The Battle of Valas Fort

It all started when we received word that Valas Fort had been attacked and overrun by a band of Orcs. The very same type of monsters it was there to stop. Help from anywhere else would not be quick, so several from our village of Fyfe decided to venture north in an effort to run off the Orcs and prevent them from attacking our village.

A party of ten was gathered and we ventured forth early in the morning. We traveled for a day before making camp for the night. We set watches and an uneasy sleep was had. In the morning we broke camp, and were shortly within sight of the fort. We could see the front walls, and nothing appeared to be amiss.

We snuck towards an outbuilding on the front side of the fort. It would provide cover from anything that might be on the roof of the fort looking out. Ayan took the lead, being a reformed thief from abroad. He crept around to the doorway and peered inside. Indeed, there were Orcs, four to be precise. Ayan gestured to us, and we used the doorway as a makeshift choke point and fired our crossbows. They charged forth and slew Arthur, the town priest, before we were able to end the fight. We quickly dragged the bodies inside the building and took stock of it. There was nothing of use to us in here.

We once again stayed behind Ayan as he put his back against the outside wall of the fort. He peered inside and saw that there were 2 paths to be taken. Straight ahead was a large room of some sort. To the left was a short hallway. We opted to go left, and began navigating a twisty set of passages. As we were slowly navigating, one of the farmers heard some noises from behind us. A few of the men turned in time to see another group of Orcs fast approaching.

Without a moment to lose, Callum began reciting something archaic sounding, and waving his arms around. I did not know what he was doing, except that it was believed he was able to channel some sort of magic. Right as the Orcs struck and killed Monty, the same farmer that spotted them, the Orcs simply fell to the ground asleep. We were able to quickly dispatch them while they slumbered, and dragged their bodies out of the hallway. We moved forward and arrived in a room that appeared to be a room with prison cells. There were old bones present, and what appeared to be some weapons. We dragged the bodies into one of the cells and moved towards the end of the room, where a short hallway was present.

Ayan took the lead again, and mercifully there was nothing in the next room except some foodstuffs. There was a corner that was musty and appeared to have a bit of standing water, but we ignored it for the time being. The path forward was more twisty passageways. Ayan was able to navigate us forward slowly, always keeping an eye out for danger.

Eventually the passageway opened up to both the right and left. I saw Ayan get down on his belly and inch forward to get a better view of something. He inched backwards and told us that there was a hole in the ground with a gate overtop. There appeared to be three human figures down about ten feet, all alive. We quickly decided that we must free these humans. He also heard grunting and growling noises to the right. We formulated a plan to have two of our fighters stand with weapons ready and facing right. Then three of our men would move the grate. Once moved, two others would throw a rope down and hold it, so the trapped men could climb up.

We all quietly got into place, and a moment later realized our mistake. We all were facing right, but no one had scouted left, and there were two Orcs, waiting to ruin our plans. We also soon discovered that the noises to the right came from an Ogre. Things had gone from bad to worse. Those of us on the left turned to face the Orcs. We slew one immediately with our crossbows, but the other moved in to attack us. We were able to surround the Orc and kill him with numbers. Those behind us were not faring as well. The Ogre was a tough beast. By the time I saw it, it had several arrows and bolts sticking out of it. It took some time and made a lot of noise, but we were able to hit the Ogre enough to kill it. However, we were now down to five of the original ten party members. The Ogre took the life of Ethan, who was an unparalleled fighter from Fyfe.

With all of the threats eliminated, we quietly resumed the task of freeing the men below. We were able to remove the grate, and get all of the men out. The told us they were soldiers stationed at Valas Fort. They explained that a man wielding magic brought the Orcs down upon the fort. In addition, two men turned and joined him. These were men charged with defending this fort, and by extension our town and they switched sides. The idea made my blood boil. The soldiers described the layout of the fort and pledged to help us if only we could arm and armor them. We gave them armor, swords, and bows from our fallen comrades, and being at a dead end began to backtrack with the knowledge that by now the magic wielding man knew we were coming and would be prepared. Hopefully Callum would be able to best this man in a duel.

We quickly arrived back at the opening to the large room near the entrance. We stayed near the wall, and worked our way towards the only other door, suspecting that this was where the final encounter would take place. The passageway was narrow and it was decided that we would run through as quickly as possible. Callum would bring up the rear and dump a bag of ball bearings and a bag of caltrops behind us so that it would be difficult for us to be attacked from the rear. With the plan set and the best fighters at the front, we all took deep breaths before the men in front started running.

Before I knew what was happening, I and one of the soldiers we saved were tangled in some sort of sticky webbing. We were thrashing wildly, trying to cut it with our swords. I heard the men behind us helping, and heard Callum yell at one of them to help him. We were stuck for what felt like forever before a combination of sword cuts and fire freed us from the webbing. At almost the same time, we found that the enemies had run around the fort and were now behind us.

We stood face to face for a moment, our numbers even. However, our party was already wounded and our best fighters were nowhere to be found. The battle broke out shortly with arrows and bolts flying back and forth. A weird globe of darkness appeared around Callum, but it did not affect the rest of us. Eventually he stepped forward out of the darkness. Both Callum and the evil magic wielder began slinging spells, though there was no visible sign other than their gestures and incantations. Slowing, the battle seemed to tilt towards us, though we suffered more casualties. In the end, the magic wielding men came together for a battle of staffs, at which point Callum was able to slay the man. Quickly, the rest of his forces were slain and the day was ours.

When I surveyed the room I found that, of our original ten men, only myself, Callum, and Riley still stood. Riley was one of the soldiers saved from the makeshift prison. He walked with a heavy limp, and though I have no training in healing, I suspect he will have that limp for the rest of his life. On the bright side, he has a life in which to limp.

We searched the entire fort once again to be certain we had not missed anything. We decided to stay the night in the fort, and make for Fyfe in the morning. It was a quiet night, for we had seen more bloodshed in a day than most will in a lifetime. The next day we made our way back to the village and told our tale. We shared drinks with all and consoled those families that lost someone. Over the course of the next couple of weeks, groups were sent forth to collect the bodies and belongings of our fallen comrades so that they could be buried with a ceremony. I, myself, led one of the parties.

Not much later, I was approached by Mayor Logan and he told me that he would like to begin training me to take over for him. He is an older man, but I had never given thought to leading the entire town. Many people in town seemed to think it was a good idea, and I seemed to have much support, so I agreed.

