Ghosts of Raven’s Keep

Eidr trudged along the weathered stone wall of Hrafnikastali, boots scuffing against the ancient mortar with each heavy step. The cold air bit his exposed face, the wind carrying the scent of pine and distant wood smoke. Far below, the valley spread out like a vast tapestry, the lights of Kjarralund twinkling like fallen stars at the base of the mountain. The town’s warm glow seemed impossibly distant from where he stood, wrapped in the lingering chill of the high fortress.

The sight should have been comforting, but it only deepened the ache in his chest. It had been a long time since he last stood here, back when Hrafnikastali had still held hope for a future, a home for the soldiers of the Saenger House.

Back then, he hadn’t come alone. Kotkell and Hallbjorn had walked these walls with him, their hearts filled with plans and pride. The memory of Hallbjorn flashed in his mind—his towering frame, his booming laughter. He had been a giant among men, an Avalanche on the battlefield, unstoppable. And then, the grotesque image—Hallbjorn’s body, torn apart, his chest a bloodied ruin where his heart had once been. He remembered the night he’d fled into the woods, lost in grief. Alone, he had crouched in the dark, offering up the life of a fox, its blood soaking the earth, begging Aufvaldr to take the sacrifice and honor Hallbjorn, even if his friend’s faith had lain elsewhere—with the White Lion. But there had been no answer. Only silence and the cold.

Back then, the fortress had been alive with the sounds of construction—Kotkell and Hallbjorn leading the effort to build a training yard for the Saenger soldiers who were to call Hrafnikastali home. Eidr had never seen a place so grand. Even the hallowed halls of the Runespeakers in Runeheim paled in comparison to the newly restored walls of this fortress. There had been so much hope then. So much purpose. But that hope had been short-lived.

The Saenger Lords had left after only a few months. Soon after, the Doghearts came. Raiding, pillaging, tearing apart what had been so briefly restored. The Saenger soldiers who had been left behind had been scattered and defeated, only rescued when the city retaliated. He saw some of them now and again, their former livery mixed with the colors of other houses, their allegiance a distant memory, their glory forgotten.

Eidr’s heart sank as he recalled the meetings held in dimly lit chambers, the faces of the town’s leaders shadowed by their own fears and ambitions. He had stood before them, passion in his voice, imploring them to see the strategic importance of re-garrisoning Hrafnikastali. “It is vital,” he had argued, “for the defense of our supply routes and the protection of our eastern borders. This fortress stands as a bulwark against invasion, a first line of defense against the Doghearts and any others who would threaten us.” But they had been unmoved, their minds set on developing Dragomir Fort and expanding the farms at Unverbrannter, placing all their eggs in one fragile basket. A strategy that had backfired when the Fafnir’s came roaring into the city, driving them from their homes. Eidr touched his neck, feeling the weight of the stone and wood necklaces that now replaced the official chains of office he had once worn as Master of Coin.

As Eidr stood on the cold stone wall, a sense of unreality washed over him, as if he were a ghost haunting the remnants of his own past. Behind him, in the grand hall of Hrafnikastali, laughter and music spilled forth like a mockery of the fortress’s former glory. The lavish party, hosted by the new owners—the Renett family—was a jarring contrast to the memories that clung to the stone walls. Eidr had been informed that the lord of the Renett family was a slaver, his actions recognized and condemned by many, a cruel hypocrisy that the south had brought with them as they claimed to damn the very institution. It stung like a wound reopened, a reminder that what once had been a place of brotherhood and valor was now filled with unfamiliar faces and foreign banners. He had once shared the hall with brothers-in-arms, at least in service, but now he felt like an intruder, an outsider peering into a world that had moved on without him. The warmth of celebration contrasted sharply with the chill of the night air, a bitter reminder of all that had been lost.

Inside the hall, amidst the revelry, Eidr had encountered a woman whose presence felt like a spell woven from the finest threads of destiny. She was an Indr’atma, a “woman among women” from the far-off land of Sha’ra, her attire shimmering with intricate designs and colors that seemed to dance in the light. The very concept of her role was foreign to the Njordic frontier, yet her confidence held a kind of power he found captivating. She had peered into his soul, her magic revealing glimpses of his future, while he had reciprocated with a humble offering—throwing runes for her nephew as recompense. The fortune she had offered echoed in his mind, resonating with the life-casting he had undergone upon reaching adulthood, where he had clutched his heart, a stark reminder that change was not merely an option but a necessity.

