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The first light of dawn is filtering through drawn curtains. The rays fall through air thick
with incense before landing on the foot of a bed. The light illuminates the room just enough to
make out dark shapes against the lightly painted brick walls. A bed takes up the center of the
room with its head against the wall and a large trunk at its foot. A desk cluttered with colorful
bottles of various shapes and sizes sits on one side of the bed, next to the window. On the
opposite side of the bed there sits an armor stand, dressed with mismatched leather pieces and
a small weapons rack holding a staff and a single-edged sword. On the bed, the pile of blankets
stirs and one of the lumps moves to the foot of the bed, seemingly searching for the morning.
The chamber’s door creaks open to the large trunk at the foot of the bed. A hooded and
cloaked figure moves quietly over the threshold, stepping lightly across the wood floor, and
makes its way towards the far side of the bed. A black and brown snout appears from under the
blankets at the foot of the bed, followed by the dark face of a dog with perked ears and brown
eyes, watching the figure moving through the room. A groggy female voice emerges from the
pile of blankets, “Wylder, go back to sleep”. When the figure holds up a finger to where its lips
should be, Wylder rests his head on the bed and allows one ear to flop down.
The figure reaches the head of the bed and leans over the bed, bringing its hooded head
just inches from a knot of blonde hair flowing out from under the blankets. The figure whispers
to the bed, “Come on Sapphira, wake up!”.
With a groan, Sapphira snaps back, “It’s too damn early, Faolan!”
In response, Faolan heads to the window and pulls back the curtains, allowing the full blinding
agony of the morning light into their bedroom. By this point the Sun has risen so that the direct
beams of light now land on the head of the bed. Without the curtains providing the first line of
defense against the morning light, Sapphira retreats further under the blankets, but with the
continued rising of the Sun comes the further strengthening of the rays. Within moments,
Sapphira concedes that the blankets are no longer enough to stop the morning from coming.
In somewhat of a tantrum, Sapphira throws the blankets off of herself, revealing her pure
white nightgown, and moves to get out of bed. As her feet touch the wooden floor, she looks up
and sees Faolan rummaging through the bottles on her desk.
“Faolan, what are you looking for?”
“The components for today’s ritual.”
“Today’s ritual? Wait, it’s today?!”
“Yeah, I watched The Twins rise last night from the observatory, and the Sun rose over
the Vernal Peaks this morning.”
With that, Sapphira jumps to her feet and moves to her desk, pushing Faolan out of the
way. Without a moment’s hesitation, she purposefully grabs one of the colored glass bottles,
hands it to Faolan, and tells him, “These are what we need from up here. I’ll have to get the rest
after I get dressed.” Faolan takes the bottle from Sapphira and turns to head for the door.
“Hey, take Wylder with you too.”
“Alright. Wylder, come here boy. Let’s go.” Wylder jumps off the bed, pauses to stretch,
then trots to the door ahead of Faolan.
“And make sure you find a field that hasn’t been planted yet.”
“Yeah, I know Sapphira.” Wylder then leads Faolan out the door. Sapphira can hear the
echo of their descent down the staircase for several moments while she gets dressed for this
day.
As Faolan and Wylder walk through the dusty streets towards the hot springs at the
center of town, they can hear the rest of the settlement coming to life for another day of activity.
At the hot springs, Faolan sits on one of the benches and looks through the steam coming off
the water. Later tonight these springs will be a bustle with people washing off the dirt from the
fields and soaking away the aches of the day. Now, Faolan and Wylder wait for the workers to
gather before heading out. After several moments, most of the workers have gathered in the
town. Faolan steps through the crowd, leaving Wylder sitting next to the bench, looking for three
individuals: the Ulven priestess Rosil Manaweaver, the human Gerald Manaweaver who seems
to be a natural leader and has taken a role on the town council, and the Syndar magis Zyga
Mae. He finds all three of them at the head of the road leading out of town, apart from the main
crowd, talking together over the plans for the day. Faolan hangs backs just on the edge of the
crowd, listening to their conversation, picking up small details of their plans, and waiting for a
break in their discussion before inserting himself. He sees the window he is looking for just as
they are about to finalize their plans, and so steps from the crowd into their group.
Rosil is the first to greet him, “Good day Faolan”. “Good day Rosil”
Faolan and Zyga exchange slight nods. Gerald offers his hand, “Are you coming out to
help again today?”
“In a way. Sapphira has a ritual that needs to be performed this noon. An offering for a
good growing season.” Interested, Rosil asks, “What do you need from us?”
“Not too much, really. It sounded like you won’t be to the upper fields until this afternoon.
I would just ask that you make sure one of those fields are left until Sapphira has finished. I
would expect her ritual to be complete by the early afternoon, so I hope this would not interfere
with today’s schedule too much.” Rosil replies, “For an offering to Gaia, it is no trouble at all.”
Gerald also chimes in “If nothing else, we can just have a longer break for lunch.”
Zyga also approved, “I do not foresee any problem with this.”
“Thank you, all.” Faolan offers his hand to Gerald and bows to Rosil and Zyga as he
steps back into the crowd. He calls for Wylder and then turns to head out towards the fields. As
he does, Gerald sets to work directing the crowd into their teams and explains what’s in store for
each. Faolan reaches the edge of the settlement just as Wylder catches up to him. Together,
they journey down the road to find a place that Sapphira would find perfect.
A little after midmorning, Faolan has finally found a field perfect for Sapphira’s ritual
today. It’s about an acre in size and almost square, with the East-West slightly longer than the
North-South. The air is crisp and smells a bit of rain. Song birds grace the world with their
chorus. The tree tops sway in a soft breeze. With Wylder chasing field mice up and down the
rows of dirt, Faolan is just finishing lashing together an altar made of the winter’s dead fall from
the surrounding tree line. Faolan carries the finished altar to the center of the field just as
Sapphira steps through the tree line, onto the field.
“You could have sent Wylder to show me where you were setting up at. Instead, I had to
ask a half dozen people where you were before I found someone who knew for sure.”
Sapphira walks towards the altar.
“It’s good that you are talking to more people. These are our people now, our clan.”
With a huff, Sapphira drops her knapsack next to their altar. Wylder runs over to her
excitedly and jumps on her to greet her, licking her hands and trying to lick her face. She sets
him back down onto all fours, and kneels down to his level to tell him hello. Wylder shoves his
nose into Sapphira’s bag looking, unsuccessfully, for any treats she might have brought for
him. Sapphira pulls his nose out of her bag so that she can retrieve the items she will need.
Faolan kneels down to hold Wylder back from Sapphira’s bag. From her bag, Sapphira pulls a
pale green cloth with blue and purple ribbon, and places it on their altar. Faolan calls Wylder to
sit. Then he begins to unfold the cloth and uncovers three eggs safely hidden within. He drapes
the cloth over their altar, then sets each egg on the cloth in a nest of colored ribbon so that they
create a triangle pointing South. Sapphira turns back to her bag and pulls out a bundle each of
forsythia, lilacs, lilies, and herbs. She arranges the herbs around each nest and the flowers in
between. Sapphira returns back to her bag one last time and retrieves a wooden chalice. She
turns to Faolan, “Where is that bottle I gave you this morning?” Faolan fetches the bottle from
his belt pouch and hands it to Sapphira. Sapphira pulls the cork stopper from the bottle with her
mouth and pours the contents into the chalice. A viscous golden liquid flows slowly from the
bottle, and the faint scent of honey floats on the air. Once the bottle is empty, she replaces the
cork back in the bottle and hands the bottle back to Faolan. Sapphira then fetches a bottle about
twice as big from her belt pouch, removes its stopper, and pours its contents into the chalice.
The liquid from this bottle is white in color and flows like water. Once that bottle is empty, she
replaces the cork and hands the bottle to Faolan to store in his belt pouch with the other bottle.
Next, Sapphira retrieves a wooden spoon from her belt pouch and begins stirring what are now
the contents of the chalice together. Once the contents are thoroughly mixed, she hands the
chalice to Faolan. He quietly mutters “makeaoshu” and the chalice begins to glow with a faint
blue hue. Faolan then hands the chalice back to Sapphira and she moves to the South side of
their altar as he sits on the North side to meditate. Wylder lays down just next to Faolan, and
peers under the altar to keep a watchful eye on Sapphira. Sapphira takes five steps away from
their altar and pours a portion of chalice contents on to the ground. After she is done pouring,
she recites her first prayer: “I make this offering to Gaia,
As thanks for the many blessings I have received, And those I shall someday receive.”
Sapphira then turns, and walks counterclockwise around their altar. She takes slow, deliberate
steps, making sure to stay five paces from their altar. A quarter of the way around her circle she
stops, pours a bit more from the chalice, and recites her second prayer: “The Wheel of the Year
turns once more, and Omeria arrives. Sol and Luna are equals,
and the soil begins to change. Gaia awakes from her slumber,
new life springs forth once more.”
Sapphira continues along her path, stopping after she has traversed another quarter of the
circle. A thought invades Faolan’s meditation ‘ Gaia is waking from her slumber, the world
around us is coming back from the death of winter, death is just another slumber, it is a natural
thing to wake from that slumber. ‘
Sapphira pours yet more from the chalice and recites her third prayer:
“Sol draws ever closer to us, greeting Gaia with his welcoming rays. Luna and Sol are equals,
and the sky fills with light and warmth. Sol warms the land beneath our feet,
Sapphira continues along her path again, stopping after she has traversed yet another quarter
of the circle. She pours a little more from the chalice and recites her fourth prayer:
“Spring has come! For this, we are thankful! The Divine is present all around,
in the cool fall of a rain storm, in the tiny buds of a flower, in the down of a newborn chick,
in the fertile fields waiting to be planted, in the sky above us, and in the earth below us.
We thank the universe for all it has to offer us, and are so blessed to be alive on this day.
Welcome, life! Welcome, light! Welcome, spring!”
Sapphira completes her path around their altar. She stops where she recited her first prayer.
She pours out the rest of the contents of the chalice while repeating her first prayer:
“I make this offering to Gaia, As thanks for the many blessings I have received,
And those I shall someday receive.”
With that, the energy that Faolan put into the chalice is gone and Sapphira then returns to their
altar and begins returning items to her pack.
Faolan disassembles the altar, gathers up the pieces, and walks to the north edge of the
field. He walks clockwise around the field, placing a piece of the altar evenly around the field
so the pieces encompass the perimeter of the field. He reaches the road where Sapphira and
Wylder are waiting for him. Together they walk back towards the Spire with Wylder leading the
way, watching him run back and forth from one side of the road to the other, sniffing and looking
for some unknown.