It has been over a year since that fateful day. Callum and Riley were off shortly after our return. Neither had family in town, and neither seemed at ease. I officially put my sword down, or up in this particular case. I hung my sword on my office wall, visible to all as a reminder of why I was chosen. I look at it and remember the worst day of my life. It is still chipped and stained with the blood of Orcs.

So ends the tale of the battle of Valas Fort, as told by Cormac, Mayor of Fyfe.

#51: Acceptance

As we stand on the ridge with the village of Tovt in the distance, I mumble, “Things are going to change.”  Without even sharing a language, there’s a sense of mutual understanding and recognition of that fact.  After a long moment of silence, Aros points down a distant hill and issues a command, “Lavek,” and it becomes clear that Aros wants me to leave the group.  I’m a little surprised—I can’t understand any conversation they might have anyway.  Vargmenni is also ordered away, and once we are a few steps from the group she turns to explain.

“Aros wants you to wash the blood from you,” she says quietly.  Up ahead, we hear the trickle of a stream.  “Aros is going to tell the tribe that the heucuva killed Frode, and that I slew the heucuva.”  This is a surprise to me—Aros has always been straightforward, and I expected a more honest approach.  I’m also more than a little annoyed that he would ask me to wash the blood from my face, beard and chest, having felt that it was earned in the slaying of Frode.

“Aros seeks to protect you,” she explains, and I am for a moment humbled.  Without having an acceptable defense for my desire to remain covered in Frode’s blood, I abide her wishes and those of Aros.  I do the best that I can to wash myself, feeling cleansed in both body and soul.

Finally alone with Vargmenni after days of scrutiny from Frode and the associated tension, I watch her in my peripheral vision.  She’s obviously not native to Tovt, based on her hair color and skin tone, but I know very little else about her.  As I start to ask her questions, she shrugs them off with a smirk and responds only, “Trust.”  The meaning remains unclear.  We head back to meet the others, who are waiting for us.  Seemingly satisfied with my best attempts to remove evidence of Frode’s slaying from my skin and clothes, Aros nods and gestures for all to head into Tovt.

Aros’ story spreads like wildfire.  I search faces for signs of anger or suspicion, any hostility that might be potentially dangerous, but for the most part everyone seems more shocked and concerned.  There is, however, an identifiable sense of command surrounding Aros.  Harka and Baln are loyal to him, and I have little fear that they will betray his secret.  I seek out Gola—there is an immediate instinct to slit her throat that I have to suppress, as she is a definite threat to Aros, and by extension to me.  I recognize it as a remnant of my time with Malar and push the instinct aside, trusting in Aros’ judgment of the woman.

Not wanting to draw attention to myself as the town copes with the news and transition, I withdraw to my small fire and ring of rocks that has been my home within Tovt.  Vargmenni disappears into the populace, leaving me alone, and I can’t help but feel disappointed that she would desert me now that we finally had a chance to communicate openly.  That disappointment is unwarranted, however, as she approaches my fire just before nightfall.  It’s hard to conceal my pleasure at her arrival.

She sits on the rock next to me, close enough to speak privately.  “Gola will not speak of what happened.” 

I am more than a little shocked that she picked up on my earlier instincts and feel ashamed.  “Was I that obvious?” I ask.

“It was important that you know.”  She explains no further, and we sit next to one another in silence.  Finally free to speak, I’m overwhelmed by the possibility of conversations and questions I want to ask.  Frode’s history with the tribe and the strange teeth, Vargmenni’s history and use of magic, the heucuva and Aros and Tovt—so much so that I can’t decide how to proceed. 

“What next?” I ask sheepishly, unable to form a more coherent thought.

“Tribe will convene at nightfall,” she responds.

“Are you part of the tribe?” I ask, hoping to learn at least a little more of her role in what is to come. 

“Yes, and no,” is her answer, one that does little to inform but is not surprising in the least.  She turns to look me in the eyes, something she has never done for more than a fleeting moment before.  “On the night of Frode’s ritual,” she explains, struggling to find the words, “Frode slew Gola’s husband and took her for his own.  He was... not good... to many people.”  Her voice breaks as she speaks, revealing that she was perhaps a victim as well, and my blood begins to boil at the thought of Frode touching Vargmenni.

I turn to stir the fire with a stick, masking the awkwardness as we both look away from one another.  “I know nothing of this town or its rituals,” I tell her, “but Frode deserved to die.”

Under her breath, in a whisper, she replies, “Yes.”

Several long moments of silence pass before she continues.  “The stones harbor bad magic, but they were not the only reason for Frode’s malevolence.”  That Frode may have already been wicked in some sense before the stones had not occurred to me. 

I pat the pouch where the stones are hidden and say to her solemnly, “No one will use them ever again.”

“They should be destroyed,” she says, and I nod.

“Magic.  You can use magic.  How?” I ask her.  “Who taught you?”

“Somebody far, far away,” is her mysterious response.  “I... lost... all magic when the tribe found me.  With study, I was able to relearn one spell.  Vargmenni... fire hands,” she says proudly while gesturing as if casting the spell.  “Afterward, Frode feared me.”

Desperate to share what has been burning in my mind since we met, I gesture for Vargmenni to wait a moment.  Grabbing a stick from the fire and pushing one of the flatter rocks between us, I use the stick to sketch a crude lion with a flowing mane.  “I am a priest, and this is my god, Nobabion.  I was also once a strong magician, and I have also lost my magic.”

She hold her hands apart, gesturing to one and says, “Gods.”  To her other hand, she says, “Magic.”  She holds them apart, illustrating her understanding of the difference between the two philosophies, divine and arcane.

I shake my head slowly and grasp both of her hands lightly, bringing them together with my own.  “I am both.”

She pushes my hands into my chest gently, her touch lingering.  “Frode was a bad leader.  Zeb is a good person.”  Her meaning becomes clear—the quality of a person is not defined by priesthood or magic use, but rather by who they are inside.

Commotion from the town as the folk begin to congregate interrupts our moment, and she abruptly leaves the ring of stones to join the villagers.  I sit alone, observing and not wanting to impose myself, but I also can’t hide the fact that I want nothing more than to be included.  Harka wanders into my view as if looking for me, and motions to me to join the throng. 

The press of people as well as the presence of several cookfires provides warmth against the chill night air.   Food is passed back and forth between townsfolk, and my neighbors gesture for me to indulge as items are passed about.  It is a welcome moment of comfort in an otherwise miserable couple of days.  Before long, however, the town turns to business and the apparent leaders of the tribe start speaking rapidly about Aros’ story and the plan forward.