As he stood there, the echoes of her fortune mingled with the laughter behind him, the stakes of his own journey pressing upon him like the weight of the fortress walls. He had become a man caught between what was and what could be, desperately seeking clarity in a world that had turned so foreign, yet resonant with the deep-seated knowledge that transformation was not just possible, but essential.

Staring out at the twinkling lights of Kjarralund below, Eidr’s thoughts turned to Rosto, his friend whose life had been shattered by a foreign knight’s brutal blow—a curse born from dangerous magical residue, the same as crusted a huge crater just north of Hrafnikastali. That cursed energy hung in the air like a specter, too close for comfort, a constant reminder of the peril that surrounded them. The very land they inhabited felt stained by that malevolent magic, a constant, gnawing reminder of the perils lurking at their borders, dangers that threatened to swallow them whole. But it was not just the land that bore scars; Rosto had been reborn from the ashes of his own death, brought back to life by Sveas, the Cold of Winter. Eidr could still feel the chilling weight of his friend’s skin under his fingertips as he frantically searched for a pulse, praying for a sign of life in the lifeless body before him, yet jealous at the same time. Perhaps his prayers had been answered.

Where had Rosto gone now? The people of this land were trapped beneath the heavy yoke of gods who turned their backs on them, invaders who pillaged their homes, and the tyranny of the strong who enforced their will upon the weak. Eidr felt the weight of this truth pressing against him, igniting a fire within him. He realized he could no longer remain a passive observer, watching the world he once cherished crumble under the burdens of fate and fear.

He had to change. Action was imperative; inertia was no longer an option. The pace of events needed to quicken, or else nothing would ever shift. A sense of urgency coursed through him like a pulse, igniting the embers of determination within his heart.

Eljunseed

Eidr stood before the open graves, each hollow in the earth a silent testament to the lives taken too soon. The sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden light that felt surreal against the stark reality of the scene. Five graves, freshly dug and unevenly shaped, lay side by side like an unwilling battalion awaiting the inevitable.

Each grave cradled a body, the faces obscured by shadows but the weight of their loss palpable in the air. On the chest of each fallen warrior rested a weapon. Broken swords, their edges dulled from use, bows crushed and splintered, axes free of hafts, remnants of once proud arms that had defended their village against the She-Wolf Jorg, Daughter of the Earth.

The funeral crowd had dwindled, leaving only a few mourners whispering words of comfort to one another, their voices hushed as if speaking too loudly might awaken the spirits of the fallen. Eidr watched as the others trickled away, their sorrow etched deep into their faces. He shuddered at the thought of the She-Wolf, her tyrannical divinity looming over them all, a specter of dread that silenced their hearts.
He stepped closer to the graves, his gaze drawn to one in particular. Olof, the man he had met only hours earlier, lay there, his once vibrant presence now reduced to lifeless flesh. They had spoken of herbs and healing, a camaraderie forged in the fleeting moments of life. Olof had shared laughter and stories, and Eidr had hoped they would work together in the days to come. Now, that future had been cruelly snatched away.

Kneeling by the grave, Eidr reached into his satchel, his fingers brushing against the delicate herb he had chosen. He withdrew the Eljunseed, its fragile, serrated leaves glistening in the waning sunlight. It was an herb he’d seen before, bundled up among the herbs he’d been given as taxes over his time while serving as Master of Coin. He knew the scent of the prepared substance, taught as he’d learned what herbs worked with what, but he had only just learned its name. It was common in Runeheim, a stubborn survivor that thrived in the harsh northern soils. It was one of the many things Eidr had learned in his conversations with Olof.

With a heavy heart, Eidr dropped the herb into the grave. It nestled among the earth, a quiet offering. Folklore had taught that hanging Eljunseed in the home would ward off the malific, the cursed spirits of the dead that haunted the northern wastes. But Eidr knew better than to place faith in such tales. He had spoken to those whose knowledge he trusted, who had studied the spirits and the nature of the herbs. Eljunseed held no power against the restless dead. Yet still, it felt right to leave it with Olof, a connection to their shared knowledge.