Read more: http://lasthopelarp.proboards.com/thread/1138/story-jimmy-becky-tyler#ixzz3qodYiSk2

Vazra took a moment to enjoy the warmth of the hot spring before continuing his lecture. He found the warm water and proximity to nature far preferable to the cold confines of a classroom. He reclined against a rock and savored the contrast against the cool air just above the surface. He took a deep breath and began.
“See, Mage Armor is an extremely volatile aura of arcane protection. Ordinarily, any attempt to add a second layer will result in the premature activation of the first, canceling both out. Essentially: Mage Armor, as we once knew it, would react to other Mage Armor. Ultimately, we found no amount of tampering with the frequency would bypass this issue, instead we found a solution when we created an entirely second spell mimicking the first in practice, but fundamentally different in theory.”
He took a moment to make sure his students were still with him. Some of the Ulven, particularly the males, split their time between remarkable dedication to their training and denouncing the practice of magic entirely.
“Right, so ‘Improved mage armor’, as it’s commonly known, is actually a contingent enchantment. It doesn’t do anything until an outside action triggers it. This way the spell doesn’t interfere with the protective aura of the traditional Mage Armor. Instead, it sleeps until exposed to a significant source of energy, physical or magical, at which time the spell freezes the caster in stasis for the imperceptibly short moment of impact.”
A young Syndar girl who had previously gone unnoticed raised her hand inquisitively. “So…. It stops time?”
“That would be a gross overstatement,” Vazra replied, confused to her sudden presence. “Relax, you’re overthinking things.”
Some of the other students gave him strange looks, while to his annoyance, the young Syndar girl raised her hand again. This time Vazra noticed a gruesome gash across her arm.
“Yes?” he replied, so startled by the sight of the wound that he failed to acknowledge it at all.
Her tone turned dark and she looked to him accusingly. “Why did you let us die?” she hissed.
Vazra froze, the feeling of guilt crawling through his gut. As he looked on in horror, blood began to trickle from the girls eyes like red tears. He tried to stutter out an apology but couldn’t find the words. The world began to spin as he watched horrific apparitions of the dead appear and sink vicious claws into her cheeks and gut. They mutilated the girl, tearing her apart piece by piece. In a panic, he scrambled out of the spring and shut his eyes, cowering before the horror.
“Arch-Mage?” a voice snapped him back to reality.
Looking back to the pool, he found that the girl, creatures, and gore were gone, leaving only the faces of confused students behind. They exchanged awkward expressions for a long time before at last the silence was broken.
“Let’s umm… move on to another subject.” Vazra cleared his throat, trying to escape the situation.
“While at the most basic and fundamental level there is no difference between Arcane and Divine magic, a distinction is drawn based on preconceptions and variations between practices.”
He continued, regaining his confidence as the students eased back into the lesson.
“I can guide you down your own path of discovery, but ultimately each and every one of you will need to discover your own individual practices of spell casting. These defer between cultures and people because mana tends to behave differently depending on your relationship to it. You must accommodate these variations and discover in what manner you are personally connected to the mana stream. Meditate carefully and observe with which methods mana proves most malleable and then synchronize yourself accordingly.”
“These fluctuations have drastic practical implications. For example, under ordinary circumstances, a Syndar cannot become a so called ‘witch-mage’. This is because their spirits are more inclined to attune themselves to a particular practice. This doesn’t mean they are less capable mages by any means, quite the contrary. It would be more accurate to say: it is within their nature to specialize. They personify these distinctions as the influences of their deities ‘Luna’ and ‘Sol’.”
“Speaking of which, many of you also personify the mana stream or its source in your own way. None of you are necessarily wrong, and I am in no way commenting on the legitimacy of those beliefs, but instead wish to impart an open-minded approach to magic and the realization that the practices of other cultures have much to offer your own studies. These lessons will apply across the board regardless of your tradition.”
“With that addressed, let us return to some of the practical implications. Apart from the Arcane/Divine distinction, some of you will be able to draw mana faster than others through meditation, and some of you will have massive reserves but will be slow to replenish them.”
“It is helpful to imagine mana as a body of water while considering this. Some of you will be like white water emptying into a shallow pond, others like great and old lakes fed by the narrow mouth of a slow river. The water metaphor can also be applied to the various states of mana and how different individuals excel at shaping it in different ways. Some of you will be best suited to sculpt ice, others to dig canals or to pack snow. Others still are snowless. Snow is a lot of fun and those without it tend to be rather depressed. We call those sticks in the mud ‘Hallowed’, and tend not to invite them to parties.”
Beginning to digress and growing tired of lecturing, Vazra then took his students through a long series of breathing exercises, letting them slowly drift into deep meditation. Once their attention was refocused, he slipped away unnoticed, or so he thought.
“Arch-Mage?” a curious human student by the name of Maxwell had pursued him from the pool. “You haven’t elaborated at all on your own methods.”
“Ha!” Vazra laughed, turning back. “So you want to take after the best?”
“At my core, I accept the truths I’ve shared. Every preconceived limitation is simply a mental construct born of ignorance. Mastery of magic comes from spiritual growth, physical training and relentless practice. Above all, however, it comes from the imagination.”
“The imagination?” Maxwell laughed,
“Yes, imagination.” Vazra scolded. “When you truly accept the possibilities as limitless, that is what they will become. Behold.”
Vazra knelt and chanted an incantation, circling his left hand over his right. Within his palm crackled yellow energy. “Piercing bolt.” the Archmage smiled,
“I’ve never seen that spell before.” Maxwell commented.
“and it did nothing to save us.” the Syndar girl added accusingly.
“Few have.” Vazra replied, trying his best to ignore the girl and shake off the hallucination.
“What good did your tricks do when the dead rose from their graves? When they killed us in front of you?” she spat.
The world began to spin and close in around Vazra, he felt as if he was suffocating. Like every breath was being stolen from him. Increasingly uncomfortable, he motioned for his student to join him as he fled the woman’s scorn. A long time they walked, and for a while nothing was said. Vazra just looked back and forth nervously, jumping at shadows and muttering nonsensical apologies.
Eventually however, the anxiety passed, and he gained the nerve to continue as if nothing had happened.
“What we call ‘Piercing bolt’ proves far too volatile to practically employ, but serves to demonstrate a point: that the spells you commonly encounter are the constructs of casters who gravitate towards a tried and true selection rather than the limitations of magic itself.”
“The energy called ‘mana’ can be manipulated innumerable ways once you understand its nature. I have also dabbled in a spell containing the personified essence of muffins. In fact, I once attempted to call lightning down from the heavens to strike my opponent dead. I mean, it didn’t work, but the point remains and I have some sexy scars to show off as a result. Woman love scars, that’s another important point.”
“Arch-Mage?” the student asked, confused by the sudden change of topic.
“Hush Maxwell. You’re a man now, you need to hear this. See, you have to be confident but not arrogant or narcissistic. Sensitive, caring, but also independent. Nobody likes a yes-man. You should always strive for self-improvement, but above all, you need to be yourself. Nobody likes a fraud or wants to be loved for somebody they’re not.”
“Arch-Mage, ermm, aren’t we getting off subject? What about the magic?”
“Love is magic. Youth today, you have no appreciation for the romantic. Once, back in Faedrun, I witnessed a conflicted Penitent cultist offer a Vandregonian woman a mushroom as a token of affection. As much as I loathe the Penitent I have to admit: it was a clever twist. See, he took a romantic cliché and made it personal and unique.”
At that moment Vazra abruptly lost interest in any further conversation. Without a word, he departed back to the Spire, once again leaving behind a student scratching his head in confusion.

The Winter Solstice
Written by Jimmy McCann

Winter 263
The darkest, longest night of the year: the winter solstice under a new moon. The great hunter begins his stalk across the clear night sky with Faolan and Sapphira making preparations for the ritual under the twilight canopy.

“That’s not where the candles go, Faolan!”

“But Sapphira, why not? I thought it was an interesting design I made around the circle.”

“We go over this every time we cast a circle; You know the candles are supposed to go on the other three cardinal points.”

Their circle measures ten paces wide with a teepee of wood prepared in the east and more wood stacked just outside the circle, enough for a fire to burn all night. In the center is a simple wooden altar draped in a cloth of silver and blue, and adorned with branches of evergreen and stems of mistletoe. On the altar is an offering of grain and vegetables gathered from some of the locals’ autumn harvest. The still air hangs thick with frankincense, cinnamon, and myrrh from the incense burning around the altar.

Sapphira: “Ok, I think everything is set. Let’s begin.”

Sapphira retires to a small tent just southwest of their circle to change into a flowing white robe, then Faolan to change into loose white pants and a white smock. Then they approach their circle from the west with Sapphira carrying a small stick alit at the tip. With Faolan standing behind her, Sapphira kneels down to light the western candle while reciting her first incantation:
Tonight is the night of the Solstice,
The longest night of the year.
As the Wheel turns once more, I know that
Tomorrow, Sol will begin his journey back to us.
With it, new life will begin,
A blessing from Gaia to her children.

Sapphira rises and proceeds towards the altar with Faolan trailing her. At the altar, Sapphira turned and headed north leaving Faolan to stand guard at the altar. With Faolan watching her every move, Sapphira kneels to light the northern candle while reciting her second incantation:
It is the season of the winter goddess.
Tonight I celebrate the festival of the winter solstice,
The rebirth of Sol, and the return of light to Gaia.
As the Wheel of the Year turns once more,
I honor the eternal cycle of birth, life, death and rebirth.