My worries about the town believing the story or supporting Aros are quickly dispelled, however, as a chant of the name “Aros!” burgeons, gaining strength as more of the townspeople join.  Aros bows his head humbly, addressing the crowd authoritatively.  After a short time, he calls for me and Vargmenni to come forward.  I obey, and when I glance at Vargmenni she avoids my gaze.

He continues speaking to the tribe, and then, similar to my first encounter with Frode, he asks me for my knife.  I withdraw it slowly and hand it to him freely, pommel first.  He holds the blade to Vargmenni’s forehead, her a mask of composure.  He draws the knife across, creating a thin line from which dark blood trickles, uttering a few quiet words.  He turns to me and does the same, spilling hot blood from my forehead onto my face.  He points to me, calls me by name again.  I can only discern a few words, among them Tovt, the name of the town, and a new word, “jama.”

He points to Vargmenni and says something similar, including another new word “galdraka.”  Whatever Aros is saying, looking at the crowd I can see that they are pleased.  I have a moment of panic, fearful that we may have just been married against our will.

Vargmenni turns to me to explain.  “Vargmenni, galdraka.  Village sorceress.  Zeb, jama.  Tribe shaman.”  An immediate sense of pride, accomplishment, and acceptance washes over me.  This is an honor that I could not have anticipated.

A few villagers approach to clasp arms and welcome me to the tribe.  Tensions had been building under Frode, and the village seems to have a newfound sense of stability and relief now that they have a new leader, sorceress, and shaman.  The tribespeople begin pulling out gourds and clay jugs filled with liquid that are then passed around.  One is given to me, and despite my hesitations about my new position and path forward, I decide to relax a little and join the celebration.  I take a long pull, the liquid revealed to be a potent firewine that burns my throat—nearby, drums begin to play and townsfolk begin to dance.

His speech finished, Aros approaches with a smile on his face, laying a heavy arm across my shoulders.  He points to Vargmenni, then points across the crowd to Gola.  He gives me an odd look, seemingly offering my choice of the two women.  I can’t tell how serious he is.  Fortunately, a jug of firewine is pressed between us and I take a long pull, passing it to Aros to avoid answering his question.  My celebration is momentarily fractured by a fleeting thought of Bonie, what was lost, what was left behind.  Aros does not notice and staggers away.

The townsfolk are quick to return me to the celebration, and I’m distracted by the prospect of more drink and dancing.  Pushing memories of Bonie deep within, I relent to the wishes of the townsfolk and dance until I can barely stand.  I retreat to the periphery and find a stool, content to watch as the town celebrates.  In a private moment later, Vargmenni finds me sitting alone.  Her demeanor is serious.

“The dwarves are a threat to the tribe, and Aros means to deal with them.”  The statement is matter of fact, not taking sides, simply conveying the information.  All other thoughts are pushed aside.

“I have been to a great underground dwarven city.  I have had dwarven friends, they have fought by my side, and I have watched them die.  Why are the dwarves a threat to Aros, to Tovt?”

“Many peoples vie for this land.  For the land that brings food and nourishment to the tribe.  Both Frode and Aros agree, the tribe’s lands must be protected.”

“Is there not enough to share?”  I ask.

She shakes her head.  “Winter here is harsh.  Food is scarce.  Not all can survive.  Frode chose to attack recklessly.  Aros will not.”

“It is our job to guide Aros and to protect the tribe,” I say solemnly.

“Yes,” she responds.

Long moments pass and we sit together in silence.  I break it with a question.  “Does the tribe have have a name?”

“Reghedmen,” she says, and I shake my head, not comprehending.  “The Winter Wolf,” she explains, and a chill runs down my spine.

It’s clear that I’m uncomfortable, and I can see that she is confused.  Using a bit of broken stone, I carve the symbol of Malar in the ground.  “Do you recognize this symbol?” I ask.

She shrugs, asking, “Beast?” but shows no real recognition, and for that I am thankful.

“Bad magic,” I say coldly.  “If you see men with this symbol, run.”  In an instant, all thoughts of continuing the celebration are extinguished.

“Zeb and Vargmenni part of tribe... yes, and no.”  I understand the context of the statement—these are not our people, and we are not theirs.  We are outsiders.  There is another awkward silence, perhaps an invitation, but the chaos of my mind can make little sense of it.

“I need sleep,” I say quietly, leaving Vargmenni to return to my small fire and ring of stones alone.  As I walk away, my heart pounds with unspoken words.  I don’t want to be alone tonight.  Stay with me.

* * *

When morning comes, I busy myself about the task of gathering supplies to build a tent.  The townsfolk are willing to help, and I use the few words that I have gathered and begin to put names to faces, building relationships.  The physical toil of construction helps clear my mind from the depth of emotions the previous night.

Early in the afternoon, after the tent has been completed, Vargmenni comes to visit my new abode.  Ignoring our conversation from the previous night, I ask her about magic, curious where she came about the materials for the roll of vellum on which is written her prized spell.  She comprehends my description of a spellbook, explaining that she also lost her “writings.”  When she came to the tribe, she knew only one spell, but she never deployed it, instead keeping the magic etched in her mind.  “Even through suffering great pain,” she says, struggling to find the words. 

She had observed Frode’s methods over time—bones and other non-conventional means of recording magic, for it seems that he too was an arcane wielder.  She secured the roll of vellum, crafted from the skin of a rothé.  One of the townspeople helped her treat the hide, making it suitable for writing.  Over the course of many weeks, she was able to leverage the magic she still possessed in her mind to transcribe the spell again, that she might use it freely.

One night, Frode came to her tent with malicious intent and she brought her “fire hands” to bear, burning him.  “He never touched me again.”  This time the words come more easily, and my anger at Frode is superseded by pride for Vargmenni.

“To recreate what’s in my mind,” I say pointing to my head, “I will need many, many scrolls.  Is it possible to make them?”

“It would take time.  In winter, resources are scarce.”

Reminded by Aros’ plans to confront the dwarves, my mind begins to race, searching for options.  With the coming of winter, time is my new enemy.

#50: Confrontation

The camp is astir with restless energy.  Actual sleep is fitful and does not come easily—Nobanion’s reproach, whether a hallucination or dreamlike vision quest, still stings and I have to shake my head to regain focus.  “You brought it on yourself, fool,” I mumble to myself quietly.  Though it felt like hours, only a few minutes have passed since settling in for the night.

