving goods a bit more important than tomorrow’s lunch.

Gilbert’s inventory ended, and the Quartermaster approached him. “Felix, do you think we’ll be accepted here?” he asked, his voice quieter than usual.

“Don’t worry about it,” Felix muttered. “We’ll make ourselves useful. That’s how things get done.”

“For the she wolf!” they called. A icy cold shiver went down Vestri’s spine. Her. Here. He caught only a glimpse of them before the war dead he was facing swung again – somehow the appearance of the wolf-men increased its prowess, its menace. His allies turned to face the wolves behind them, and their formation shattered. Vestri tried to face the Draugr in front of him, but he could only do so much alone with a knife.

The nasty wardead in front of him, one so long decayed it looked like it had been drawn with his left hand, struck with uncanny strength, keeping Vestri from being able to get close enough to finish it. The new armor he had just gotten from Oddny was pierced quickly, he felt the warmth of his own blood staining it. He lunged, it dodged, and he was struck again. His legs faltered, his vision getting blurry. A cry from behind him – like a fool he turned and…

The ground rose to meet him as the rusty blade was pulled out of him. It was all he could do to hold onto his own knife and he crumpled to the ground. His strength left him as quickly as his blood seemed to be. He could just see Olof, collapsed in a bush, there was Gisla on the ground with her shield just in front of him, and Vogel – with an arrow still in his fingers, down just beyond Gisla. But… where was Virgil?

A cold, slimy, hand grabbed his head and lifted it up. He could see Virgil now, surrounded by no less than four war dead and the two wolves. Dodging their blades with deftness, a taunt on his lips. Was it enough? Could he do it?

The blade touched his neck, too cold for how much of his blood was on it. The ragged edge apparent against his throat.

Was it enough? Were they good enough? Did they appease her? Was it worth it?

The blade was pulled hard and fast.

Did we save Kallevik?

Jolting awake, his heart pounding, Vestri reached for his knife as he eyed his surroundings. His small campfire was faintly glowing embers, the moon hanging low in the sky with the stars twinkling above the plains. He was near the ruins of a village, all the way at the edge of that map he was given months ago. Not a pair of green eyes in sight. He steadied his breath and tried to slow his heart. There were no green eyes anywhere he could see.

o0o0o
Even so far away, the memory was so fresh, so clear, so primal. He had never experienced a hunt like that. After finding the grove Skógerblóði was to be in, gathering with the other hunters – and Gisla and Vogel who had been chosen by Skógerblóði to join this hunt. The six of them, Njords all, to face this hunt. Vestri was so proud to stand with them, he felt they would be unable to even smell defeat.

How wrong he was, and yet, how right.
o0o0o

He turned his knife over in his hands, studying the blade carefully – its scratches so apparent in the dim, cold light of the moon. Slowly he ran his thumb along the flat of the blade, feeling them.

When they were surrounded, Vestri was the first to fall – his shame – the Father bringing him back to the fight, and then, when they scattered, hearing them descend on Gisla while he just fled. As he ran through the woods, no matter what direction he looked – another spawn, his lungs hot, he was far more sure of his step than he had any right to be, his legs carrying him back to where he remembered losing Gisla. And there was everyone… except Java. As Gisla got back on her feet and pointedly abandoned her shield, Vestri looked at Vogel. There was no need for words, they both understood. A nod, and Vogel went to face the spawn, and the rest charged into the woods – there was only one other place the spirit could be…

His heart was no longer pounding in his ears, his breathing regular. He took one deep breath and let out the heavy sigh, willing this nightmare to leave him in peace.

o0o0o
Carefully moving with Eskel as he ambushed the few pursuing spawn, he heard the call – and saw the single pair of eyes in the distance. It had to be The Horned one. Running up the hill to find Java, defiant, brandishing the knife she’d only been given perhaps a half hour before steeled his resolve. Charging in to face the spirit before it could do more harm to their mage friend. While they traded blows with the spirit, Gisla and Eskel almost being hit by a tree thrown by the spirit, Father Erasmus pelting it with arrows, Vestri himself desperately trying to break its hold on Gisla. After an eternity of fighting, Java, from behind and her knife leveled, finally silenced the spirit of the forest and its animals. Then a cry of triumph, battered though they were.
o0o0o

Putting his knife away properly, Vestri laid his head back down on his pack, and pulled his bedroll close to ward off the creeping chill of the late summer night. He stared blankly at the stars above him, his eyes open, but unseeing.

o0o0o
Calling for Vogel as they cleared a few lingering spawn in the woods, Vestri became increasingly anxious. How long had it been since they left him to hold off the spawn? Vogel had already been saved by the Father once, was he going to be alright? A glimpse of his cloak by a bush, and he and Gisla broke into a sprint. Vogel lay there, barely breathing with awful wounds and an empty quiver. The Father was quick to administer to him, and Vestri looked around – there were no arrows that missed their mark. What if they had given Vogel a knife? He offered a shoulder to help get Vogel back to town. He’d saved us all, saved this hunt. “It wouldn’t’ve been a bad way to die” he’d said to Vestri in a ragged breath with a wry smile.
o0o0o

Closing his eyes, he resolved he would find his way back to them. He would protect his friends, just as they had protected him. As the night deepened, Vestri found his resolve returning. He would not be defined by his fears; instead, he would rise above them, ready for whatever challenges lay ahead. He let sleep take him once again, this time into a dreamless slumber.

In the fading light of evening, Vestri, a simple hunter from the Greywolf town of Kallevik, stood on a rise overlooking the vast plains not far from the tundras south of Runeheim. The sun dipped low, casting long shadows that danced across the grass. It had been a month since he, Gisla, and Vogel had stumbled into Forum, spawn nipping at their heels, their bodies weary from the wilderness, their spirits bruised but not broken.

The memory of their harrowing journey loomed large in his mind. Endless nights spent huddled around meager fires, haunted by the howling winds and lurking shadows. Each day, they had fought against the chill and hunger, their only solace the bond forged in survival. Gisla, with her fierce determination, had led them through the worst, her sharp eyes spotting dangers long before they materialized. Vogel, undaunted in his positivity, had been the heart of their trio, weaving tales that kept their spirits buoyed when hope seemed thin. There had scarcely been time to mourn the ones they had been separated with in the storm, and now it felt like it was too late. As he surveyed the plains a quiet but desperate hope was always there that maybe he would see them again out here.

He referenced the map he had been given before heading on this trip – his hometown nowhere on it – and sketched a simple approximation of the vista he stood on. Returning it to his pack, he set about finding enough kindling to start a small cookfire while there was still light enough to do so. As he set about this task, his mind returned to the events that transpired after his arrival. Rescued by a Paladin from vampire spawn – yet the Paladin assured them that it was they who were the valorous. Hearing of the concerns of the one-eyed Branded on his path forward. An ambush by bandits in the wood. The down-to-earth mage. Court where we were encouraged to weigh in despite being so new to this land. The offering and the hunt. Freeing the Disir. The crow. The invitation to hunt Skógerblóði the Horned from the spirit themself. The meat… The meat…

The fire was small and comfortable, he set about cooking a rabbit he caught earlier that day and watched as the fat sizzled on the wood growing coals.

This was what they needed – a real chance to show what Kallevik was capable of!