Perhaps it could serve both purposes, he mused. The practical and the mythical could coexist, intertwined in the fabric of their lives. Maybe the comfort that folklore provided was worth something, granting the villagers courage in the face of death, allowing them to stand tall against the dark uncertainty of their existence. Though it would not prevent their deaths, he thought grimly. But their faith allowed them to be brave in the face of death.

Eidr’s thoughts spiraled deeper, the weight of his own guilt pressing against his chest. What the community believed mattered, and it could not be dismissed lightly. The faith in the White Lion and the ancient traditions of Njordr shaped their lives, woven into the very fabric of their existence, both of them. Though he knew better than to rely on the whims of any deity, that understanding felt like a hollow victory in the face of overwhelming grief. Faith was just a different kind of strength—one he felt slipping through his fingers like sand. It was a comforting lie that people told themselves to remain resilient against the storms of life. As he knelt by Olof’s grave, Eidr couldn’t help but envy those who still held on to such illusions, wishing desperately that he could believe in something, anything, to help carry him through the dark days ahead.

Lucien had been speaking passionately to Eivor just after the graves had been dug, his voice resolute as he urged every man to open their eyes and recognize the oppression forced upon them. He implored them to see the lies that their oppressors told themselves to justify their cruelty, to rise against the injustices that stained their lives. Eidr couldn’t help but agree with his sentiments, yet he struggled to dismiss the good that had emerged from their shared strength. In a land where the weak often perished and only the strong survived, the vulnerable in Runeheim were protected by the very community that rallied around them. It was this bond that had allowed Eidr to survive thus far, the knowledge that he was not alone, that he had found a refuge among those who would defend him when the darkness closed in.

Perhaps, he mused, two truths could indeed exist in parallel. Good and bad, lies and truths, they danced together in a complex tapestry of life, interwoven in a way that made the world both beautiful and grotesque. Hypocrisy was part of nature itself, an inevitable duality that shaped their existence. It was a bittersweet realization; while he yearned for clarity, for a black-and-white understanding of the world that other people seemed to see, he found himself caught in the gray.

Bastion

Malachi was meditating inside a cabin. Right now it was just Alma near him, but soon enough more would come. Meeting Euthymius here was a blessing, the younger Paladin knew that he would need much guidance from his brother in his mission.
Malachi opens his eyes and sees Alma, sitting there lost in her journal. Probably thinking about what to cook for people. He watches her happily for several seconds before she turns towards him. He closes his eyes quickly to hide the fact that he had been staring, but the smile remains on his face.

He meditates on his Purpose. He meditates on his coming challenges and the things he must face. He meditates on all of the people in this new area and what could happen if he fails. He opens his eyes to see Alma again and is very thankful for the people surrounding him. Even if he should fail, humanity will always serve as a Bastion against the darkness.

Musings

I abandoned the effort of speech decades ago. It hurts. It is exhausting. It is frustrating. I can whistle for attention, grunt out a yell for alarm, and pantomiming gets me the rest of the way. Drawing a sketch in the dirt has served me well many a time. I believe Rhyme liked my doodle…

But it does get tiring when they don’t understand. When I have to wait for a friend to translate, or when they simply don’t realize I am there, waiting for their attention.

To be able to speak again. It is something I haven’t thought of since my early years, but the curiosity of the Doctor and Tinkerer has brought the idea back into my head. Can’t say I’d go with cutting my throat open again for some unknown person’s bits to be put in to replace mine. A contraption though, I can’t see how it’d hurt, and Graham seems especially excited about the concept.

Caterina, Neccio, Embla, and Oddny. They have been good companions. Caterina and Neccio all the way from home, and Embla and Oddny from this chilled north. I suppose, if this thing works out, I’d want it most of all just to say their names.

Lurian Take Me

It was the first time someone asked me my name since arriving here.

Aspira Lethe Nihlus.
Sister
Mother
Grave Warden

Within the graveyard on the first night of the forum, we were able to put to rest several of the walking dead. Death should never be easy to witness, yet, it is peaceful when the dead can finally rest.