When I look up, I can see Vargmenni staring at me intently, likely disturbed by my disquiet.  Frode is away from camp on a patrol of the area, and she seizes the opportunity to draw close.  Using a rapid combination of gestures and shared words, she tries to communicate something that eludes my understanding.  Frustrated, she holds up a hand with three fingers and points to the cave.  “Vargmenni, Zeb, Aros... escape?” I ask tentatively, not sure I comprehend.

She shakes her head vigorously and gestures again, indicating that it wasn’t an invitation to escape—she was instead trying to explain that there were three “small men” that I assume from the context to be dwarves.  Her next statements are too broken and come too quickly for me to fully understand, but my best guess is that she’s trying to indicate that there are many dwarves in the hills.  “Frode fight... all,” she says gravely.

I repeat her gestures and offer the word “dwarf,” hoping she’ll understand.  She pieces together my meaning and I follow by stating “dwarf... Zeb’s friend.”  She is clearly as frustrated with her limited ability to communicate as I am.  She gestures again to the hills and the many dwarves that inhabit them, then points to Aros and the other warriors.  “They will die,” she says gravely.  Frode’s warriors are no match for the dwarves of these nameless hills.

“Zeb, Vargmenni escape?” I ask, gesturing to the cave.

She shakes her head, pointing instead out into the hills. She grabs my shoulder, pulling me close to speak something quietly.  “Zeb, Vargmenni escape... no return.”  She rises suddenly, turning away from me and begins walking slowly back to the other side of camp.  In the distance, I can see Frode returning, which explains her sudden departure.  The other warriors seem disinterested in our conversation, though I can see Gola watching us from a nearby fire—my doubts about her remain.  I do not understand her relationship to Frode, but know that it would not end well if Gola were to become involved in any way.

Frode stalks into the middle of camp and orders Baln to tend to Harka, issuing a single, harsh command.  “Okt!”  Despite Baln’s help, however, Harka seems in no condition to walk, let alone fight.  I contemplate attempting to evaluate Harka’s wounds and perhaps heal them, but the desire to gauge Frode’s reaction to the warrior’s current disability stays my hand. 

Before the situation can escalate, Aros distracts Frode, pointing at tracks on the ground.  Though I am not able to understand their words, it seems likely that they are trying to ascertain how many dwarves there may have been and where they may have escaped.  Aros’ composure in this situation stands out, the warrior addressing Frode more like an equal than a superior.  Signs from the camp are clear that it was a large group of dwarves—a dozen, perhaps a score in total, mingled with tracks from a small horse or pony. 

Frode’s disinterest in the actual cave opening seems off to me, especially considering that the defenders may have fled into it.  I grab a burning brand from one of the fires and approach the cave entrance, more curious to see if Frode will stop me than actually finding anything within.  As I turn my back on the camp, I get the feeling that his eyes are on me the entire time, though he doesn’t call for me to stop.

The cave opening is tight for someone man-sized—Aros would certainly have to bend over, I would have to stoop at least a little.  Nothing can be heard from within, nor are there any scents or anything else that seems out of place.  I spare a glance back at Frode and I can see that I have his full attention, and somehow that satisfies me.  I need it to be clear to this man that I am not a prisoner or subject to his whims.

I feel a prickle in the back of my skull which causes the hairs to raise on my neck, not dissimilar to some of my interactions with magic before.  The sensation is fleeting.  If it is indeed spellcraft, it seems that I have shrugged off any effect.  I turn suddenly to glare at Frode, trying to see if it was he that was attempting to ensorcell me.  There is no indication that he had actively cast a spell, but I do see Frode take a single, small step back as if surprised.  I smile at the shaman menacingly.

The moment is interrupted by Vargmenni, who calls out to Frode from across the camp—I cannot discern the meaning of her words, but there is a surprising amount of force behind whatever it is she is trying to communicate.    Frode replies curtly, ending the exchange, whatever the subject matter may have been.  Satisfied with what I have learned thus far both about the cave and Frode, I return to the fire.  There is a palpable sense of tension, a feeling that everyone is waiting for something to happen.  Frode is the only one who seems above it all, oblivious.

“Are we in danger?” I ask Aros suddenly, knowing he will not understand.   He reacts predictably, arching a brow in curiosity.  I call out to Vargmenni, putting more force behind my words than usual, more a command than a request.  “Vargmenni.  Danger?  How do you say?”

She blurts out the word klevta in response before very quickly turning away.  I ignore her, and any reaction Frode may have to my questions.  “Aros, Zeb, klevta?”  I try to use inflection to indicate that it’s a question.

Aros shrugs and does not answer, instead turning to Frode, to whom he repeats my question.  Frode issues an exaggerated laugh in response, gesturing around to the hills, repeating the word.  “Klevta, klevta!”  He waves his arms in a wild, almost uncaring manner, as if indicating that we are surrounded by false danger.  His response reinforces an absolute sense of confidence and only serves to create more tension in the camp.

Refusing to yield the conversation to Frode, I step to confront the shaman and demand “What is the plan?” gesturing in turn to the hills and to the cave.  “Return to Tovt?” I ask.

“Zeb, seft,” he replies, pointing to the cave.  There is a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

I turn to Vargmenni and ask her to explain his meaning, not sure if seft means he intends for me to investigate the cave further or whether Frode intends for us all to go together.

She points toward the cave, her face betraying some fear or uncertainty.  “Seft is cave,” she explains hesitantly.

While I briefly have my attention turned toward Vargmenni, Frode steps towards me, issuing his command again.  This time his meaning and tone are both clearly a command for me alone.  “Zeb seft!” he says more forcefully, this time shoving me towards the cave.

I stumble for a moment and regain posture, making no other move or reaction except to glare at Frode.  Reaching over his shoulder, Frode unslings his massive sword and thrusts it into the ground, repeating his command once more.  “Zeb, seft.”

I pause for a long moment, contemplating the many, many ways I can possibly react and the potential repercussions of each course of action.  Frode’s eyes nearly glimmer with barely contained violence, as if begging for me to try and fight him.  Instead, I turn my back on Frode wordlessly and walk back toward the fire.

Frode tears his sword from the ground, advances toward me and takes a huge cross-swing at my back.  I instinctively fall forward a few steps, feeling the air of the blade inches from my exposed skin.  “Coward!” I scream in defiance, drawing my only weapon—a small, rusty blade.  Aros and the others look on in shock.

