#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.”

#48: Bad Magic

Images of Frode’s brutal ritual continue to haunt me through the silence and darkness, of blood pouring from his mouth as he digs out a pair of teeth with my blade, replacing them with stones from the pouch seized from the heucuva.  The nature of the stones eludes me, and it takes effort to push the grisly thoughts from my mind. I focus instead on my facsimile of Frode’s pattern of sticks and bones, used to power the elder’s spell.  The arcane style, primitive yet effective, fascinates me, and I do my best to reconstruct it from memory.  Once satisfied with the results, sleep threatens, so I settle into my hide near the small bonfire, seeking rest.

I am disturbed by the crunch of boots in the snow, however, and stare as I see Vargmenni standing a few yards away.  I watch as she scans the camp, Aros and I sleeping near the fire, and her attention rests for a while on my reconstruction of Frode’s spell.  She says nothing, and after a few long moments, turns away.  Curious but unconcerned, I give in to fatigue and settle into a deep sleep.

A woman’s scream pierces the night, and I pull myself quickly to my feet.  Aros is already standing, his cudgel in hand, and he marches through Tovt.  “Zeb?” I call out questioningly, pointing to my chest, then to the village to see if he wants me to follow.  He looks back and holds up a hand in a staying gesture—I obey, drawing my knife as I try to stay alert.

Several members of the village are stirred into motion by the scream, and I can see a torch or two flickering in the distance.  The shadows make it hard, but I catch glimpse of Frode’s figure in the shadows, dragging behind him the form of a woman in one hand and a large sword in the other.  It is not Vargmenni, that much is clear.  His torso is still covered in blood, though it’s not clear if it is fresh or dried blood from the brutal extractions earlier this evening.  The woman he drags does not seem to be resisting, though she seems fearful or distressed. 

I follow his passage until he disappears into the village, and while I am concerned for what might be going on, I recognize the impracticality of doing anything about it.  The sword, however, is a curiosity—it speaks of craftsmanship I had not yet seen displayed in the village.

In a few minutes, the camp settles and Aros returns.  He appears stoic, and barely acknowledges me before settling back into his bedroll, ignoring my questioning looks.  Though wracked by curiosity I do not broach the matter—Aros has earned my trust, and if he is not concerned, I do my best to suppress my own disquiet.  More noises are heard throughout the night, muffled screams and cries, but no one stirs or makes to stop them.  I find falling back to sleep difficult, so I sit near the fire cross-legged and focus on my breathing until sleep finally comes. 

When I awaken, I can see Aros sitting near the fire staring into the flames.  His clay jug of water is nearby, and he shares it with me.  I point to a haunch of the deer and then to the fire, making it clear that I intend to cook breakfast.  He nods in approval, and once cooked we share the meat silently.  When finished, Aros stands and gestures for me to remain again before heading to the village.  I can see villagers going about their business but can make out few other details, so I content myself to eat and drink my fill, eager to regain my strength.

When Aros eventually returns, he issues what appears to be a command.  “Okt!” he says, gesturing for me to stand and follow.  I assent, walking quietly behind him as he leads me to Frode.  The elder looks agitated this morning, the cause unknown.  He has changed his hides, but dried flakes of blood are still visible on his neck, arms and legs.  I peer at his face, expecting to see bruising or swelling from the ritual, and while I see signs of damage to his face, it’s not as horrid as I would have thought.  Aros’ folk are hardened, indeed.

“Good morning,” I offer as a greeting, not expecting a response.  Frode regards me with a piercing stare, and when he replies it is to Aros in his own language, not to me.  His speech is altered by the removal of his teeth, his voice coarse and speech somewhat slurred.  Frode gestures to both of us, continuing to speak unintelligibly, and I recognize only Vargmenni’s name.  After the conversation we are clearly dismissed, and Aros guides me away from Tovt.