On a ferry of ebony
He comes to us all
Sleep soundly my children
As the sun does now fall

So too, did I.
I fell that night and awoke in peaceful darkness.
It was not oppressive.
I felt at peace in that moment, curious, but at peace.

With alabaster robes
And stars in his eyes
He carries us all
Across endless skies

A figure stood there, blue light in his eyes.
A blue light surrounded them.
I knew, in that peaceful place, who I stood before.
The Archangel Lurian.

We the Lurihim stand for all
Equal are we when he comes to call
Your patience we trust, we ask for more time
Only until the final bell chimes

I stood before him and I was given a choice.
Yet, it was not a choice for me.
From the first days I arrived in Runeheim and stood over the body of the one called Avalanche, protecting him, even though I did not know at that moment he was dead. I did not fear the possible death that could have come from those that brought his corpse back to us.

We the Lurihim stand for all
Equal are we when he comes to call
Lurian take us to thine holy rest
Another day we ask, to serve and be Blessed.

I had been blessed to follow Lurian, keeping the graves as tended as I could.
Runeheim was not an easy place to live, yet we stand for all that we protect.
Equal, all of us, in the eyes of death.

With the moon overhead
And dreams on their way
Lurian comes
But do not dismay

I had no dismay in those seconds, minutes, hours…. It did not matter.
Lurian came to me.

For when we breathe
Our final breath
We will be ready
To accept our death

A powerful relic to fight the Darkness.
A Light in the night
I had to accept my death.
To give my heart to Lurian.

We the Lurihim stand for all
Equal are we when he comes to call
Your patience we trust, we ask for more time

I had a day.
The day was warm, many of us went to the water and enjoyed the cold water.
I spoke to a mage for sometime, speaking about faith, power, choice.
It was a moment that stood still, we had time, all the time.
Time was given to me, to all.
To return to answer the call.

Only until the final bell chimes
We the Lurihim stand for all
Equal are we when he comes to call

The final bell chimed.
My Eparch blessed me.
My heartbeat once more.

Benalus hear me,
hear my final words:
To forget time,
To never forget life,
To bring peace,
To never forget the dead,
IN HIS NAME, MAY IT BE SO

Lurian take me to thine holy rest
I ask to serve and be Blessed.

Serpent-dreamer

She dreamed of blood. Hip deep in it, like she was wading into the Kaltlina.

The raid had been brief, but successful. Now, they headed south, following an old logging trail. The wounded were culled, so they wouldn’t be slowed. They hadn’t even been buried properly, left for the carrion birds to pick at, bloated and unrecognizable under thick, dark dried blood. She didn’t look back, stumbling to keep up with the horse he was tied to.

She dreamed of blood. It was whispering something, she couldn’t catch it over the splashing underfoot.

Her feet were bleeding. She could feel it soaking through the wrappings, was she leaving a trail, a clear “here, follow me, right this way” drawn along the trail like a child with paints? Don’t look back, don’t turn around- just go, go-
She’d stopped briefly, getting as close as she dared to the river, to bathe and check her wounds. The cold felt like knives. But she was clean, she was awake. She was alive. More than she could say for others. Keep going. Keep going.

She dreamed of blood. Faces appeared, distorted, ran away with the current. Netta, laying just out of reach. Her father’s braid, hanging on a belt- she knew whose but the face was blurred. The dream wouldn’t let her see clearly-

“Do you speak Gothic?”
She shook her head.
“Another refugee- poor thing.”
The woman made a sympathetic noise and motioned her inside. She was given a change of clothes. A pair of boots. Food. When she made a confused noise- she didn’t want to take it from someone who needed it more- the two women shook their heads. They tried to pray over her, tried to bathe her. She panicked and shoved them away, expecting a slap or a shout. But they just…looked at her. Like a wild thing. Like something to be pitied.

She didn’t want to dream anymore, frenzied and exhausted, trudging on towards the next settlement, the next safety.

But it came in again, like the tide, when fatigue pulled her down.