Having seen the shaman in combat, I know him to be wild and reckless—my knife is no match for his blade.  My only hope is to neutralize him entirely.  I scramble to my knees, calling upon my faith.  Frode recovers quickly, raising his sword and charging towards me.  His second slash does not miss, tearing through the meager protection provided by the hide slung across my shoulders, cutting between two ribs.  Blood burgeons from the wound, though thankfully it was not deep enough to puncture organs. 

I raise my head in time to see a torrent of flame issue from an enraged Vargmenni, who holds her hands out before her.  Frode is engulfed by the flames, caught off guard by Vargmenni’s betrayal.  The tension is shattered, however, as there are cries from amid the camp which cause us all to turn. 

From beyond the hills a winged shape comes into view approaching our camp at an extraordinary velocity—even at this distance, it is clear that it is a massive reptile with long neck, spined wings, and a whipping tail.  I ignore the creature entirely, instead completing my prayer, clasping my hands before me to form a small, collapsing cage with my fingers.  I growl as complete the gesture and Frode is caught utterly off guard, paralyzed by my enchantment.

As the others in camp flee to the nearest cover, I ignore the dragon’s approach and climb to my feet.  Stepping forward, I stoop to grab Frode’s sword in both hands, lifting the enormous blade.  Frode, unable to move, stares at me with glassy eyes filled with rage.  “For you, Nobanion,” I utter as I bring the heavy blade down on Frode’s neck.  Cut cleanly, his severed head rolls away from the shaman’s carcass.

The white wyrm, nearly forgotten, swoops over our camp, scattering the warriors as it sails past.  As my gaze follows it, I see shadowy forms emerge from cave fleeing into the hills—two larger forms, presumably dwarves, as well as a smaller figure, perhaps a child.

I recognize the need to capitalize as much as possible on the chaos of the situation.  I call out to the warriors, “Aros, Baln, seft okt!”  I find Vargmenni, calling for her to translate.  “We must go to the cave.  Grab Gola, Harka!  Go!”

Vargmenni, having witnessed my ruthless assault on Frode, steps forward and spits the words “Bad magic!” before turning to join the others.

As the dragon disappears over the hills, the warriors finally seem to understand my commands and begin to execute them.  I take a moment to appreciate the fleeing creature.  “Illusion,” I mutter to myself, admitting that I was totally convinced for a moment that we were all going to die.  From the corner of my eye, I can see Aros’ eyes following the fleeing dwarves—when he turns away, it’s as if the warrior made a conscious decision to remain with our group and not pursue them.

While the others scramble to safety, I reach down to grab Frode’s head, thinking to wrap it in the small hide and take it with me.  Despite my best efforts, it resists my efforts to lift it, and for a moment my stomach sinks. Whatever fell magic is contained within Frode’s implanted “teeth,” it functions even now. 

I drop to a knee, and with my rusty knife begin the bloody work of carving the stones from Frode’s jaw, removing handfuls of teeth as they are sliced from his gums.  The process is not quick, and before long my chest and arms are covered in the shaman’s blood.  I examine the handful of teeth, satisfied to see the two dark stones among the rest, and stoop to cut a small pouch from his belt into which I stuff everything.

The site of Frode’s massacre is strangely serene.  As the others huddle within the dark cave, I watch the in the direction of the dragon’s flight.  When it is evident that there is no threat, I return to the others.  I ignore the gaze of everyone save Aros, pausing only to ask Vargmenni to translate.

“I am not evil,” I say, laying my knife on the ground before Aros.  “Frode was evil.”

Vargmenni translates, adding “Frode... bad magic,” pointing to her teeth as she explains to Aros.  If there is judgment, I am not able to see it in the warrior’s eyes.  Finally, Vargmenni turns to me and says, “No return.”  The context seems to indicate that she feels Frode was past the point of no return, and it seems as if Aros is in agreement.

Aros finally begins speaking and issuing orders, though I do not comprehend.  Vargmenni explains, “Return to Tovt, avoid hills, outnumbered.”

I nod in assent, but don’t want to leave the situation as it stands. “I need Aros to believe me,” I beg her to translate.  “I am not evil.”  Another brief conversation ensues.  Vargmenni finally says, “Frode attacked, Zeb defended.”  Vargmenni’s next words are surprising.  “Aros lead tribe now.”

“Good,” I say with a smile.  “Aros leads.  Zeb will follow.  Tovt okt, let’s go!”  We take to the hills, leaving Frode’s bloody corpse behind.  Aros and Baln lead us skillfully, avoiding any threat, whether dwarves of the hills or other predators.  In the early morning light, we can see the thatched roofs and plumes of smoke from Tovt’s hearth fires in the distance.

The Shorn Vale: Prologue

The forest breathes.

The forest breathes, my friend. But lo! I speak not of the fauna and other denizens that dwell within its groves or writhe below its roots. Nor do I utter of the restless trees, nor the mosses that flourish nor the creepers that clamber upon the damp earth, in recesses ever shielded from the sun’s penetrating gaze.

No, I avail none of these. For within this darkness lurks a deeper dark, one borne of shadows cast long ago, when the land was an untamed youth. A darkness wherein is stirred what ought be left to lie. And, in answer, it awakens to a new dawn, and scores upon scores of fresh souls to consume.

The forest breathes.

—“The Forest Breathes”
Old Keht Parables
Unattributed
CY -?

* * *

First breath of spring, 1163
The Wraithfens

The solitary white raven perched atop the dilapidated tower, alabaster feathers glistening in the light of the waxing moon. From this vantage point, it could see all: rolling, forlorn hills covered in copses of barren, twisting trees that reached up to embrace the cloudless sky as hundreds of its brothers and sisters flew hither, bespeckling the dark of night.

A great battle was once fought here during an age long past, and when it ended the white ravens descended to feast upon the dead, their crimson-stained plumage taking on a horrific likeness to the bodies they pillaged. Though savage winds and rain had long since cleansed the grounds of blood and bone, ruined limestone walls yet bore the memory of those who had fallen.

As ravens littered the tower, a preternatural aura fractured the chill air, drawing them rapt. A foreboding presence stirred amid the grove, one not known to the world for generations of pale-winged scavengers. The unfettered night crooned to its awakening.

There would be no feasting on rotting flesh, this eve.

* * *

Many miles removed, in the village of Wren’s Hollow, the soothsayer looked down from the belfry, touching a weathered hand to a tangle of gray beard, ignoring the chittering of rats in the rafters above. Much like the crows that haunted the bell tower during the day, the disciple of fates found utility in being able to survey the village from up high. He shivered and drew in his cloak as a cold breeze carried in from the west.