Sapphria then rises and heads to the southern edge of their circle, passing behind Faolan standing on the west side of the altar. Upon reaching the southern candle she kneels to light it while reciting her last incantation:
Today I honor the god of the forest,
The King of nature, who rules the season.
I give my thanks to the beautiful goddess,
Whose blessings bring new life to Gaia.
These gifts I offer you tonight,
Sending my prayers to you upon the air.

After pausing for a moment, Sapphira returns to Faolan at the altar. Together, they step around the north side of the altar and head towards the eastern edge of their circle. At the wood teepee Faolan kneels down and pulls out his hunting knife and a piece of flint. He strikes the back edge of his knife against the flint sending a spark into a bed of dry grass at the heart of the teepee. He quickly leans in to breathe life into the flames, and once the kindling has caught he begins chanting.
As he chants, he tips back to take a seat to the northwest of the fire with Sapphira sitting down to the southwest of the fire. Faolan’s chanting continues.
With Faolan’s chant carrying into the night, they sit in meditation upon the fire and the coming of brighter days, but a singular, inescapable thought creeps into Faolan’s mind:
Eventually, the fire burns down
Eventually, the candles grow dim
Eventually,
The Darkness wins…

Account of Volrok “Battle-Born” Hinrich
– First week of March, 264 –

-Day of Departure-

It was a bitter wind that blew through Crow’s Landing that early morning. It passed through the cracks and crevices of any building it crossed. Volrok’s small and humble home was no exception. The wind went right on through the floor boards, and up to his mound of furs and blankets. He shivered as the bitter wind rushed between the bundles of dead animal pelts and fabric.
“Another day in paradise… How grand…” Volrok grumbled as he slowly stirred from his slumber. The night before he was busy looking at drawings and reading letters, and he didn’t go to sleep till late in the night. Being awoken by such a cold and bitter air didn’t make the start of this day seem too grand.
After he got dressed, he went through his usual ritual, oiling and polishing armor, sharpening and oiling weapons, and finally having breakfast. It almost always consisted of stew or soup from the night before with stale bread. It was a meager meal for a Ioclaochra, but being the last of his company (at least for the moment) funds were tight and anything else that wasn’t needed for survival would be considered a luxury. He quickly finished the stale bread and three day old rabbit stew, hoping to be done with it. For the taste was like eating a well-worn leather boot, but with less taste.
Once done with the food he moved on to the front door and put his own boots on, and left the small dreary estate. The sun was just beginning to crown the horizon, the deathly cold wind only confirmed that the days of spring should be approaching soon. Soon he was at the lumber mill, a place where he has been frequently as of late. Since making the Sponsorship contract with The Rangers, Volrok has been hastily preparing for rebuilding the Broken Blade; spending most of his time writing to old friends and allies to find if any of them would honor old promises and give favors towards the rebuilding of the company. Sadly, most of the contacts could not promise to help rebuild anytime soon, except say a few people offering aid if he ever stopped by. But today would be different, for today was going to change Volrok’s world. A single letter from an old friend in a merchant caravan is going to turn Volrok’s world completely upside down.

To my dear friend, Volrok Hinrich

It has been over five years since you last wrote to me, even then it was all business, which only reminds me of how much you take after your grandfather.
However, since it is still somewhat winter, and my funds are beginning to run low, I will not be able to help you financially or with supplies to rebuild. Come this summer though, if you are ever near Daven’s Reach, I will gladly hire you on as a guard for our caravans once again. I will even do better than that, if I get this deal to go through, I will come into a surplus of iron ore. Once I get it refined I will personally purchase you a wagon full of armaments for the company to use.
There is other news… Dreary news or good news for you… On a recent trip down to the colony of Newhope, I came upon the place where the ‘ambush’ occurred all those years ago. At this time though, the air was warm and the sun melted away snow and ice. I found something from all those years ago, small trail littered with armor shards. Now I did not venture too far into the woods out of fear of being attacked, but I marked the location on the trail with the symbol of Ulfkell.
I suggest you move fast good friend, who knows when the next snow will hide the trail.

Ignite the fires far old friend,
Grench Londt

Volrok trembled as he read the letter, his hands shook violently in both joy and anger. Like a bolt of lightning he flew from the lumber mill to his house. He didn’t hesitate, he could not hesitate, for what was hinted in that letter was that there may be remains of his fallen brothers and sisters, maybe even his father’s.
By noon Volrok had left without leaving a note on his door. The small abode dark and quiet, not even mice or birds landed there. If anybody was to peer inside all they would see is a humble home locked up tight and waiting for the return of the only remaining member of the family it once housed.

-Day 15-

Volrok was lucky that he was able to join a small caravan heading north west towards Daven’s Reach when he was leaving. Thankfully they will be resupplying inside the gates for sometime, giving Volrok time to travel alone towards his destination.
When he arrived near the edges of the old site, the Battle-Father only saw it natural to make the event that much more difficult, by adding a snow storm. Thankfully it was still daylight and he could make out the symbol and the outline of the travel that was marked. He kneeled before the symbol and whispered.
“Is today the day that I finally can rest my brothers and sisters in your flames? Is it finally time for them to be at rest?”
It didn’t take Volrok long to maneuver through the small trail. His raid on the White Oak’s, his constant patrol’s with the Rangers honed his legs and feet to maneuver such terrain. He walked and walked, the snow only came down harder making it all that much more difficult to see. The wind howled like wolves after a stag, the snow and sleet stung his face. ‘This will not stop me… Not now, or never.’ he said to himself trying to calm a slowly rising rage at the nearly impossible task before him now. The snow was now knee deep, but he felt it. He was close. Close to what he sought for so many long years.
It was dark now, the only source of light he had was a lantern that was barely staying lit. Finally he spotted something that didn’t belong. Well, it did, but was not expected. It was a bluff with a small cave. He looked around, making sure that no mordok were following him, and quickly dove into the cave. It was blocked, blocked by a massive metal shield. Volrok grunted and groaned as his frozen fingers dug the snow out of the way so that he could open the entrance. He wrapped his fingers around the edge and gave a great tug. Dust took to the wind and fresh air seeped into the once sealed cave. Quickly Volrok drug his gear and himself inside the hole and sealed it up once more.
“Ack!” he barked as he turned around and came face to face with a skull. He had instinctively drew his dagger and was ready to fight, but the mass of bones didn’t move, apparently it was truly dead. He sighed as he sheathed his father’s blade and relaxed, leaning against the wall of the cave. After letting his heart calm, he looked around more carefully with the lantern. He found them, he found three of the members from his company, at least what was left of them.

-The Next Day-

Volrok awoke slowly, cold, but not numb like he was the night before. Quietly he moved towards the shield that sealed his temporary home, and peered out of the cave. Not a soul, cursed or otherwise. He sighed in relief as he felt the now warm sun baring down on air, melting the snow. He had to move quickly for he didn’t have much time. He began to look over the skeletons and tried to identify them by what they had on them.
The first one he identified, the one that he nearly tried to kill last night, was Delgal “The Wall” Brocha. The man was, as he sounded, massive in stature and was able to hold his ground against five foes at once for some time. Volrok thought back… Thought back to the days that Delgal would train him in the ways of using a shield. He was like an older brother, laughing with him when he made a mistake and often covered for him when his father, Torcoll, would get angry for the lack of training. Before Volrok was the very shield that Delgal used in every battle, in every duel, in every aspect of his life. Setting the shield aside he began to bundle the bones together into a nice pile for carrying.
The next skeleton was thin, but had a distinctive scar on the skull, meaning it could only be one person. Siv “Blood Dancer” Simmershade. Siv may have been a syndar, but she was by far the closest thing he had to a mother figure. She was stern, reserved, and usually very serious, and showed little to no interest in anything. However, when alone with Volrok as boy, she had a different face. Siv was quiet in voice and very kind when she taught him how to read and write. When he received his hat, she pulled him aside after the celebration and gave him a warm hug and a gift, her personal hunting knife she received from her own father when she was a child. Volrok felt something beginning to move in him, he has not felt it for some time. He shook his head and moved on, piling her bones into the carrying bundle.
The last one was not his father, the hat wasn’t fancy enough nor did it really have a hat. But in it’s hand was a finely made bow fractured in multiple places, made of an old ‘Iron King’ tree back from Richtcrag. This was Cal’mire “Deadshot” Bal’one, one of the finest bowmen that Volrok had ever known who supposedly hailed from Olon Zylj. Slowly the fog of time brought him back to one of the few memories he had of this mysterious man. For most of his life Volrok’s interactions with Cal’mire had been somewhat limited, for the man would usually only associate with his brother. However this wasn’t the case one day in Valinate. For you see Volrok was only about ten years old, and was usually following Siv or Delgal around, learning the way’s of being an Íoclaochra. But that day was different, Volrok felt compelled to follow the mysterious Cal’mire that day. Quietly Volrok followed in the shadows, watching him maneuver through the alleys and streets as if they were his backyard. At one point Cal’mire came to a rather dark and foreboding alley, however he pressed on. Out of the shadows of the building came five men armed with maces, clubs, and swords and surrounded him.
“Give us your weapons and money…” one of the thugs demanded. Cal’mire only sighed and gave them a glare as cold as any death knight could give off.
“Leave… And you might survive…” Cal’mire warned them. The thing with thugs however is that they generally are not too bright, this bunch was a fine example of the stereotype. One brute attacked from behind, and in a flash his life came to a halt, since a dagger in the skull tends to do that. Cal’mire twirled around the now dead man, grabbed the sword from his hand and began to defend himself. Slicing a hamstring here, piercing a lung there, Cal’mire was fighting far better than what Volrok was lead to believe. The reason for that is due to Cal’mire never fighting on the front lines, always using his bow and commanding the archers in the rear.
In a flash the skirmish was over and in the center stood Cal’mire, his face just as serious as it was before the event occurred.
“It’s not nice to follow others Volrok…” he stated calming, looking towards the corner of the alley where Volrok was peeking around from.
“You’re not from Olon Zylj are you?” Volrok boldly asked, knowing the answer. Cal’mire only turned and walked away from Volrok.
“You’re from here, aren’t you? It shows in how you fight, why do-.” before Volrok could finish Cal’mire shot him a glare to be quiet.
“Don’t say anything to the others… They don’t need to know…” he whispered to Volrok. Shyly he backed off and followed behind Cal’mire.
“It’s because you like being with us right?” Volrok inquired one last time. All he got for a reply was a smile.