In the Shadow of Leaves 9: Of Things to Come

The longer the old hermit was allowed with his thoughts, the more he pondered things he’d never pondered before. On reflection, most of his life to date had been spent in a sheltered sort of daze. His ‘otherness’ hadn’t been terribly apparent, at least he’d never noticed it much. Folks had always been nice to him, and he’d always been nice to folks back. It hadn’t made much difference if it was in the wood or the town or the church or whatever. Folks were nice, he was nice, the world kept moving at its slow and steady pace.

Something had happened a few years ago, and that had started to change. The mists that had protected and kept this place walled off from everything else had started to change, and with those changes, his awareness of his otherness had also changed. It wasn’t a bad thing; the hermit had decided that the mists were bad a long while ago, and that they would need to be dispelled at some point. They existed separated from the rest of Humanity, and the light that burned just behind his eyes was so excruciatingly clear that their *purpose* was to be united. Standing apart was preventing them from fulfilling what God had set before them. The world was broken, and it would forever remain broken until Humanity united in thought and actuality. The town’s resistance to dismissing the mist, he felt, was pure fear, a concept he didn’t really grasp well anymore. To the hermit, it was simple; Luisant’s resistance to pushing aside the mists and rejoining with their fellows was much like a child who had long outgrown their crib, yet insisted on staying within its comfortable confines.

Those thoughts. Yeah, that was a new thing. He’d used to like to watch insects for hours. Or track deer just to watch their ears swivel (they had really cute ears). Or listen to water trickle off the leaves during a rainstorm. They were simple appreciations of the natural world, but that had been where he’d spent most of his thought. Now it was… well, he wasn’t sure what it was. Bigger? More grand? He could still appreciate these little things, but he had to slow and be still for a time. His vision had to be narrowed down to something fine and miniscule to notice the wings of flies or a raindrop.

When the world was quiet and he could just sit in contemplation, the light would envelope him. Peace would wash over him with the warmth of it. Voices would filter through the haze. Words that gave encouragement, reassurance, and banished hesitation. He knew that if he sat with those voices long enough, true enlightenment would come. All that was uncertain was if he had enough time.

As their world and the outside world came closer to merging, the horror that lay dying and locked in the earth thrashed about and roused. The reckoning was coming, he could feel it. In the pit of his stomach, he felt it. Any yet, no fear came with that realization, just resolve. Before long, his Purpose would be fulfilled. And with it, he would either pass from this earth to be reunited with his beloved God. Or that choir of voices would reveal the rest of his Purpose. He would be equally satisfied with either. The voices told him there was nothing to worry about, nothing to fear. And so, sitting in the quiet wood, he hummed to himself quietly and waiting for new dawn to rise.

In Cold Blood

*Click.*
The mechanisms of his crossbow turned as Rosto thumbed the brass cylinder, a new habit formed quickly with the unusual machine. A bolt, tip honed to a murderous edge , settled snugly into place along side it’s siblings
*Click.*
His tools laid out on oil cloth, cleaned and tended to after a Market of hard use. Knives sharped and polished, throwing daggers honed and balanced, bow unstrung to rest and fouling blood and wrenched rust removed with the care of a master craftsman preparing for the next day.
*Click.*
His mind wandered, lulled by the familiarity of routine. To the Market, to the forest, to the cold and wet and dark. To his death. He hadn’t wanted to worry them, and with the murder of Nobility his own death was… inconsequential. Wrong place at the wrong time, trying to do the right thing. A great-blade singing through flesh and bone and fat and gore.
Funny, he remembered his blood being a different shade of red last time….
*Click.*
Laying in a pool of his own blood, the chilling mists stealing what warmth he had left, dim lights fading as everyone else left him behind. A whispered voice he could still hear, cold and soft, like freshly fallen snow
“How was your first death, hmm?”
*Click.*
Some part of his brain, far off and distant, wondered if he would ever be warm again.

*Click.*

*Click.*

*Click…*

Unlikely
After all, they always said he was a cold blooded killer

*Click.*

The Silence after an Avalanche Fell

Eidr stood at the edge of the somber gathering, the weight of the cask of beer resting heavily on his shoulder. The funeral was a solemn affair, with mourners clad in dark furs and heavy cloaks, their breath forming frosty clouds in the frigid air. The bleak, rain-touched fall landscape served as a stark backdrop to the assembly, a reflection of the void left by Hallbjorn’s passing.