When we return to camp, Aros gestures for me to gather my belongings.  I leave the sticks and bones behind, throwing the deer hide over a shoulder and pat the knife tucked into my belt, gesturing that I’m ready.  We walk to the edge of the village where we meet a pair of large men, clearly warriors, each carrying a weapon similar to that of Aros.  Vargmenni and Frode appear shortly after, though from separate directions, the elder carrying his immense sword in one hand.  The other holds a rope, and from it Frode drags a bedraggled woman.  She is clothed, though appears as if she has been beaten recently—or worse.

Frode stands before the group, pulling the woman roughly to his side.  He gestures to each gathered, starting with Aros, speaking the warrior’s name.  The other warriors he identifies as Harka and Baln, and a slight scowl crosses his face when he names Vargmenni.  The scowl deepens when he points to the other woman, naming her Gola.  Frode clearly intends for us to leave Tovt, though the destination is unknown.  Unsure how it will be received, I turn to Vargmenni and speak in the common tongue.  “Are we going to danger?” I ask her slowly, using the most basic language I can.  She takes a few moments to process before responding slowly.

“Danger,” she says awkwardly, and I am glad to see that the exchange does not seem to anger Frode.  I point to Aros’ hide armor and weapon and turn to regard Frode, pointing a finger at my own chest.  “Warrior,” I say, attempting to communicate that I am capable of bearing arms.  Vargmenni looks as if she’s going to speak on my behalf but Frode interrupts, and whatever he says puts an end to the conversation.  I nod, deciding not to press the matter.  Frode gestures and Aros leads our small group from the village, heading into the wilderness.

Aros looks at me almost empathetically, thumping on his chest.  I take it as a sign of reassurance, thumping my own chest and smiling, doing my best to keep up.  Seven of us form a procession that leads into the hills.  Though still uncertain of the terrain, I assume that we are heading back to the stone circle and the heucuva.  The rapid pace of the warriors requires nearly all of my focus and energy to keep up, and I spare no time to attempt any further communication. 

Two days of sleep and nourishment have done much to restore my constitution, and I feel more like myself.  The terrain we pass through is rough, with many light snowbanks.  Vargmenni and Gola do not travel particularly fast compared to the men, which provides some relief to the otherwise strenuous pace, especially as we reach small ridges and hills.  My thoughts stray towards Nobanion, knowing that we are headed towards some unknown danger, and I find myself eager to prove myself to my new patron in some way.  We travel all day, sun rising and then beginning to fall again, and it is not until sunset that our group pauses to rest.  A bright moon rises into the clouded sky.

Before long, my assumptions are confirmed, and I can see the circle of stones in the dim light atop a nearby ridge.  I point ahead and say “heucuva”, looking to the warriors and to Frode to see what reaction is elicited.  The warriors seem hesitant and cautious, but Frode surprises me by laughing out loud.  It is an altogether unexpected reaction, and I find that Frode’s confidence is actually rather unsettling.  He pushes forward, raising his enormous blade.  I shrug to Aros, draw my knife and follow.

Frode stops before entering, gesturing for Aros and the warriors to flank the circle of stones.  Frode drops Gola’s tether, and she sits on a nearby rock obediently.  The nature of their relationship is still a mystery.  I recognize this is the first time that Aros has left my side, and I am left alone with Frode, Gola and Vargmenni.  The absence of the large warrior, my protector and only friend in this strange world, leaves me feeling vulnerable. 

Frode motions for me and Vargmenni to follow behind him as he steps towards the menhirs, and his pace quickens as he cries out “Heucuva!” and unlimbers his large sword.  I follow as commanded, though Frode’s sudden transformation leaves me feeling very uncertain.  Rather than the composed elder and potential mentor I had expected, Frode has turned out to be impetuous and violent, reminiscent more of a Malaran beast cultist than a village elder.

A cloaked figure steps from amid the circle, the heucuva in its disguise.  Frode’s march hastens as he raises his sword and he launches himself into the air, feet leaving the ground, taking flight as if aided by magic. Vargmenni and the others are as shocked as I am, and she clutches my arm, looking terrified.  “Bad magic,” she says with a quivering voice.  It seems clear she’s referring to Frode, not the heucuva, and my instincts take over as I motion for her to stand behind me, putting myself between her and the creature.