Nearby, plumes billowed from the chimneys of the village’s lone inn whilst the groaning of wagon wheels resounded over the din of its taproom. The wagon itself, pulled by two Kilvaran horses and decorated in the blue and white heraldic pennants of the Blue Banner Trading Company, was encrusted with hardened mud from its travails, the posts framing its bed adorned with disembodied toes and claws, driven into the wood with iron spikes. When finally it wretched to a halt, an armed contingent gathered round, warily eyeing its freight.

Chained to the wagon’s frame were a dozen emaciated men draped in matted hides: indentures from a scattering of hamlets set low in a distant valley to the south, forged eons ago by great seas of moving ice. From under the earth, salt deposits buried in ancient seabeds were excavated through perilous catacombs as valuable trade fodder across the vale.

Their labored, uneven breaths rasped from faces marred with dark stains, the result of incisions cut deep under the skin and cauterized with fire, a process known locally as “bloodmarking.” Likely these men had completed their indentures or grown too sickly to be of use. Dregs scraped away to clean the basin and be made someone else’s problem.

Rid them north to procreate broken sons, thus the never-ending cycle endures. Deliver me of the old gods, once more.

The militia would see that none were let inside. Had the field marshal been present, the slavers would have been routed from the village with quarrels sprouting from their backsides. But, as it was, the wagon would be sheltered out of the way and find passage into the surrounding hills before the first light of dawn—for a few errant coins or spare ingot of iron. Either way, at least the rabble would be gone.

Following a brief exchange with the driver, the wheels bleated again to life and the wagon continued rolling past. The shrill cry of a white raven echoed in the night as it landed on the tavern’s steep-pitched roof.

The soothsayer drew in his cloak more tightly, made a warding gesture across his body, and looked on.

* * *

Amid the prisoners aboard the wagon, one passenger was hidden. Of barely twenty winters, her bone-white flesh peeled beneath tattered clothes. Once-gray eyes were flooded, stained red with blood.

As the guards drew near, no one saw the subtle movements of the salt witch’s hands, nor heard the quiet droning of her incantation as she called upon primordial spirits that lingered in the darkness around them. All around them, unseen...

Interlude: Audience

I awaken in a rush, drawing in a single, sharp breath before leaping to my feet.  My surroundings are foreign—a warm, dry breeze drifts gently over the savannah when moments ago I had been lying on the cold ground outside the cave entrance.  My companions—Aros and Vargmenni, at least, surely fit that word—are nowhere to be found.  Nor is Frode or his warriors.  Instead, I am alone.  Cautious, I drop to a knee, letting the tall grasses conceal my presence.

The cry startles me, a kite or raptor plummeting from above to take a smaller bird as prey.  Nearby, the ribbed horns of an antelope or similar bovid are seen bouncing above the grasses as a small herd takes flight, likely having caught my scent on the wind.  In the distance lies a small grove of trees, the only landmark visible on any horizon. 

Despite the presence of recognizable fauna, however, there is a sense of “other” that I cannot shake.  This is no mortal realm—it bears the scents, the tastes, all the sensations of a godly realm.  A realm of hunters, though completely unlike the barren, dangerous wastes of Malar’s hunting ground.  Suddenly at ease, I stand and take in the primal glory of Nobanion’s domain.

Though distant, I can see a figure standing within grove and I begin to stalk carefully through the plain to meet my patron.  The Lion King does not disappoint.  Limned by the bright savannah sun behind him, he is a powerful, majestic figure.  A sense of danger radiates from his being; having been hunted before, I recognize it for what it is and try my best to avoid wavering, instead meeting his fiery gaze proudly as I stand before him.

“I have watched you,” he says, his voice a deep, rolling growl.  “And I see now branching paths laid before you.  Which will you choose, I wonder.”

“I will not desert my friends.”  Even I am somewhat surprised at how easily that word flowed from my mouth, having clearly meant Aros and Vargmenni.  Aros, with whom I am completely unable to communicate meaningfully—I owe him my life.  He could have taken me easily, though instead he saw me to sanctuary and spoke on my behalf, even if I could not understand his words.  And Vargmenni, about whom I know frustratingly little—an enigma, no less foreign to this place and time than I, a keeper of secrets.  But she has stood by me, trusted me, and has earned my loyalty.

Though I speak not these thoughts, it is clear that Nobanion knows them, as if he sees through me to the very core of my soul.  I cannot tell if his rumbling growl is one of approval or one of disappointment.  Nonetheless, I hold my ground and don’t bother to explain—I have become accustomed to defying deities.

There is a disapproving glimmer in his eye at that thought, though it only lasts for a moment.  “We shall see,” he grumbles in response.  “And what of the shaman?”

I cannot hold back the bloodlust that rises at mention of Frode.  I taste bitter iron on my palate and I can’t help but visualize ripping out Frode’s throat.  The deity’s disapproving look returns.  I return his glare defiantly.  “Malar’s path…and his methods…are behind me.  Until I learn more, I will wait and I will observe.”  A rare glimmer of approval in Lord Firemane’s eyes is my reward, though it is fleeting.

“But when the time comes for violence,” I threaten while pulling out my rusty blade, “I will carve out Frode’s soul and send it to you shrieking.”

Blinding, searing flame is Nobanion’s censure for my foolish, insolent words and I feel my essence hurled back into the mortal realm.

#49: The Cloaked Child

By the gods, the warrior-shaman knows all.

The implications of that continue to occupy my thoughts, even as Aros and the others go about the business of breaking down camp in preparation for departure.  Whatever Frode may know, he doesn’t press the matter, instead dragging Gola behind him to gather his own belongings.

I approach Aros to see if there is any way I can assist.  There is tension in the air, a general sense of unease, and very little in the way of communication occurs.  There is also an undertone of what might be distrust, though I’m unable to determine whether it’s directed at me or rather perhaps caused by my presence.  Vargmenni has kept silent, careful not to share even a glance where Frode might witness it.  My gaze lingers as she gathers her things, her darker skin a keen reminder that she also is not of this village; however she may have arrived here, it is obvious that she endured much with this tribe.  She keeps to herself silently, and she is careful about her every action.

In a moment when Aros is close, I link together the few words of his language I know, pressing the silence.  “Tovt, okt?” I ask, assuming I have pieced together enough words to ask if we return to his village.  He nods but says nothing more as Frode commands the group to travel.  There are alternating patches of snow-covered and bare ground where the wind has blown it into drifts, but otherwise travel through the valley is unimpeded, limited only somewhat by the speed of Gola as she is pulled behind Frode.  I do my best to keep up, careful not to draw any more attention to myself than I already have.

