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.”