Frode hovers over the stone circle and the heucuva for a moment, then suddenly dives towards the creature, his sword whirling.  He slashes mightily in a cross swing that strikes the creature, though the blow seems deflected, leaving the heucuva seemingly unharmed.  Frode lands nearby, growling angrily, and the creature’s disguise is cast off.  It lashes out at Frode with skeletal hands, though Frode backs out of reach, avoiding the attack.

I turn to Vargmenni and command her to remain behind as I approach the circle, careful not to cross the threshold.  While trying to keep an eye on Frode I examine the ground, hoping to find a weapon or something that can be of use.  I see the hilt of a broadsword in a pile of snow nearby, but nothing else of apparent value.

Frode swings wildly again, his blade passing in front of or directly through the creature.  The length of Frode’s weapon keeps the heucuva at bay, preventing a counterattack.  In a second, overhead stroke that would cut a normal man in half, Frode strikes the creature in the shoulder but the blade is shunted by the creature’s unworldly magic.  I have encountered foes like this before.

Over my shoulder, I shout for Vargmenni to come to my side.  In my panic, I’m unable to put together a coherent command, though I want desperately for her to tell Frode to retreat, that he is not able to combat this kind of magic.  She fails to comprehend my meaning as we hear the crash of Frode’s blade again behind us.  He brings it down upon the creature’s skull and again, the sword is deflected.  Frode is enraged, too angry to acknowledge the ineffectiveness of his attacks.

“Magic!” I yell at Vargmenni, and she looks at me questioningly.  “Magic!” I repeat vehemently, “tell him it can only be harmed by magic!”  I hope that she understands, and I hope that Frode will listen to reason.

The heucuva rakes its claws across Frode’s face, blood spraying onto the ground.  Suddenly, Vargmenni steps breaches the stone circle, holding out her hands—and a torrent of flame launches from them, setting the creature ablaze.  It shrieks as it begins to collapse in a heap of burning robe and bone.  Frode pulls himself to his feet, hacking as its form crumbles to a pile of ash.

I look at Vargmenni, surprised, and she seems nearly overwhelmed.  I gesture for her to follow me into the circle and we approach Frode, who is still hacking at the smoldering undead remains.  I can see Aros and the other warriors drawing near, looking around cautiously, careful not to enter the stone circle.

“This place is evil, and we should not be here.  Tell him,” I command Vargmenni.  She begins speaking rapidly to Frode, and I can only assume she has gathered my meaning.  Frode ignores her words, instead leaving the remains of the heucuva behind to pace and poke about the ground within the circle.

Very quietly, Vargmenni speaks to me again.  “Frode.  Bad magic.  Beware.”  I gesture for her to follow again and we leave the circle, as behind us we see Aros enter, his weapon out.  He begins speaking loudly to Frode, and the elder turns on the warrior, swinging his sword wildly, aggressively clattering it against Aros’ cudgel as they shout at one another incoherently.  Aros finally withdraws, leaving Frode alone among the menhirs.

“And what about your magic?  Bad magic, or good?” I ask, curious to see her response.

“Vargmenni magic, protect,” is her surprising response.  “Vargmenni, fire hands.”  The conversation is interrupted when Frode leaves the circle, striding back to where he left Gola.  Aros follows behind and the two speak, their conflict from before seemingly forgotten.  Once again Frode seems coherent, and while I recognize Vargmenni’s name as well as my own, I understand nothing more of their conversation.  Frode finally turns to me and Vargmenni and then starts issuing orders to the others, seemingly to make camp.

A camp is established uncomfortably close to the menhirs.  A large fire is built for warmth and hides are tossed on the ground around it.  While the warriors discuss setting watches over the camp, I desperately want to communicate with Aros, but I feel as if anything were overheard it could have disastrous—perhaps even deadly—consequences.  I have so many questions, about the heucuva, about Frode and his descent into madness, as well as about Vargmenni and the sudden revelation of her magical prowess.