The morning passes quickly, sun rising high into the sky.  All is well until a noise pierces the serenity of the environment, a low groaning sound as of that in an animal in pain or distress.  The group stops, all looking to Frode for direction.  My memories are stirred by the sound, and though it’s not completely clear, it has all the hallmarks of coming from a large animal.  Frode motions for the party to continue, heading towards the sound.  I follow cautiously, keeping my thoughts to myself for now.

The warriors don’t seem overly concerned, continuing for a few minutes until we ascend a small hill—below we can see a very large beast with long, shaggy hair and a pair of curled horns—a rothé.  It is lying on its side, as if struggling or in pain.  No blood is evident.  I keep watch around us—there’s always a chance that it was the victim of some predator that still wishes to claim its prey.

“Rothé?” I ask, pointing to the creature.  The warriors reply with a different word, clearly with the same meaning.  I keep hoping for some commonality between our languages, but if it exists, I have not yet discovered it.  The warriors take out their weapons and begin prodding at the creature, and it squeals in response.  It seems more an act of discovery than cruelty, and for the first time since the previous night, Vargmenni approaches and stand at my side.

“Sick,” she says.

“In their language, how do you say that?  ‘Sick’?”  She replies and I approach Frode and the warriors, watching their actions carefully.

Frode suddenly begins to speak, his tone escalating, nearly yelling, and he turns to Vargmenni who startles visibly.  He shouts and points at her, waving his arms aggressively, and stomps towards her.  There is a moment where I think he might intend violence, and I do not stir—this is not the time nor place to be a hero, so I watch silently as the situation plays out.

She regains her composure, quickly yelling back at Frode, and a clear argument ensues in their foreign tongue.  “Vargmenni—fire hands!” she calls out in the common tongue, holding out her arms as she did the night before—though nothing happens.  The tension grows, though I spare a moment to recognize the oddity of her using our shared language in her exchange with Frode.

Frode pushes his arms to his side and he begins to levitate, and he starts growling at her, towering above her.  If violence is indeed Frode’s intent, it will commence imminently.  With his attention focused on Vargmenni, desperate to end the infighting, I rush to the rothé’s side and plunge my knife into the flesh behind its ear where the skull is soft.  Warm crimson floods over my hands as the beast lets out a death rattle before becoming still.  Vargmenni turns to me instinctively, and this breaks whatever fury had overtaken Frode.

“Sick,” I reply in his language as Frode stares at me.  Almost instantaneously, the situation seems defused.  Frode walks to the side of the rothé and kicks it before turning to the other warriors and begins to issue more orders.  They back away, seemingly content to leave the creature, and after a few moments of awkward silence the tension dissipates, and our party continues on its way.  It seems odd, wasteful to leave such a resource as the rothé behind, but I don’t see a need to press the matter. 

Not long after midday, we catch sight of a plume of smoke ahead to the northeast.  The smoke is distant enough that there is no immediate concern, but the group stops briefly to motion towards it, accompanied by a brief discussion.  Frode seems intent on heading in the direction of the plume.

Vargmenni keeps her distance as we walk, and despite my attempts to get close to him, a meaningful conversation about the smoke with Aros seems out of reach.  The plume proves to be several miles away, our approach broken by the occasional copse of trees or jagged ground.  None of the warriors displays much in the way of emotion, though there is a general sense of caution as we move.

Finally, we descend into a low valley, the plume lying just ahead over a rise, its source not yet visible.  There is still daylight though it is failing, and Frode begins issuing orders in a low voice, as if careful not to be heard.  To my surprise, it seems as if order has been given to drop our gear, and the warriors begin arranging belongings on the ground.  As the sun sets, dim light from a distant fire can be seen.  I approach Frode, using gestures and crude language to ask about his intentions towards the fire.

When he replies, there is a hint of a sneer on his face, a look I have seen before.  This man intends violence—that seems answer enough for now.  There is nothing for me to do but wait with the others in silence as rations are passed around, mostly dried pieces of meat and tree bark that are chewed without providing much in the way of flavor or nourishment.  Fortunately, I do not have an appetite.

The sun sets completely, and the sky grows black.  The moon occasionally pierces the dense cloud cover, providing just enough in the way of light to be able to discern shadows.  Another hour or two passes, and the temperature drops.  We are all waiting for what’s coming, waiting on Frode and his erratic behavior.

The silence is broken by Frode, who stands and gathers the entire party.  I am oddly pleased to be included, and he gives several instructions quietly.  Though I do not understand his words, his intentions are clear.  Warriors disperse to gather their weapons.  Together, we begin to traverse the ground up the hill, climbing towards the source of the flame. We draw within perhaps a half mile—the scent of burning wood rides the shifting and swirling winds.  We descend again into another valley, this one smaller, nestled between two hills.  Ahead, a soft glow from a fire is visible.  Frode whispers instructions to the three warriors, gesturing for them to accompany him up the hill, excluding me, Vargmenni and Gola.  They begin a slow, quiet climb with their weapons.

I watch as they depart, and for the first time I am left alone with Vargmenni—and I try my best to efficiently ask her questions burning on my mind.  I speak too quickly and she shakes her head, confused, so I distill my speech to the most basic words I can think of.  “Friend?  Enemy?  Danger?”

She makes a motion to the top of my head, then lowers it to my shoulder, whispering a single word.  “Miners”—a very surprising response.  As Frode and the other warriors escape our vision, she withdraws something from within the folds of her tunic—a rolled sheet of vellum or bleached hide and sits on the ground, focusing on it intently.  I have spent enough time in front of my own tomes to recognize this for what it is—arcane writing, a scroll or perhaps a spell formula. 

Meanwhile, Gola sits quietly—seemingly on edge, her face wrinkled in unrecognizable emotion.  I am paralyzed with indecision, a feeling that has become all too familiar since my rebirth.  Unwilling to interrupt Vargmenni in her frantic study, I stand awkwardly next to Gola, trying to read her emotions.  The silence stretches, the woman staring blankly at me, never quite meeting my eyes.  I am unsure how to even approach conversation with this woman.

Vargmenni continues to focus on the sheet of vellum, minutes passing quickly as my heart races, pounding loudly in my chest.  Suddenly, a battle cry erupts from the hills, Vargmenni’s eyes lifting momentarily in distraction, though it’s clear she is intent on finishing whatever it is she is doing.  “Focus,” is the only thing I say to her, using the same tone I had used with Selben countless times as my young apprentice wavered in his studies.  Thoughts of Selben leave me unsettled—I cannot even remember my last conversation with him, it seems so long ago.  Memories stir.  Selben, Bonie…and at the very thought of her, my knees nearly collapse. 