Volrok came back from memories and felt the wind blow into the cave from the cracked shield. He quietly stacked the bones of Cal’mire into the bundle, being careful to take the bow, the swords, and the single massive shield into his gear with the bundle. Slowly he got up and left the cave, double checking to see if there was anything left in their packs, finding only a single journal. He quickly put it in his pack and began his trek back to Daven’s Reach. Bandits had taken over the Reach but if you had coin, purpose, or looked like enough trouble they generally left you alone. If they didn’t leave him alone, Volrok was certain he could become enough trouble. He didn’t plan on staying anyway, now that he had found what he came searching for his intent was to return home to Crow’s Landing quickly.

-Day 30-

He finally reached the entrance of Crow’s landing and as he reached the gate he leaned against it. A few spare coin and a good song during some drink let him pass through Daven’s Reach without too much trouble, but Volrok was exhausted from this venture, emotionally and physically. He knocked on the gate as hard as he could in hopes that someone would open the gates.
“Who goes there?” came a voice from the watchtower.
“Volrok “Battle-Born” Hinrich, currently under the employ of the Rangers of Crow’s Landing. I wish to return to my own bed.” he stated loudly, showing his shoulder drape. In a few minutes the gates opened and he made his way to his home towards the far end of the city. Once there he opened the door and sat down on the single chair in the house. He carefully began to unpack the bundle of bones from the rest of the pack, making sure not to drop any of the bones. After doing this Volrok instantly headed to the blacksmith, carrying the bundle.
Once there, he knocked on the door to the forge, hoping that the local blacksmith was still awake.
“What do you want? I’m closed…” said a gruff Richtcraig voice from behind the door. Volrok steadied himself and replied.
“I need to use the forge, it’s for religious purposes.”
The door cracked open and a single eye peered out at him, it looked up and down and then down at the bundle. The door then closed, quickly followed by rattling of chains.
“Come in brother.” said the weathered blacksmith.
Volrok didn’t hesitate, he moved into the forge and placed the bundle of bones on the anvil and began to pray. It was a long and quiet prayer, which is rare for those that follow Ulfkell. While Volrok prayed, the blacksmith placed a vented cast iron pan above the coals and another pan underneath it to catch the ashes. As soon as Volrok was done praying, the bundle of bones was placed on the vented pan and the flames began their job. Slowly the bones began to catch flame and turn into ashes, all the while Volrok watched silently. The blacksmith turned to look at Volrok and was going to comment but didn’t. He instead he left the room leaving the Íoclaochra to mourn.

Volrok stood there, watching the flames turn the remains to ash. The only sound that may have been heard other than the fire would have been the nearly silent sobs, of a warrior that had lost practically everything.

The Storm
The story of Marcus Clearbrook
Written by Michael Tukiendorf

Fritha Stormjarl looked outside at the bellowing wind and snow making visibility almost impossible past 15 yards. She glanced out the window to barely see inside the stable where a stable hand brushed down their foul-tempered pack pony. She and a couple of warriors have been tasked with commissioning supplies from the New Hope granary, while Stanrick Longfang was at the political dinner in New Hope. She should be there, but her people must get fed, and their health is her priority. Food has been hard to come by as of late with the hard winter, and New Hope couldn’t spare much from their stores. So she and her pack went to New Aldoria to see if they could barter for some. She was able to obtain the supplies they needed, but at an exorbitant price. This winter will be harsh for everyone, and this blizzard will not help matters. They would have liked to make it back to New Hope by this evening, but the blizzard forced them to take cover in this lonely inn.

Tucked behind a small hill about 250 yards from the main road was the Hidden Gem Inn. While not large, compared to the inns at New Ardoria and New Hope. It did boast four modestly furnished rooms, and a tap room able to house one score patrons. The large size fireplace was blazing, giving the room a very warm and comfortable feeling. The hard hickory logs being burned gave the room a pleasant nutty aroma. Looking around the inn Fritha imagined on any given day, the inn would normally be busy with local farmers. Tonight the inn is empty, except for the innkeeper, his wife and two sons, and her band. Most likely the locals have declined the treacherous trek through the blizzard to enjoy watered down mead and thin soup. But beggars can’t be choosers, and this blizzard makes us all beggars.

Her warriors are all stowing their gear in the two rooms. Soon they will be down for an evening meal, then to bed. For the amount of snow and wind, they will be digging the inn out before they leave in the morning. The door opens behind the bar revealing the portly innkeeper, carrying a large stack of firewood, oak this time.

“Need a hand Innkeeper?” Fritha asked.

“Nay, I have it. Blast this weather! Has my back all in knots, but I am glad to you and your group for offering to help us dig out in the morning. Otherwise I would be bed ridden for a month, and my wife, bless her heart, is not able to run the inn without me!” He said as he put the oak logs into the now full wood box. “Dinner will be ready shortly, since your lot is helping us out, I asked my wife to whip up a large venison roast from a deer my son arrowed two days previous.” The innkeeper said with a smile.

“Well you have our thanks for taking us in on such short notice.” Fritha said with a slight bow of her head.

“It is no trouble, I assure you! It would be devilish of us to deny honored Ulven folk shelter from the elements. Especially since you open your arms to help us out in our time of need! Now I need to make sure that my son, Jennson, has the all the rooms ready for you and your men.”
Fritha watched as he retreated to the back of the inn, she resumed her gaze out one of the four windows looking at the torrent of snow, swirling and dancing in the wind. The stables have been locked down and the innkeepers other son was making his way to the back of the inn, the Kitchen she assumes and their living quarters. Looking to the road that brought them to this inn, it was mostly covered and drifted over with at least five hands of snow in spots. Tomorrow is going to be a chore, she thought absently. Getting bored of looking outside and anticipating the hard work in the morning, Fritha started turning away. When glimmer faint caught her peripheral vision. Looking back out, down the disappearing road she didn’t see anything. Holding her breath, she counted in her head. There it was again! Faint, but definitely there. Exhaling and inhaling slowly, she searched for the mysterious light. A swirl of snow and blinking of light showed two men struggling to break through snow drifts and make their way to the inn. Another swirl of snow and they were gone in fury of the Blizzard.

“Erik! Bjorn! To me!” She yelled she made her way to the front door. She heard stomping from the floor above, confirming that her cohorts where on their way. She waited five breaths before she tore open the door, and was greeted with piercing winds and chilled temperatures a stole her breath. Ignoring her discomfort she waded through the snow and fought the bludgeoning wind toward where she saw the distraught travelers. Or so she thought.

The wind ripped at her exposed hands and face, threatening to tear off her skin to steal her still warm insides. The cold froze her lungs, making it very hard to breath, the dying light making it very hard to see anything. Hearing the struggling grunts from behind her, confirmed that her companions where close behind her. Seeing nothing, but snow and wind, Fritha stopped, held her breath and counted again. Her eyes scanning everything for any sign. She was about to give up at nine, when she saw a brief flicker three yards away, under a thin layer of snow. “There!” She yelled, pointing at a mound of snow that looking indistinguishable from any other mound.

Bounding over the snow drifts, Fritha reached the spot where she last saw the light. Nothing but snow, except for a small patch of color near the top of a drift. Grabbing at the color; revealed a cloak and beneath it a man. To the right, was another man mostly covered with snow. “Help me!” Fritha yelled as she grabbed under one man’s arms to lift him up. Her companions sheathed their weapons and complied. Carrying both men back, looking to faint light of the inn seemed like it was an eternity away.

Biting wind and chilling temperatures made everything numb. Her hands refused to work, her eyes where blinded by tears, her nose ran freely, her breath came out in great smoke gusts. But she held on and with every step brought them closer to the safety of the inn. Holding her breath she counted again as she approached the stone stairs that lead down to the front door of the inn. Mostly covered in snow, it was chore to not slip and drop her heavy cargo.

The door opened blinding her eyes in a yellow light, and showering her with a gust of inviting warm air. How she want to be inside and away from the form discomfort of the elements. Moving to a chair closest to the hearth she deposited her frozen, unconscious package in the chair and got on her knee to inspect her newest patient. Looking at the innkeeper and his large framed wife, “I need blankets and dry clothes for these men, quickly.” Fritha stated sternly. Nodding causing his long beard to fold into his chest, the innkeeper turned and rush to complete the task. Looking at the innkeeper’s wife, “I need a bucket of hot water for bathing, some warm water for drinking, and another empty bucket.” Fritha instructed. The innkeeper’s wife bowed her head, and went to fetch the water.

Looking at her patient in front of her revealed a human of broad stature, thick eyebrows, strong nose, and patchy beard. His thin lips were chapped to bleeding; his cheeks rosy and wind burnt, and his ears beat red and showed early stages of frostbite. His sweaty, frozen gear is green and brown garb that steamed as the snow slowly melted from his shoulders and back. At his back a medium wooden shield was attached, at his belt a long sword and hatchet were frosted with ice. Removing his weapons and giving them to Erik for safe keeping, incase these men were not of the pleasant kind. Fritha removed his deerskin gloves revealing long, strong hands that had started showing traces of frostbite.

“Erik would you please take these weapons to the room and retrieve my healing bag?” Fritha asked. Erik took the other mans, staff, bag of spell components, and small dagger and left toward the stairs. She looked at the other unconscious man, which showed her that he was a Syndar. With finer features, but not the finest that she has seen. He had lighter skin, pinked and roughed by the elements, raven color brows and hair, and clean shaven. He was of a lighter build, but a wiry build. His vest is of black leather with a bright red tunic, which was soaked through with sweat and melted snow.