I decide to sit near the fire in silence and keep an eye on Frode as much as possible.  Frode remains awake during the first watch, focusing his gaze upon the members of the camp intently, appearing deep in thought.  I try not to meet his gaze.  I can’t shake the feeling that Frode is a potential threat, and for a moment I entertain thoughts of slitting his throat in his sleep.  These are Malaran instincts however, and I banish them, castigating myself.  I know too little of these people to make such judgments.

Hours pass and fatigue threatens, but one of the warriors eventually comes to change watch and Frode grabs Gola and pushes her to the ground, drawing her arm over his side as if using her for warmth, lying down near the flame.  Only when I see the man’s eye’s close do I let sleep take me.

I awaken the next morning and take a few steps away from the camp, seeking privacy to pray to my patron.  I ask forgiveness for the rash thoughts of the previous night, though the lingering sense that Frode is dangerous remains.  I seek Nobanion’s guidance on this complicated situation, and appeal to the King of Beasts for the means to discover the information I need to choose a path forward.

I feel clarity for the first time that Nobanion has heard my prayers, and that he has granted me the powers I seek.  As the camp makes ready to depart, I return to the stone circle.  The warriors take note, and Aros makes to stand and join me, but I gesture to him to stay.  Frode notices but makes no move to stop me. 

Amid the stones, nothing seems changed or disturbed from the previous night.  Using the spells granted me, I open up my senses, investigating the circle and debris littered within for signs of magic, hoping to make some sense of the runes carved into the stones.  The runes are indeed magical in nature, though I am unable to discern the source or the type.  I believe them to be an entrapment spell, similar to abjurations I have used in the past, though I have no way to prove the theory.

I shift my divine perception, this time concentrating on a divination to seek out fell energies.  I am relieved that the remains of the heucuva, defeated, do not radiate emanations of evil.  Likewise, the stones themselves, while magical, are neutral in alignment.  Satisfied at the results, I pause to consider my next actions.  Holding on to the energy of the spell I return to camp, hoping for an opportunity to use the magic to discover more of Frode’s nature.

#47: Tovt

I fade in and out throughout the night, bouts of restless sleep intertwined with fits of nightmarish dreams or hallucinations.  The relentless cold has penetrated my body, the dull warmth of the flickering fire my only lifeline.

When I finally awaken, I take a few moments to gain my bearings.  It is difficult to tell how much time has passed—it is perhaps late afternoon.  Given that it is likely the beginning of the winter season and knowing the shortness of days in the Frozenfar, it is likely that I have been unconscious for nearly an entire day. 

I hear Aros crunching through the snow nearby, and I raise my head wearily to watch his approach.  He is carrying a small deer on his back, two legs wrapped around either shoulder.  He throws it to the ground near the fire and starts the process of breaking down the animal, the tinge of iron from the deer’s lifeblood permeating the air.  It raises memories of past hunts and kills, and I have to shake myself out of the brief reverie.

“Good morning,” I say feebly, earning a raised brow and a stoic nod in return.  I crawl towards him with my knife in hand, gesturing and offering to help with his skinning and butchering of the animal.  Though weak, I want to prove myself to this warrior, show him that I can be of some worth.  He raises a brow again but tosses me a haunch, and I do my best not to spoil the meat or bit of hide as I prepare it for the fire.  The smell of roasting game awakens a deep hunger—I don’t even know how long it has been since my last meal, and my mouth waters.