As he listened to the eulogies and laments of those around him, Eidr felt a profound sense of conflict within himself. It had been a long time since he had last taken on the mantle of a Skald, before his time in the unforgiving Rhimelands, before he had been forced to scavenge and fight for mere survival. In those days, he had roamed the harsh wilderness, far from the halls of poetry and song.

Now, as the Master of Coin of Runeheim, entrusted with the practical matters of the community, he felt that he had lost the right to call himself a Skald. The weight of responsibility had shifted from crafting verses, reading runes, and weaving tales to balancing ledgers and ensuring the clan’s economic stability. It had been a trade of skills, out of necessity, but it had left him feeling detached from the art of storytelling and the bardic tradition he had once held dear.

Eidr’s hands tightened around the cask of beer as he contemplated whether he had any right to stand before the assembly and recite the eddaic verses he had learned for the occassion. The verses, though etched in his memory, felt distant, like fragments of a past life. Doubts gnawed at his heart, whispering that he was no longer worthy to be called a Skald.

But as the ceremony continued, a deep sense of duty stirred within him. He could not deny the bonds of friendship that had connected him to Hallbjorn, and the promise he had made in the moonlit night, to honor his friend’s memory, weighed heavily on his soul. Eidr knew that, despite his changed role in the clan, he had a duty to pay homage to the fallen warrior in the most heartfelt way he could.

With this determination, Eidr steeled himself for the moment when he would step forward and share the poem he had prepared, knowing that even if his path had diverged from the art of the Skald, his heart remained tethered to the traditions and to the memory of his dear friend, Hallbjorn.

Eidr’s mind wandered back to the grim and fateful night previous, when he had first seen Hallbjorn’s lifeless body, surrounded by a circle of people, illuminated by the flickering firelight. The image was etched into his memory like a haunting painting. Hallbjorn’s chest bore the gruesome evidence of his demise—12 stab wounds, a grotesque testament to the brutality of his end. Worst of all, his heart had been ripped from his chest, a horrifying desecration of the fallen warrior.

As Eidr gazed upon the lifeless form of his friend, a seething rage had surged within him. His hands had clenched into fists as he watched Knut, another clansman, engaged in a one-on-one duel with the heretical enemy responsible for this vile act. The scene played out before him, and Eidr couldn’t comprehend why they allowed the wolf of slaughter the dignity of a duel, rather than descending as a united crowd to exact swift and brutal revenge.

He had expected the so-called heretic by the White Lion to pay dearly for the sacrilege of defiling Hallbjorn’s body. But as the duel unfolded, despair settled upon Eidr’s heart. The warrior, perhaps a coward in Eidr’s eyes, managed to evade the felling blows and slipped away like a wraith into the shrouds of the night, disappearing like smoke into the darkness. The grudge went unpunished, leaving Eidr and others with a gnawing sense of injustice, an unquenchable thirst for vengeance that was never sated.

In that moment, as he stood beside the fresh grave, with the echoes of the Eddaic poem still ringing in the cold air, Eidr couldn’t help but feel that the memory of Hallbjorn deserved more. His friend had been a warrior of unmatched valor, and the heretic’s vile act had gone unanswered.

After watching the enemy slip away into the night, with rage and despair gnawing at his soul, Eidr had retreated to the moonlit clearing he remembered so well. It was there that he had performed a ritual that was both an act of remembrance and a plea for justice in the afterlife.

In the quiet stillness of the clearing, he had sacrificed a fox, mirroring the gruesome manner in which Hallbjorn had met his end. The ritual had been a somber reflection of the depths of his emotions, with rage and despair mingling within him. Eidr had called out to Auvfaldr, the god of their traditional ways, beseeching the deity to grant Hallbjorn honor in the afterlife, despite the fact that his dear friend had followed the path of the White Lion God, Benalus. Eidr’s heart ached with the knowledge that their paths of faith had diverged, but he still sought to ensure Hallbjorn’s story and honor was preserved and that he received his rightful place among the Branded Men.