Heavy footsteps announced the return of the girthed innkeeper. “Here are the blankets and clothes that you requested, ma’am! I got clothes from both of my boys, I hope they fit.” He stuttered as he put the bundles on the nearest table. “I will bring you and your crew a draft of mead, free of charge! You and your pack have done a very noble thing finding these poor souls before the blizzard claimed them.” He bowed before retiring to the back to get the drinks and food.

“Bjorn, help me remove their soaked clothes.” Fritha said gently as she removed the green garbed human’s cloak.

“Are they severely injured?” Bjorn inquired.

“Not from what I see. Frostbite has started setting in, but nothing that would require my healing magic, or amputation” She said with a shudder. “They look very dehydrated and exhausted. The Syndar looks the worst though, he must have used all his energy to keep them warm and cast the light.”

“Thank Gaia he did! Otherwise, he and his companion would have frozen within the hour.” Stated Bjorn as he removed the crimson tunic revealing a torso wiry and devoid of hair that Fritha anticipated. Removing the human’s forest green tunic revealed a barrel torso with large muscles and a mat of black chest hair, glistening with sweat. Upon seeing the humans bare torso brought back fond memories of Thrand, her mate. Pushing those memories to the back of her mind she shed the rest of his clothing and donned him with the barrowed clothes and wrapped him in blankets. Bjorn did the same, upon finishing he went to the wood box and gathered a couple dried oak logs and tossed them into the insatiable hearth. The fire crackled in response as small flames licked at the dried wood.

More footsteps showed Erik approaching with her healers bag. Following him was the innkeeper’s burly wife with the buckets of water. Looking at Erik, she told him to gather the men and have food and drink, but stay close if I need you. Nodding in response, Erik and Bjorn went to the far end of room where innkeeper had brought out a steamy roast and tankards of mead. Turning back to her task she and the innkeeper’s wife, Sasha she learned, split the steamy water into two buckets and put their patient’s chilled feet into the steamy water. She learned that doing this would relieve the traces of frostbite on their feet and also raise their core temperature. Fritha retrieved healing salve from her pack and started applying it to the wind burnt skin on her patient’s faces.

She finished applying healing ointment to the Syndar, when started applying it to the chap lips of human, when he took a deep breath and started to stir. He opened his eyelids revealing rich brown eyes that darted to and fro, “Where are we?” He stated weakly.

“You are at the Hidden Gem inn; I barely spotted your companion’s magefire in the blizzard. We found you in a drift, and brought you here. Who are you and what are you doing traveling in this terrible weather?” Fritha said as she sat down in a chair.

“Thank the Gods you found us!” He said as he struggled to get into a better sitting position. “I will tell you everything that you wish to know, but I ask that you take my friend and lay him in a bed. He is likely not going to wake till the morning; he was using his magic to ward off the wind and the cold. Lucky you found us though, his magic started fail two hours ago.”

Fritha studied the man for a moment and then tasked her companions to stop their meal and take the Syndar to a vacant room. Grumbling at the disruption of their meal, Erik and Bjorn complied, lifting the Syndar as if he weighed nothing. Fritha then gathered two tankards and a bottle of mead and returned to the human staring at the fire, lost in his thoughts. Filling a tankard with mead for herself, she filled the other of warmed water for the human. She handed the tankard to the human, which he nodded his thanks. “Ok, talk.” She said. And he did…

The water in the tankard was warm, and felt great on his scratchy throat. Looking at the mug showed it was speckled with blood. From his lips no doubt he thought, lifting his fingers to his lips confirmed weeping, furious splits. The Ulven maiden in front of him, his savior, asked for him to talk. Not normally the one to disclose a lot about himself, but this cleric from the look of her bag and attire, saved him and Brodin’s ass. Marcus and his best friend, hell, his only friend, almost died, again! He was so tired, so so tired. She might be able to help us. Not us, me! He thought. “Hope you’re comfortable, this might take a while.” He said.

“I’ve got time, who are you and your companion?” She insisted.

“My name is Marcus Clearbrook, and my friend, the Syndar, is Brodin Fizzlewick. I don’t know a whole bunch about Brodin, other than he is a half Syndar and an apprentice mage. And a decent guy, most of the time. Me, on the other hand, will tell ya whatever you want.” Marcus said as he downed the rest of the water and motioned for the Ulven maiden to fill his tankard up. Fritha motioned for the water. “None of that water, I would like some mead to warm my blood!” He insisted, feeling ragged and exhausted. Upon filling his tankard with golden mead, he started back to the beginning.

“I was born in 240, in the northern forests of Aldoria, near a farming community call Arkos. Nice farms they had there, some of the best in all of Aldoria the mayor would say. They had all different types too! Pigs, cattle, sheep, and a few ranches strictly for Aldorian horses. My father was an apprentice tanner in Arkos, when he met my mother, the Mayors daughter.” Explained Marcus as he gave his savior a knowing wink. She tilted her head to the side and looked like she didn’t get the meaning. “They fell in love, and wished to marry. Upon asking for the mayors blessing, the mayor laughed in my father’s face and exclaimed that his daughters hand is meant for one the rich horse barons that will increase is horses stock and get himself a seat at the capitol. And no lowly, reeking tanner is going to botch his plans for being part of the court!”

Taking a taste of mead, the thick, sweet wine made from honey, prompted Marcus to go on. “My mother was a strong willed woman, and she wasn’t going to be married off to a pansy nobleman… as my father used to tell me.” Memories came flooding back, almost bringing tears to his eyes. The blood from his lips on the mug didn’t help keeping these thoughts and memories at bay.

“They ran away! Never found out how they got away or how they evaded the pursuit of the mayor. But they did. Found a wandering druid to marry them. Settled down, built a house on the furthest edge of the forest. My father became a woodsman, supplying lumber to the local sawmill. I was born shortly thereafter. Along with keeping an eye on me, she would keep a large garden and keep a few animals for milk, eggs, and meat. My mother being the mayor’s daughter had all the best education, to which she imparted on me. And she would always told me that I should look for the best in people.” Taking another drink from the mead in hopes that it would prevent the memories from coming back, it failed. Tears burned Marcus’s eyes worse than the whipping blizzard winds outside. Fighting them back he continued.

“My father always taught me to be strong, independent, self-sufficient, reliable, strong, and a good man. My father taught me to hunt, fish, harvest wood, and always help those who are less fortunate than you. I was about 10 or 11, I can’t remember, but that is when the undead came.” Catching his breath as the memories threatened to render him a crying babe. Marcus saw images of his mother’s throat getting ripped out a shambling undead that had broke into the house. She couldn’t scream as blood fountained from her throat. Father roared in despair and defiance as he picked up his ax and chopped at his wife’s killer. He was quickly overrun by three other undead monsters, ripping holes his garb and his flesh. He screamed out to me to run! I used the crawl space at the base of my bed, and I ran.

Blinking back tears, Marcus came back to the Hidden Gem inn, and his savior waiting patiently for him to continue.
“I escaped the shambling horde to the nearest farm, where I warned the farmer and his wife about what happened. The farmer sent me down the road with his wife, as he went to warn his nearby neighbors. The farmer’s wife and I made our way to Arkos. As we approached, hours later, and the dawn was starting to grey the sky. We could smell the smoke of burning buildings and flesh. Before we saw that the town of Arkos was destroyed utterly. We made our way to the as fast as we could down the main road to the nearest port city Korren.” “Delirious and exhausted from days of quick travel with little food, we made our way to the Korren.” He said as he took another drink of his mead, hands shaking the whole time. “We joined the other masses of refugees heading toward the Korren for shelter. We caught sight of the city walls, and felt a surge of hope. The farmer’s wife started weeping openly and fell to her knees. I didn’t know what she was weeping for, could have been the realization that her husband was most likely dead, or that she might find sanctuary by the gray walls. I just felt numb, dead, my parents were gone, and I had nothing. Then I saw a figure in dirty rags come behind the kneeling, weeping farmer’s wife, quietly slip a dagger in her back and take the bag with our meager rations, spare clothes, and what coin she had. It all happened so fast that I just stared as her body crumpled to the ground and was still. People just moved around us, not caring, their own fears and care their only thoughts. I just stood there, not sure how to feel. Fear, anger, sorrow, I knew not.” Marcus explained as he looked down at his cold, shaking hands. No matter how warm it got or how close to the fire, he always felt cold. Alone.
“I started moving again. For how far and how long I don’t remember. The next thing that I remember is that people where running past me screaming. I looked behind me and saw that people were getting slaughtered by the shambling undead monsters along with the Penitent. One by one the zombies took down the weak and tired refugees. I started running toward the walls. I ran till my legs gave way and I was on the ground, crawling. So close to the walls, not more than 100 hundred yards. I looked behind me and saw a horde of undead zombies shambling toward the naïve Korren walls. What demented entity that drove this putrid army to devour all in its path, I couldn’t fathom. The first one passed me, then the second, and then the third… many more passed me. Fresh and old corpses moved past, groaning for some insatiable need that will be satisfied by reaching the wall and devouring what lies beyond.”

“Then one looked at me, she was maybe my age at one time when her heart still beat. Her golden hair was matted to hear head, and her skin grey. One side of face showed that she was pretty, but the left side of her was face was missing much of its flesh. Most of her cheek was missing, only shreds of putrid flesh covered her baby teeth. The most of the right side of her neck was ripped out, which made her head tilt toward the side where there simply wasn’t any support. She lifted one hand out to me, almost pleading that I could help her. My heart beat frantically; my breath came out in wild breaths. Was this the end? Would I meet my family again or would I be trapped as a shambling monstrosity always hungry for something that I would never find. I put my arm over my eyes as I screamed!”