When we finally settle into the meal, I start slowly; even the ritual of breaking my fast seems foreign, and it takes a long time to fill my stomach.  The nourishment starts to restore some of my energy.  Aros takes a long pull from a large clay jug and offers it to me.  It is filled with cold water, and I refresh myself.  Aros seems content to let me continue to rest, busying himself with tasks about the campsite.  Not knowing what he plans, not knowing where we are, I pull myself to my feet and settle into a ritual, struggling to coordinate mind and body.  I start with a lot of stretching—my limbs are yet weak from lack of nourishment, muscles bunched from lack of activity.  Once satisfied, having earned myself a sheen of sweat, I find a nearby rock and sit quietly, letting my spirit reach out once again to Nobanion.  I ask nothing of my patron, still feeling that I have not yet earned that honor, pleased enough to simply feel a connection again.  By the time the ritual is complete, I am nearly spent—recovering, but not yet recovered.  Aros is not the most vocal of companions, but I get the impression that he’s satisfied with my presence and with the silence.  I spend a long time gazing out over the barren horizon.  Eventually, I lose the battle against fatigue and fall asleep once again. 

When I next awaken, it is from a restful, dreamless sleep.  Whether a gift from Nobanion or the natural progression of my slow recovery, I give him silent thanks nonetheless.  The sky is dark and overcast, no light from the moon visible except for the faintest illumination of covering clouds.  I am rested enough that I don’t feel the need to sleep any more, and I use the energy to explore the camp, careful not to disturb Aros in his sleep, though I doubt that the warrior is truly ignorant of my presence.  Escape is the farthest thing from my mind—I am still weakened, completely without resources, and despite our current relationship as companions, I don’t even know if he would let me get away.

The way Aros arranges the camp shows he’s a skilled woodsman and hunter, able to care for himself in the bleak Frozenfar wastes.  I eye his weapon, lying on the ground nearby.  It appears to be manufactured, though crudely, a blade of unworked steel nested into a long wooden shaft to form a crude axe or bladed mace.  He wears around his neck a token, a small amulet made of sticks, bones, feathers and strings of cartilage.  It stirs neither memory of Malar nor worry, not being recognizable as a symbol of any particular faith.

I return to my seat near the fire, content to let Aros rest.  Thoughts of the encounter with heucuva troubles me—both the nature of the deceptive creature as well as how it was repelled by my body when I threw myself between it and Aros.  Was this Nobanion’s doing, or some other mystery?  I am left unsatisfied, with no answer clear.   I mind the fire quietly for the remainder of the evening, keeping watch, until morning arrives and Aros stirs to wakefulness.

After eating, Aros smothers out the fire.  Taking this as a signal that we are about to leave, I take the hide from the deer and throw it over my shoulders.  It is still bloody and somewhat sticky on the inside but will provide warmth in the harsh environment.  Aros seems satisfied with the decision.  “Where are we off to?” I ask, expecting no response.

This time, surprisingly, he speaks.  “Tovt.”  What that means I cannot possibly discern, so I gesture for him to lead and follow along as best I can.  Fortunately, he walks closer to my pace than his own, and though it is sometimes a struggle I am able to keep up.

We head in the direction of the rising sun.  Though nominally heading east, the terrain makes a direct route impossible.  Before long we come upon a stream that joins our path, and we follow our way along it eastward.  The sky is overcast and prevents the sun from shining through, but I track its passage in the clouds until nearly highsun.  We climb atop a low ridge that appears to have a valley beyond, and once we reach the crest, we are rewarded with a view of several huts and bonfires on the valley floor.  Aros is unsurprised, and we are clearly in lands he knows.  “Tovt,” he repeats again, taking long strides forward as he enters the valley.  I repeat the word softly, “Tovt,” smiling briefly, and follow.

The small village is reminiscent of Crahdorn’s gathering of tents, though Aros’ folk—assuming that this is indeed his village—gather here in greater number.  Other figures are seen about the village, also tall and muscular, though few quite so much as Aros.  Their race is clearly of human lineage, though of a stock I don’t recognize.  They are, however, to a person, of intimidating stature.  A crowd gathers and people begin to approach, forming a small audience for our arrival.

An older man, taller than me though still not as large as Aros, approaches.  His hair is long and dark brown mixed with strands of grey, and he is adorned with many fetishes of gut string and bone.  While unrecognizable, this man carries with him the air of a chieftain or leader.  He narrows his eyes, almost stalking me as he nears, muttering lowly under his breath.  He stops before me and utters a single word, “Frode,” its meaning lost on me.  Aros begins to speak in his language, communicating with his elder.  After a time, he says my name, “Zeb,” and gestures towards me.