I catch myself and find Gola staring at me silently, and suddenly am reminded of my surroundings.  Knowing that these few moments might be my only opportunity to learn more about Frode and this complicated situation, I use the only priestly power left at my disposal—originally intended for Frode, but one that would prove extremely dangerous given the circumstance—so I use it instead on Gola.  Learning more about her might be key in understanding Frode. 

Appealing to Nobanion for guidance, I call upon his powers and focus on Gola, attempting to divine her nature.  She either does not notice or does not care, instead she stands quietly, unflinching, staring at me silently.  From her, I receive a sense of neutrality—if she is possessed of malevolence, it is hidden to me, and I am satisfied with that finding.

More shouts are heard in the night—not cries of pain or sounds of battle, but shouting.  One of the voices is higher pitched than the others—perhaps feminine—though it is obscured by the rest.  I spare another glance for Vargmenni, who continues to focus on her study of the scroll.  Unable to discern the scroll’s meaning and unwilling to interrupt her, I make the decision to head towards the commotion.  I follow the path that seems the shortest to give me some vantage point, following the footprints of one of the warriors as best I can in the dim moonlight.

I crest the small hill just in time to see Frode and three of his warriors closing in on a small clearing, amid which is a campfire.  Fleeting shadows flee the warrior’s approach, heading into the mouth of a nearby cave.  As the warriors converge on the campsite, something appears suddenly in front of the warriors, an apparition that blinks into existence before them.  It is that of a gigantic bear, standing on its hind legs, more than twice the height of Aros.

Frode and his warriors halt immediately as it issues a low roar, swiping great claws at the air in front of them.  The warriors stop instantly, surprised by the creature’s appearance, and I pause to consider the encounter.  The bear’s emanation did not suit the creature’s size, neither in intensity nor in volume.  Its bellowing roar should echo throughout the valley, but instead it is muted, softer than it should be.  I crouch quietly and watch as the situation unfolds, keeping my suspicions to myself and my presence unknown.

The great bear wastes no time, charging towards Frode and his party.  The warriors raise their weapons in defense, seeking guidance—their leader belts out a war cry, and the warriors meet its charge.  A huge ghostly claw swipes at Harka, spinning him around violently until he collapses in a heap nearby.  It is difficult to tell if there is blood on the snow—a similar blow would eviscerate any lesser man.

Behind the spectral bear, I catch sight of a fleeting shape moving from into the cave—a smaller form, almost that of a child, wearing a dark cloak.  I am quite certain that the other warriors have not seen this.  I continue to crouch and watch—as much as I don’t want the same fate to befall Aros, this is not my fight.  I do not understand the powers at play here.

Frode motions violently shouting instructions as Aros & Baln begin to back away.  The bear makes a sweeping attack at Aros, but he manages to dodge, narrowly avoiding its reach.  Frode rushes forward, sword raised high and strikes at the bear—suddenly, as quickly as it appeared, it vanishes.  I grunt softly, my suspicions seemingly confirmed—for I believed this to be an illusion.  Though illusion is a discipline of the arcane arts I cannot access, I am familiar with it in theory.

There is a brief pause as the warriors scan their surroundings, looking for other threats.  Harka remains motionless in the shadows, and in the confusion I slip away, heading back to Vargmenni and Gola lest my presence be noticed by Frode.  Vargmenni seemed secretive about her study of the scroll, and I would not want Frode to return and catch her unawares.  When I make it back, I find Vargmenni tucking away the vellum.

“Frode returns,” I utter breathlessly.  “Harka was killed, I think.”  I wait to see what reaction her reaction may be to those words.  If Vargmenni is concerned, she does not show it.

Knowing that only a few moments remain, I draw my knife, showing it to Vargmenni.  “Should I give this to Gola?”  It is a question that had been on my mind, and I’m not sure of my own intent.  She could do herself harm or attempt escape, and either way it could be dangerous for me if she were found with my blade.  I do not hide my words from Gola, curious to gauge both of their reactions.

Gola stares silently, her face tight with restrained emotion.  Vargmenni shakes her head no, and I sheathe the blade.  “One last question,” I ask quickly.  “Is she friend or enemy?”

Vargmenni eyes me intently before responding.  “Neither.”  There is no more time for discussion as Aros returns, alone, and begins issuing instructions that seem to indicate he wants the four of us to return to our camp.

“Where is Frode?” I ask Aros, assuming my meaning gets across.

“Harka” is his response.

I give him a questioning look before replying, again using one of the few words I know in their language.  “Harka sick?”  I’m curious to measure his response.  He grunts, neither confirming nor denying the statement, almost as if it is inconsequential.  Wordlessly, Aros pushes us along the path back towards camp.

When we arrive, the orders are clear that Aros wants the gear collected—I scoop up Harka’s pack while Aros, Vargmenni and Gola collect the rest of the packs.  Once complete, we retrace our steps towards the hill and the mouth of the cave to find Frode and Baln sitting silently near the fire.  Harka is on the ground nearby, breathing slowly though unconscious—there is no blood or visible wounds on the warrior.  The cave opening is nearby, pitch black.  No one seems inclined to pay it much attention, let alone enter the cave, at least for the moment.

I look at Harka, then to Frode and ask “What happened?” My meaning unclear, I gesture to Vargmenni to translate.  She exchanges a few words quietly with Frode, and I am surprised by the cordial tone in her voice.

He mutters a few incomprehensible words and she replies.  “False death.”

“Enemies?” I ask Frode using his language, pointing towards the cave mouth.  Frode replies crudely, nodding.  “Enemies.”  With that he stands, commanding the group to claim the camp and fire and prepare to rest for the night.  There are several packs that the other party left behind, and we begin to sort through them, cataloguing our findings. 

I find a way to draw near Vargmenni, and gesture to her tunic where I know the roll of vellum to be hidden.  Frode is distracted, stalking around the camp picking through gear so I risk a few quiet words.  “Fire hands?” I ask her, and she gives a very quick, subtle nod before returning to her tasks.

I take a few steps away and stop to stare at the cave entrance, attempting to see if I notice any architecture, anything recognizable.  Vargmenni appears silently at my side, making a careful gesture, raising her hand to my head and lowering it to her shoulder.  In the trade tongue she utters a single word. “Dwarves.”