Finishing the tankard in one long chug, Marcus looked at his hands to see that they no longer shook. He has been staring at the fire for so long that he didn’t notice that all the attendants of the inn was listening to his story of his life. The innkeeper was standing with his arm around his wife, their two boys sitting at their feet. His savior was still sitting, but had her hands clasped with a prayer intertwined between her fingers. Her staunch companions standing on either side of her, their faces grim. “Can I get another mug, please?” Markus stated meekly, suddenly nervous. His saviors left companion complied, his facial expression never changing.

“What happened next?” Marcus heard as he turned his head to the youngest of the innkeeper’s boys. Perhaps no more than twelve years old, his eyes wide with fear and anticipated in what would happen next. Marcus smiled.

“I thought was I finished. The wretched stench of this girl monster stole my breath away, as she positioned herself about to take a bite out of my middle. Then I heard a thunk, I looked from behind my arm and I saw the monster’s head lying on my stomach, protruding from the back of her head was an axe handle. The beard of the axe was buried deep into her head, but she still moved. Very slowly, but still very much active. Then a gloved hand grabbed under my arm and pulled me up from under the stunned, decaying monster. I was thrown over a strong, mailed shoulder and held into place with his right arm. His left arm held a medium size kite shield, which he used to bash his way through the undead in his way. I could only see what was behind him, undead people with their mouths open in a silent scream and arms outstretched pleading to the living to help them. I looked up and saw the massive wooden doors of the Korren loom up above me as we squeezed through a small crack. The doors closed behind us. The iron bindings around the inside of the massive oak beams severed putrid hands that unfortunately got in the way. Soldiers in all sorts of tabards lowered a massive plank that locked the doors into place. Other soldiers pounded wooden spikes into the earth to brace more planks to support the door.”
Marcus took a drink from his full mug of could hear the audible sighs from the innkeeper’s family. All visibly relaxed that he narrowly survived the undead onslaught, taking a deep breath, Marcus continued.

“The knight, at least I thought he was a knight, lowered me to the ground. Looked at my eyes and asked if I was bitten? Am I hurt? I looked at his piercing blue eyes and shook my head no. He looked at my arms and legs and under my burlap smock to see that I was telling the truth. Where was my parents? He asked. I pointed out beyond the walls and said gone. He lowered his head and looked at the wall then down a road to our right. What is your name boy? The Knight asked me. I said Marcus Clearbrook. He nodded and picked me up, and ran down the street, yelling for the refugees to make way.”

Shaking his head, to this day Marcus had no idea why he was spared, why the Knight cared if he lived or died. What prompted him to save him instead of someone more deserving, he wasn’t anyone special, just Marcus. A single tear rolled down his cheek as took a drink. Saying a silent prayer of thanks to his previous savior, who is probably no longer among the living.

“I closed my eye to try escape seeing the panicked faces of the refuges cluttered in the streets. But I could still hear them. The moans, the cries, the screams, the air was thick with fear. After what seemed like an eternity, I smelled fish offal and salt brine. I opened my eyes to see that we arrived at a near empty pier. A few frantic sailors were getting in small fishing boats and sailing boats and taking them into open waters. Braving the open seas seems like a better option than dealing with the undead horde.“

“At the end of the pier there was a single long boat that was still loading supplies and a few people. I heard the knight grunt as he doubled his efforts and ran down the wooden pier toward the long boat. As we got closer to the boat, the knight called out, Crass! The knights footsteps slowed, and he put me down. I looked up and a giant of a man in flowing clothing filled my vision. The knight and I assume Crass, got into a heated discussion about what to do with me. I didn’t hear much of the conversation, because I was looking out in the bay to see a large ship. I had never seen such a large ship, except in the books that my mother would show me. She also told me stories of how brave men went on such ships and went on amazing adventures. I remember tears falling down my cheeks as I thought of my mother.”

A long yawn from one of the listeners stopped Marcus and he realized that he had been talking for a couple hours now and the night must be getting late. The innkeeper whispered to his wife and she nodded sleepily. “Thank you for your help, present and future. But we old folk grow weary and must retire for the evening. To bed with you, boys and wife. Good night.” The innkeeper stated with a half bow. After herding his lethargic group toward the back of the inn which Marcus assumed was their living quarters. Marcus turned back to the sitting Ulven and her two standing companions. Unmoving, almost as if they were cast out of stone. “Yes, the hour goes late. And there is a lot of work to do when the sun comes up. Finish your tale Marcus, but please, keep it short.” The Ulven woman said as she stood up and stretched her legs.

“Right, ummm. I found out later that the giant looking man was in fact Captain Crass, and owed a debt to the knight. To which I found out later was Lieutenant Albert of the city guard. And the good Lieutenant risked his life to save the Captain’s brother from a tavern fire two seasons before. Captain Crass stated that the ship was already over capacity and he couldn’t afford to feed another mouth. I suspected that Crass knew that the lieutenant would stay behind to fight the undead legion. I suppose he wanted to clear the debt, or else the knight’s ghost might haunt him till the debt was paid. Crass reluctantly agreed to take me.”

“As the crew started rowing away from the pier, I looked back at the knight. He was a tall built man with a ripped and faded tabard over rust splotched chain. The shield on this left arm was dented and much of paint chipped away, but it shown clearly in the cloudy sunlight. He raised an arm toward me in a tired wave, turned and lightly jogged down the pier, toward the besieged city. I turned to Captain Crass. He had a long scraggly brown beard with flecks of grey starting to mix in. He had a scar on one cheek that started at his nose and extended down to his jaw line. I remember him telling me that everyone works on his ship, and if I didn’t work I would be thrown overboard. He asked what I could do, what I knew. I told him I could read and write, tend a garden, and catch small game. He said that I was to take all the names of the all the people on the ship, and when rations were dispersed I was to make a note that they received their rations. If someone got double rations or he found out that rations were stolen, I would get flogged the first time and then tossed over the second time.”

“I stayed in the captain’s quarters on a bed of rags. We stayed on the ship for many weeks, I lost count. Eventually we landed on Mardrun, at New Aldoria. I was then tasked with working with the dock master, inventorying stores and rations. I did that for many years, caring for cargo, and honing my reading and writing skills. I didn’t have any family, and didn’t really socialize with people. Only the occasional fishing trip and I would sometimes help out an old tanner slaughter beef for their leather. Most of the time I stayed in a basement room of an inn near the docks. Some nights I worked hauling casks of beer and wine to thirsty patrons. “

“I soon found out that my foreman was embezzling cargo and funds from the docks and selling them to bandits outside the city. One of offloading crew found out and informed the city guards one evening. When he was brought for questioning, the snake pinned the whole scheme on me. I then heard that he bribed the captain and sent the guards bring me in and hang me.”

“I had just bought a new tunic and was returning from the seamstress who I had my eye on, but was to cowardly to ask her to share a meal. I was about to turn the corner to the inn door when I overheard the guards interrogate the tavern owner of my whereabouts. The innkeeper said that he would send his son to get the guards when I returned. So I snuck back into my room, using the hatch at the back of the inn where brought casks of mead and ale. Gathered my things and left the city, never to go back if I could help it. “

“I stayed off the road and made my way slowly through the late fall underbrush going in a southerly direction, toward the New Hope Colony. I trapped small game for my meat rations and drank cold water from the brooks that I came across. No more than two days of leaving New Aldoria, I was just finishing a mid-day snack, when I heard the sound of voices from the road. I feared either the city garrison pursuing me or a bunch of bandits that would liberate me of my gear.

So, I crawled slowly to investigate. I moved behind a large oak and bunch of bushes to see three figures confronting a lone figure. The three figures had their backs to me, but they were dressed mostly in black. They had small capes and I could see that they were fully armed with swords, shields, and bows. These men were prepared for a fight, what type of fight I didn’t know yet. Beyond the three armed men I could see, was the lone figure that they were addressing. He was covered mostly in a thick black cloak, which was pulled far enough forward that I couldn’t make out his face. He also kept his cloak closed so I couldn’t see if he was armed. The lead bandits where asking if the cloaked man was deaf, because they asked him for his stuff or they were going to kill him.

One of the bandits drew his sword and walked to about a yard between him and the cloaked figure. The bandit asked again if he didn’t hear him and pointed his sword in the other man’s face. In an instant the cloaked man flung open his cloak, which revealed bright red and black garb and a small dagger at his side. In the instant that his cloak flew open, a royal blue ball of energy flew from his right hand striking the surprised bandit in the chest. He instantly fell to his knees and screamed in pain. The man in red then took his dagger and cut the staggered bandits throat, producing a stream of crimson blood.

The bandit’s companions yelled in anger and drew weapons. One grabbed his sword, hefted his shield and charged. The second unslung his bow and knocked an arrow. The bandit that charged got there in two strides, wound back the sword to strike the now apparent mage down. Before the weapon came a foot from the mages neck, the mage cast another spell that sent the attacking bandit flying off the road and into a bunch of brambles. The other bandit fired his black arrow at the mage, which he was not prepared to receive, or so I thought. The arrow flew true and would have pierced the man in red’s heart. But as the arrow touched the mage’s garb it broke into a shower of splinters. Obviously some sort of mages armor I assumed, he hasn’t told me much of his spells yet. But the bandit archer wasn’t deterred, he knocked another arrow and was about to aim his bow, when I intervened.

I don’t know why I did it, but I broke my cover and ran as fast as I could at the archer, which wasn’t focused on me at all. I tackled him in the ribs, which I heard his breath leave his lungs and maybe some of his ribs breaking. We fell into the ditch on the furthest side of the road in a heap. I then took my small utility hatchet and buried it in the side of his head. I looked back toward the mage, to see that he had a spell set in his hand that seemed to change colors in the light. I also saw that the other bandit that he pushed into brambles was sneaking behind him. He also saw that he had a spell primed, and instead of going for the killing blow he was going to stun him with his shield.

I yelled for the mage to look out. The bandit’s shield was almost about to connect when he flicked his spell behind himself striking the bandit in the hip. But the motion of iron bound shield grazed the side of the mage’s head. Which sent him flying and he fell to the ground unconscious. The bandit also fell to the ground stunned. I removed my hatchet from the archer’s head and ran to the kill the stunned bandit.