The older man circles as he inspects me, reminiscent of a panther advancing on its prey.  “Hota!” he calls, and though the commanding tone is clear, I have no idea what directive he has given.  There is an air of suspicion in the tone, perhaps.  I draw my blade slowly, flipping it so that the blade is in my hand, offering him the hilt.  He looks at it skeptically before Aros interjects, explaining something more.  The only word I recognize is “heucuva,” which elicits a rare reaction of surprise from the elder as well as from those gathered.

He eyes me carefully, quickly snatching the knife.  He examines it briefly before tucking it into his belt.  Aros hands the pouch he took from the stone circle to the older man, who seems pleased.  He issues a few more commands to those gathered, and the circle begins to disperse.  “What now?” I ask Aros, shrugging my shoulders.  Unsurprisingly, Aros provides no response.  Instead, he grabs me firmly, not necessarily intending to be forceful, pushing me towards the edge of the encampment to a small bonfire.  He motions for me to stay there, and sits across from me silently.  I ponder Aros and his folk—their skin is slightly tanned compared to the fair-skinned barbarians of the North, but they share a similar square jaw and physique.  Related perhaps to tribes I know, though likely not directly.  

One individual stands out among the crowd, however—a woman, young compared even to Aros, her skin much darker than the others with long, black hair.  She strikes me as foreign, clearly not a blood relative to this tribe, though she wears their clothing and is adorned with similar fetishes.  It does, however, appear that she has scars—marks on her arms and face, a lattice of raised skin.

Aros doesn’t seem particularly talkative, but I decide to probe the matter.  I use pantomime and verbal cues to ask the elder’s name, thumping my chest and voicing the word “Zeb” before pointing to the elder in the village center.

“Frode,” responds Aros, though whether that is his name or a title I am yet unsure.  Confident in my ability to communicate, albeit crudely, I ask after the raven-haired woman’s name.  “Vargmenni” is his response.  Satisfied, I sit still and quiet, awaiting whatever judgment or sentence may come.  Hours pass.

Finally, people begin to congregate once again.  Whereas before it was a couple dozen, now it appears as nearly the whole village has gathered.  As the sun starts to set and twilight approaches, I watch as they meet around a large bonfire.  The elder man, Frode, seats himself on a log near the fire, and motions for Aros to bring me forward.  The situation reminds me of the keravela tribes near Dagger’s Deep, Odesia’s kin, where Kezia revealed her reading.  I shake my head to rid myself of that particular memory.

Frode, draws my knife from his belt, setting it down on the ground.  He begins to speak, repeating the word “Hota.”  After he says the word, I notice small pieces of bone laid before him and he begins to utter words I discern as magical in nature—primitive and unorthodox, but clearly recognizable.  He very suddenly reaches out his left hand and grabs my forearm.

“Hota!” he repeats again, this time pantomiming speech with his hand.

“You want to speak?” I ask, regretting my slow-witted response.  “Hota” is the response again, though this time he nods.

“Are you able to understand what I’m saying?” I ask, and he nods again.

“My apprentice possessed similar magic,” I admit, gesturing to his grid of bone slivers, “and I am familiar with its use.”  No reaction is elicited.

I pause for several moments, constructing my response to this man.  “I climbed from my death and escaped the darkness, only to encounter this warrior Aros, who saved me from the frozen wastes.”  He continues to stare at me, and I pause in my story, waiting for reaction.

He turns to speak to Aros, the only word I recognize being the woman’s name, “Vargmenni.”

“The woman with the scars,” I state quietly.  He repeats her name again.  The man’s face is unreadable.

“Have you any knowledge of a nearby town called Fireshear?” I ask, not expecting him to have ever heard of it.  “A village on the sea, larger than your own, with tents made of stone.” 

He attempts to speak the word “Fireshear” clumsily, then shakes his head.  No.