As he offered the fox’s life to Auvfaldr, the moonlight filtering through the trees seemed to cast an ethereal glow upon the clearing. Eidr’s voice had risen, fervent in its plea, and the very same Eddaic poem that he now considered reciting during the funeral had echoed through the woods. The words had flowed from him like a tribute to Hallbjorn’s legacy, a recollection of the Branding that had earned him the title of the Avalanche, a name that still rang through the hearts of Runeheim.

Eidr’s memories were a tapestry of emotions, intertwining with the traditions of his people and the unbreakable bond he shared with Hallbjorn. Now, as he prepared to share the Eddaic poem once more, he hoped that his story, his friend’s memory, and their shared history would be recorded among the annals of the Branded Men, so that future generations might know the tale of the Avalanche and the enduring friendship that transcended even the divisions of faith.

He spoke.

“Neath the mountain Einjallar, on the Wolfchaser river,
Winter’s ice thawing, the river-banks swelling,
As village-gates opened to spring’s first endeavors,
A wild man descended the rime-covered mountain.

He came to the meadhall, calling for guest-right.
His trunk as a barrel, limbs stout as tree-trunks.
The hair on his chest mixed with blood long forgotten.
Hallbjorn his birth-name, scion of Greywolf.

On the mountain he trained, through windstorm and blizzard,
The fire of his rage overcoming the winter.
His mentor surpassed, now he came to the lowlands
For bloodshed and glory, the hunt never-ending.

The men of the village met these words with a challenge,
The warrior’s way, a test of the stranger.
Should he prove himself strong against the warrior chosen,
Then he would be welcome, with shelter and feasting.

Seven men stood before him, the pride of the village.
As guest he could choose the one he must challenge.
Hallbjorn emptied his ale-horn and met them with laughter.
“Every one will I fight, and be done by the sunset!”

The circle was drawn, the warriors made ready,
Cast lots for the honor to be first to the blood-pit.
They took up their axes and sharpened their daggers,
Each eager to fell the arrogant stranger.

As the first fighter entered, the crowd roared to greet him.
Just as quickly the crowd fell back in stunned silence.
The mirthful great man, the wild man of the mountain,
Before them transformed to a terror of bloodshed.

The blood of the first still steaming, he pointed
To the second in line, and called him to come forward.
As a starving man given the key to the feast-hall
Was Hallbjorn when faced with the chance to do battle.

Seven entered the pit to bring down the stranger.
Seven men carted out, bloodied and broken.
Hallbjorn squinted against the sun not yet setting,
Looked to the crowd and called for more ale.
This was witnessed by Erik, the Skald branded Treehide.
In the feast after battle he stood and declared:
‘This unstoppable power that comes down the mountain,
I name thee the Avalanche, and call for the Branding!'”

Postmortem

Esparei had died.
She knew that with terrible clarity.
Murdered on the bridge, then hidden in the woods. How cowardly. How cruel. How- cold the world suddenly was. Like nothing she’d ever felt. There was no gentle embrace of the divine. No final comfort. Just- cold.

“You poor girl.”
She didn’t know the voice. Her limbs started to twitch. Her skin knit together.

You’ll never be warm again.

She could sit up by some miracle- her fine gown crusted in blood and dirt, her pistol still clutched in her right hand. And the feeling of absolute dread, making the back of her neck tingle. Alone? No- not this time. Not her murderers. A woman.

Then- she was at the tavern door. Then, she was speaking plainly, artlessly, feeling hollow and violated until the anger shot up unexpectedly like a viper.

She had stripped bare, showing Vernon the ugly gashes across her torso- hacked at like she was nothing more than a thing, a piece of meat. She had demanded blood for blood, as was her right. She- she-

You’ll never be warm again.

She screamed. Like something had come undone in her. Like all the grief and rage were pouring out like a storm and she couldn’t stop. Not even if she tried. Screaming and sobbing and pressing herself as far into the corner of her room as she could, until Vernon, barely awake and panicking, rushed in and held her. Soothed her. Let her cry herself out while murmuring prayers softly and squeezing her hand.
“I think you should let the High Inquisitor examine you. I’m worried about you.”

She didn’t respond. Just squeezed his hand a little tighter.