I then checked on the mage to see if he was seriously hurt. Not finding any serious wounds, I proceeded to loot the bodies. I looted a few coin, a sword, shield, and meager rations from the bandits. The mage slowly started to come around, and I held my hands up to signify that I didn’t mean him any harm. He held his head in pain and muttered thanks. I saw some birch trees and went to collect some of the bark. My father always told me that chewing on birch, and willow bark was good for dulling pain. I learned this when I broke my ankle a couple years before the undead attacked. I told the mage to chew on some of the bark to dull the pain. He looked at me skeptically, but complied. The mage then introduced himself as Brodin Fizzlewick, a Phoenix Syndar, and an apprentice mage. He was making his way to New Hope to meet some people. Since we were both going toward the New Hope colony, we decided to travel together. He retrieved his satchel and we traveled together for a week before we got caught up in this blizzard. And the rest you know.”

Hearing his tale come to the end, Marcus felt light headed and somehow elated. He has not talked this much to anyone in many years. He talked with Brodin, but only in spurts. They were always on the lookout for game or bandits. Brodin always seemed like the reserve type anyway and didn’t feel like explaining much. From what Marcus could gather out of Brodin is that he was orphaned as well and was trying to make Mardun a better place for human and Syndar alike. Must be nice to find someplace that gives you purpose, he thought.

Marcus now just noticed that the water that his feet were in has run cold. The fire has reduced down to smoldering coals. Marcus lifted the tankard to his chaffed lips to swallow the last of his mead.

“What are you going to do now?” Asked one of the Ulven men.

“I don’t know really. Go to New Hope and pray I find something. Maybe travel with Brodin and join The Phoenix.” Marcuse said absent mindedly. He doubted the last part. The Phoenix are a pretty well-known group of merchants, and he didn’t have any training in a trade, nor was he Syndar. The only thing he could do was read, write, trap and butcher game. Not exactly the fanciest of professions.

“Nothing is going to get done tonight. I would recommend that you all get some sleep.” Fritha said as she made her way to the stairs.

Marcus nodded and followed her and her companions up the stairs, his bones and muscles protesting all the way. At the top of the stairs he saw one of the Ulven men point to a room. “We put your friend in this room. There is a second bed in there for yourself. We are keeping your weapons till the morning.” Muttering a small thank you, Marcus went into the room. The barely lit room was commonly furnished with two beds in opposite corners, a small table in the center with a wash basin, and a simple wardrobe behind the entrance. Seeing the bed, Marcus dropped the blanket that was keeping him warm all evening and fell into the surprisingly comfortable bed. The last thing he remembered hearing was the blizzard whipping across the little inn, and the light snoring of his friend.

Finally safe… maybe.

The Winter Solstice
Written by Jimmy McCann

Winter 263
The darkest, longest night of the year: the winter solstice under a new moon. The great hunter begins his stalk across the clear night sky with Faolan and Sapphira making preparations for the ritual under the twilight canopy.

“That’s not where the candles go, Faolan!”

“But Sapphira, why not? I thought it was an interesting design I made around the circle.”

“We go over this every time we cast a circle; You know the candles are supposed to go on the other three cardinal points.”

Their circle measures ten paces wide with a teepee of wood prepared in the east and more wood stacked just outside the circle, enough for a fire to burn all night. In the center is a simple wooden altar draped in a cloth of silver and blue, and adorned with branches of evergreen and stems of mistletoe. On the altar is an offering of grain and vegetables gathered from some of the locals’ autumn harvest. The still air hangs thick with frankincense, cinnamon, and myrrh from the incense burning around the altar.

Sapphira: “Ok, I think everything is set. Let’s begin.”

Sapphira retires to a small tent just southwest of their circle to change into a flowing white robe, then Faolan to change into loose white pants and a white smock. Then they approach their circle from the west with Sapphira carrying a small stick alit at the tip. With Faolan standing behind her, Sapphira kneels down to light the western candle while reciting her first incantation:
Tonight is the night of the Solstice,
The longest night of the year.
As the Wheel turns once more, I know that
Tomorrow, Sol will begin his journey back to us.
With it, new life will begin,
A blessing from Gaia to her children.

Sapphira rises and proceeds towards the altar with Faolan trailing her. At the altar, Sapphira turned and headed north leaving Faolan to stand guard at the altar. With Faolan watching her every move, Sapphira kneels to light the northern candle while reciting her second incantation:
It is the season of the winter goddess.
Tonight I celebrate the festival of the winter solstice,
The rebirth of Sol, and the return of light to Gaia.
As the Wheel of the Year turns once more,
I honor the eternal cycle of birth, life, death and rebirth.

Sapphria then rises and heads to the southern edge of their circle, passing behind Faolan standing on the west side of the altar. Upon reaching the southern candle she kneels to light it while reciting her last incantation:
Today I honor the god of the forest,
The King of nature, who rules the season.
I give my thanks to the beautiful goddess,
Whose blessings bring new life to Gaia.
These gifts I offer you tonight,
Sending my prayers to you upon the air.

After pausing for a moment, Sapphira returns to Faolan at the altar. Together, they step around the north side of the altar and head towards the eastern edge of their circle. At the wood teepee Faolan kneels down and pulls out his hunting knife and a piece of flint. He strikes the back edge of his knife against the flint sending a spark into a bed of dry grass at the heart of the teepee. He quickly leans in to breathe life into the flames, and once the kindling has caught he begins chanting.
As he chants, he tips back to take a seat to the northwest of the fire with Sapphira sitting down to the southwest of the fire. Faolan’s chanting continues.
With Faolan’s chant carrying into the night, they sit in meditation upon the fire and the coming of brighter days, but a singular, inescapable thought creeps into Faolan’s mind:
Eventually, the fire burns down
Eventually, the candles grow dim
Eventually,
The Darkness wins…

Faolan’s Journal Entries
Written by Jimmie McCann

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Faolan’s Journal – Entry 37
Lately we’ve found ourselves traveling with this collection of humans and ulven that came
across us on their way into Whiteoak territory to raid some of the weaker outposts for supplies before winter hits full force. At first we were just glad for the company since we had been on the road by ourselves for so long, but had little interest in participating in their raids. We didn’t feel that the ulven clans that were against the colonists, needed any more reasons to want the colonists gone.
Discussions around the nightly fires allowed us to get updated on what had been happening between the clans, and what we learned was more disturbing than previous news we had heard. We were also offered a safe haven at the outpost this group had originated from, and at the home of part of this group that call themselves Rangers of Crow’s Landing. With the increasing tensions between the ulven and the colonists, and between the clans on opposite sides of the issue, we realized how valuable a single safe haven could be, let alone two.
The one who appears to be the leader of the Rangers also showed a great interest in the Arcane, but lacked some of the skill necessary to harness its power. He has a book with a wealth of information about the Arcane that I am eager to get a closer look at.

At last, the raiding party finally came to the edge of Whiteoak territory, and we had to make a decision on whether or not to join them. Now, on the eve of our first raid I can only hope that Sapphira and I made the correct choice and we will come out the other side of this better off.

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Faolan’s Journal – Entry 41
WE MADE IT, just barely. With the help of a group of humans from the raiding party that call themselves the Brotherhood of the Long Winter we managed to escape Whiteoak territory with more than just our lives.
Once we were finally out, we decided to go our own way for a bit. We had some decisions to
make. Do we want to throw our lot in with the coalition? Would we really have a choice in the end? How much longer would we be able to survive on our own with so many ulven siding against the colonist? We knew that we would need a place to weather the coming storm to have any chance of surviving. I must also admit that curiosity influenced my decision. I want to know all of what Crow’s Landing, the Rangers, and Tobias have to offer. Then, there is the odd character that popped into existence just outside the raiding camp while we were in Whiteoak territory. According to his own story, he recalled from Faedrun, seventy years ago. If he is to be believed, if one could survive seventy years in the mana stream, he could have some of the answers I have been seeking. If he does not have
my answers, he has at least shown to have some abilities that I think would be useful to learn. He also seems almost too eager to obtain students to teach. Last I saw, he was on his way to Crow’s Landing with Tobias and the Rangers. Regardless of my curiosity, we needed a place to get off the road for a while and Crow’s Landing would get us a little bit further away from Whiteoak.
With that, we are setting out for Crow’s Landing

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Faolan’s Journal – Entry 43
About a day out from Crow’s Landing we caught up with the Rangers and our odd friend from the past on their way to the village. The rumors of the road were that bandits were closing in, looking for easy scores. Tobias offered us a bit of coin to help secure the road to Crow’s Landing. We quickly found out the rumors of bandits were indeed true, but we were successful in sending them on their way. The wiser ones went to their next target, the rest were sent to whatever awaits in the great beyond. This also offered an opportunity to learn more about this odd mage, Vazra, and his intentions, and study his skills. If nothing else, fighting beside him showed me that I would not want to fight against him, but our conversations also revealed that he may be someone we can trust… tentatively.
I have heard Tobias and Vazra discussing, at length, building a mage’s college in Crow’s Landing. It would seem that the college would be part of a payment for teaching Tobias with the rest of the payment being ‘supplying” students for the college. Sapphira and I also took Vazra up on an offer for a place in this college as Archons. With Sapphira’s alchemy, we might have just found a place where our usefulness won’t run out anytime soon.
For now, we are alive, off the road, and in Crow’s Landing waiting to see what Tobias and the Rangers have in store for us, and what Vazra has planned with us. With Sapphira able to do some harvesting, and now having a chance to replenish her stocks I feel that we are on a good path so far.

Journal of Salguod
Written by Mason Rower

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Day 26 of October

A month ago I went to see my foster parents. My foster mother Arianna told me of a dream that she felt came from her deity, the moon goddess Lunara. She told me that she saw a wolf and an icicle, near a building with a shield on the ground by the door. The shield had an emblem of a moon and star. I may have an idea of where that may lead because that emblem is the emblem of pack Stargazer from clan Spiritclaw, as Selena has told me in the past. I need to find where this information leads, but I must hold off and figure out what is going on with this war for I have told Stanrick that I will join him in the raids against the Whiteoak. He knows that I am in search of my people. It’s as good of a place to start. Whiteoak, here I come.