“I seek my wife and my child, though it may be many miles and many years before I can ever hope to find them.”  He continues to regard me without expression, except perhaps the slightest of nods.

“Aros saved me,” I continue, “and I owe him a debt.  And you have sheltered me, and for that I owe you a debt.”  At that, he picks my knife up off the ground, stands, and backs from the circle.  Aros grabs me again, pulling me away.  Frode begins to speak to his people, addressing the circle.  He takes the pouch in one hand and my knife in the other.  Their attention to his words is absolute.  More than once I hear the word “heucuva” again, each time eliciting sharp intakes of breath, the word clearly disturbing the villagers.

He returns my blade to his belt for a moment, reaching into the pouch to withdraw a small stone.  I’m unable to make out much detail, but it is small, no larger than a pebble.  He draws my knife again, slowly raises it to his lips, then suddenly Frode puts the blade into his mouth, twisting it and cutting into his gums.  Frode withdraws a tooth in a fountain of blood.  There is an air of seriousness, though none of the villagers move or issue anything more than a gasp.  All eyes are locked onto Frode as he inserts the stone into his mouth, replacing the tooth.  I can’t help but stare at the ritual in shock and amazement.  Before I can ask Aros what is going on, Frode reaches into the pouch, withdrawing another small stone—this one different, appearing red in color.

To my dismay he repeats the ritual, drawing my knife again and exchanging another freshly-extracted tooth with the stone.  Both bloody teeth are dropped onto the ground near the fire, Frode’s chest a curtain of dark blood.  He walks towards me and offers me my bloody blade, then closes the pouch and puts it onto his belt before retreating wordlessly to a nearby tent.

When Frode departs, the rest of the crowd begins to disperse.  I watch the them, curious to see if Vargmenni is in attendance.  I find her standing near the fire and approach, curious if any will bar my way or if she will avoid me.  None stop me, though several eye me carefully, and though she seems wary, she remains, giving me a cautious stare.

She is slight of frame, exotic in nature, and younger perhaps than I imagined before.  “Are you able to explain what just happened?” I ask, curious if she will comprehend or respond if she does.  She looks surprised, pausing for a moment before responding.  Her reply is in broken speech, though recognizable as the basest form common, often used among traders.  “You travel far,” she says awkwardly, taking me a few moments to piece together the meaning through her heavy accent.

“Yes,” I respond.  I point to the sky, continuing, “To the heavens and back.”  She nods.  “Good night,” I finish, and return to Aros aside our small fire.  With nothing more to do or say, I withdraw the deer hide from my shoulders and start to treat it, scraping it clean and burning away the bits of flesh to make a more proper hide garment.  Frode’s bloody ritual is heavy in my thoughts, though I’m not able to discern any meaning from it. 

Once that task is complete, I find a flat rock and a few bits of bone or sticks lying in the dirt, none more than a finger in length.  Closing my eyes, I contemplate the arrangement laid down by Frode when casting his spell, for indeed a spell it was.  That in itself is surprising, but the nature of the spell prepared is also surprising—it was not a ward against enemies or the elements as you’d expect from a barbarian shaman, but something more nuanced.  Though the method was completely foreign, arcane sigils bear enough resemblance that I set my mind and hands to recreating the matrix, piece by piece. 

Once satisfied, I leave it on the rock, curious to see if Frode will recognize my recreation.  I busy myself about the fire in silence for a few more moments until fatigue overtakes me, and I pull the skin over my torso as I lay on the ground, staring up at the starless sky.  For some reason Vargmenni comes to mind, and I am haunted by a phrase from the past.  Mortem disfidare.

#46: Rebirth

I find myself at the top of the ledge alone, standing in the dark, breathing heavily from exertion.  It is the first moment that I’m able to pause and take stock of my situation, my physical condition, and the weight of my predicament threatens to crush me.  The air is cold, and early symptoms of hypothermia and exhaustion begin to settle in.  Beyond that, I am alive with knife in hand.  I need to start moving.