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Day 3 of January

It has been many months since I have written of my exploits. Today I have finally brought forth the fruition of plans I have been meaning to attend to. My plans for finally bringing my pack back together as one since those many years ago, the fall. I thought my pack was truly gone until the day I came across Heather Icewolf. I had just about given up hope that any of my people were alive. Now I know that they are alive. The time has come that my people be brought together. I have talked with Pack Chieftain Stanrick and his mate, former truth seeker Selena about my plight and they were accepting. They are both great friends to have. My only regret is that I will have to leave the Vandregon and go my own way. William has been a great friend to me these past years and I will be grateful for his friendship and guidance. He is one of the only humans I will ever truly trust.

Personal Journal Entries for Saphira
Written by Melanie Houghton

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Whiteoak Territories – November
It was a treacherous trek that Faolan and I got ourselves into, but after all of my supplies had been looted; I needed some time to think. How was I going to rebuild the inventory that I received from my family before they were murdered? Other than their memory, that’s all I had left of them. Our new goal was to somehow replace all that was lost. We were invited to come along with a caravan of raiders who were headed to Whiteoak territory. These were the same Whiteoaks who had raided my supplies. I was all in. I wanted to know if this caravan of travelers had the audacity to raid the Whiteoak camps. After waiting by their winter’s warm fire, I was able to have peace of mind knowing that Faolan would be more than willing to fight in my honor. He was not able to retrieve any of my supplies but he did give them a piece of his mind. I sat and watched him when he returned from the first raid. He meditated a great while. The snow fell upon him as if he were a statue made of stone. Unscathed, Faolan was more interested in Vazra. A mage who apparently recalled through time itself and appeared in the woods just before we set up camp. He was mindless as he tried to tell the warriors of his travels. He was definitely out of it. I suspect his symptoms to be the after effects of his landing. This Vazra reminds me a little of my people from Nara Pentare. I am not certain how yet, but I am sure I’ll figure it out eventually. After a long long while, the second raiding party had returned. We began packing up to leave enemy territories when the WhiteOak sent an attack. Faolan and I had diverted the attack but were soon met at the borders of our allies by another group of them. Luckily we brought some of the caravan travelers with us. Sometimes not being a combative person has its worries, but I had the protection of others

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Crowslanding – December
The winter is mild, but with a lacking of supplies, it has been less than easy bartering for other supplies we need. Luckily, Faolan and I decided to take refuge with the caravan and we are traveling back to their outpost with them. It has been hard trusting people after the murder of my family so the trip has not been so pleasant. I only just recently started trusting Vazra. I can’t pinpoint exactly yet, but he reminds me of home. I have also started trusting some of the Rangers. The Rangers are, or were part of the Whiteoak raids. We are traveling to Crow’s Landing. Crow’s Landing is where the Rangers call home. Traveling with strangers is not easy especially when you have no room in your heart for newcomers. I am in a constant state of feeling alone. The only one I have known is Faolan. With minimal supplies, I am fearful we will not survive winter. Luckily, I was able to pick up some harvesting tools. I have slowly started to replenish my stores. On our way to Crow’s Landing, Faolan and I started to get to know Vazra a little better. I still am having trouble figuring out why he reminds me of home. Maybe I have been away from my people for far too long. I am getting home sick. Hopefully I can hide it from Faolan. He has been so great! I feel like he would be mad if I spoke of back home especially after we have gotten this far. I will keep my secrets to myself. Hopefully I will have supplies enough to make potions. Potions, which could keep me from the remembrance of home. I know the only thing I would remember is how they all died. (crying) I can recall my father’s blood spraying my adrenaline kissed face. I grabbed my mother and ran for the forest but we were separated and she was caught. Headless, she lay in the town center. After all had settled and the enemy had left, I snuck back into town to gather my now stolen supplies and I fled for new land. Now I am with people I can’t fathom trusting. What am I to do? My bartering skills are less than fruitful without anything to offer. Bartering is how I got away from home. It is how I got this far. As we are getting closer to Crow’s Landing, my comfort levels are increasing. Everyone seems to know that I am not one for combat and so I need the others protection if we are faced with war. This helps my nerves. I am so grateful for their protection. However, it seems almost as if this people that we travel with ask for the wars. I have seen more combat with them than I have traveling on my own. It makes me wonder if Faolan and I were raided because the Whiteoak knew that their enemies were in the territory. We just happened to be in the wrong place at the right time. I am also frustrated that after raiding their lands, my supplies were not found and returned. Maybe the Whiteoak had already rid themselves of them. I’m sure Faolan was looking for them when he went in to help the Raiders. But, I am strong. I know my way around deceit and I will do what’s necessary to survive. We are closer to Crow’s Landing. I can feel danger on the back of my neck. I hope there is enough help for what’s ahead.

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Trusting:
“Faolan, what are we doing with these people? I am having a hard time trying to trust them. What if my supplies were found in the raid? I find it hard to believe they were not there. At least some of them had to be there.”
“You ask me so late whether or not we found anything? You know I’ve looked. I didn’t find anything. I do believe that these people have not taken things for themselves. I know your trust levels are scarce, but trying is all we can do. They have offered us refuge; do you think they would offer it to us if they weren’t?
“Just because they offered us safety does not mean they are friends with us. I am grateful for the refuge but I still am quite concerned that these people are foes. Where is your concern? We have traveled thus far without the support; can’t we just try to travel on our own and find ways to replenish my supplies?”
“No, the winter is going to be hard to handle on our own without your supply. Just wait this out with me and I promise we will come out on top.”

Though Faolan thinks we will come out on top, I still believe we have to watch out. We have arrived at Crow’s Landing and the Rangers are setting up camp trying to figure out what has been going on in their land. Apparently, bandits are attacking and have been trying to subdue the rangers in order to obtain some fear and supplies. Or at least that is what I understand. Faolan and I have joined Vazra to get the mages together. I am not a mage but Faolan is and he is my protection. It is hard to understand why but I still think Vazra has some characteristics of home. I am studying him to figure it out. As for now, I am looking for reagents in the surrounding areas. I need to rebuild what I have lost. There are guards at the trail entrances so I feel somewhat protected but I still feel danger lurking. It’s not deniable to feel war is upon us when we have chosen raiders to follow. There are some strange people who entered the area. They are perceived to be merchants, but people lie about who they are all the time.
After some time had gone by, the Rangers and their syndar company had been poisoned by food that the merchants passed out. Luckily I am still having hard times trusting and I convinced Faolan not to eat any. The rangers pretty much paid to be poisoned. I knew there was something untrustworthy of those folk when they hid in the trees after entering the camp. I was scared about what was to come next. I knew that not after too long there would be other bandits to take advantage of the poisoned folk. I hid behind the Brotherhood who had also been travel companions for the caravan to Crow’s Landing. After the fight was through things seemed to have calmed down. Not too long after, we started travel out of Crow’s Landing.
“Faolan, what’s next? Are you sure we are with safe travelers? ”

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Giving Thanks:
I am still untrusting of some, but as we travel together, I am finding it less difficult. Have we found a place to call home? I am hoping that we will have somewhere to lay our heads while I replenish my supplies. Maybe make some silver.
“Faolan, are we going to honor the winter? I need to pray for the nature I have gathered and will gathered so that maybe we will have great luck in finding more when the cold finally retreats and life begins to bloom again.”
“We will, in good time.”
After setting up my ritual, I begin to honor the winter solstice. I am giving my thanks for all that was given. We had set up some way away from the others, but I could still hear them in the distance around their winter fire, drinking to stay warm. The cold has really started to take a strong hold on the lands. I sit and listen to the surroundings, meditate in the glory of nature. It’s calming to know that I can rely on it for survival. I feel as long as I praise and thank for what I take, it will continue to provide. Our journey onward will begin again at dawn. I will be ready to take on a new year.
“Faolan, I think that we have found a people to travel with. I know I had my doubts before, but I feel as though we have safety while we stay and for that, I am happy. Thank you for trusting, we will be okay here with these people.”
“I told you we would make it. All the wars we have seen and we continue to come out unscathed. That’s because they fight to protect what and who is with them.”

In a dream, she sees the coast of Stormjarl, the surf rolling onto the beach. The day is sunny, the sky is almost as blue as the water. In the far distance you can’t tell where the sky and water meet. Fritha and Elise are playing in the sand, as close cousins are wont to do. Their mothers are sisters, Elise two full seasons older than Fritha. Neither of the young girls had another to call sister – they fulfilled that role for each other. Fritha’s brothers were being a bother to her and Elise. Teasing them with limp, slimy seaweed, threatening to put it in their hair or to throw sand at them. So the girls found a way to slip away from them unnoticed.

They found a small cave along the cliffs; more of a shelf a few feet off the ground. In the back of the cave, Elise found some pretty shells – they were smooth and speckled. The girls played there for hours, wishing that it would never end.

“Come home with me and be my sister forever.”

“I don’t think my mother would let me. But wouldn’t it be fun!?”

“I’ve always wanted a sister, why can’t you be my sister?”

“Then let’s swear to it, be my sister. We can swear on these shells.”

They placed the shells on the sand, drew a heart in the sand around them, clasped hands and swore to be sisters to each other. Even though they weren’t sisters in blood, they were sisters in heart.

Fritha awakens from her dream and thinks of the time after that: the blood, the fighting, the fire, and how Grimward attacked her home town. Fritha’s breathing quickens, her skin breaks out in a sweat. She thinks of the Longfangs giving their lives to protect Elise, Elsah, and all of the other members of her Stormjarl family. Running away, trying to get everyone out alive. Now Elise and Elsah are safe with her in the Longfangs outpost. But is the rest of her family safe? Where are the rest of her Stormjarl brethren? She doesn’t know . . . but someday, she intends to find out.