I sink to my knees, half from exhaustion and half from a desire to construct a reality.  Mental images of what I might find, what I hope or perhaps fear to find, cloud my judgment.  Remembering the ledge as it was before my death, instead of feeling my way in the black towards the cave exit as I should, I crawl in the opposite direction to where the bridge should exist.  Curiosity and desperation threaten to guide my movements.  Long minutes pass, my chest pressed against the cold stone of the cavern floor, arms out feeling for the ledge, for any sign of danger.  Despite my efforts, I learn nothing more about my environment, swimming in a black, featureless sea of rocks.

Not allowing desperation to overtake me, I pause for several breaths, grounding myself.  Survival instincts begin settle in, and I rely on my other senses, heightened by my lack of sight, to get a feel for my environment, seeking any familiar or unfamiliar scents, sounds, or flow of air.  The low slap of water against stone at the base of the cavern is all I can hear, and nothing registers to my other senses.  I need to keep moving.

Using the rim of the ledge as my guide, I turn around and crawl the other direction, seeking exit from the cavern.  The darkness is disorienting, even crawling on my stomach, but my heart nearly leaps when I discover the flat cavern wall and nearby, a cramped crawlspace.  It is perhaps small compared to what I expected to find but losing my ability to control myself I begin to scramble quickly, desperate for signs of light or exit to the cave.  My memories of the shaft are unclear, clouded by all that has happened.

Yes, it’s a word.

It is a struggle to get through the shaft, and I must will myself forward, arms and legs straining to win a few inches of progress at a time.  Several minutes pass, my progress slow and arduous.  Despite the chill of the cavern, I am dripping with sweat from exertion.  My escape is interrupted by a protruding stalagnate in the middle of the shaft spanning the full height of the crawlspace, blocking my way as prison bars would.  There is not enough room to flip to my back to attempt to kick through the obstruction, and I try to hold off panic as I evaluate my options.

I search desperately for a stone to try and bludgeon the pillar, not wanting to risk the hilt of my knife, but the rocks I use crumble against the obstacle.  I throw an arm and shoulder through the gap, desperate to fit through an opening too small for my upper body.  My shoulders are simply too large to fit, but I try push through anyway, too stubborn and too desperate to give up.  I exhale sharply to collapse my lungs, pushing and pulling with all my might.  I scream out in pain as my joints threaten to dislocate and as my flesh is rent by the rough stone.  With one final push, the largest part of my torso slips through and I nearly pass out from the effort.

It takes a while to shake off the daze before I return to the fight for my freedom, not knowing if freedom even lies beyond the pillar of stone.  I pull the lower half of my body through and return to crawling on my chest.  Minutes pass—how many, it is impossible to tell.  The darkness seems to distort time.  Finally, I emerge into another cave. 

There is dim light ahead, not bright but enough to provide definition where there should be nothing but black.  Refusing to entertain that it’s a hallucination, I crawl forward.  My crawl turns to a crouch as the cavern expands, then to an awkward gait until I’m finally able to stand at full height.  Natural light is perceptible at the end of the cave, but it is dark—either twilight or early dawn, and though desperate to learn more of my surroundings I compose myself, controlling my breaths before walking forward quietly.

My senses perceive no threat, no hint of woodsmoke on the wind from a nearby campfire or noise from a potential enemy.  Only a chill wind carrying a light dusting of snow.  Peering outside, I find the natural ledge of rock I expect to find, confirming with a high degree of likelihood that this is the cave where I died—though where I am in respect to time is yet a mystery.

If I am correct and my memory sound, it is two day’s travel to Fireshear.  With no supplies other than water provided by melting snow, I evaluate my resources and options available.  Whether Nobanion will answer appeals for divine magic is as of yet untested, and I had hoped not to rely on it so soon.  Lacking proper clothing to prevent exposure, I step out into the cold, fall to my knees, and appeal to Nobanion for aid.

I settle into a meditative state, seeking the familiar contact I expect to find from my deity, unsure how it may differ from my prayers to Malar.  Trying to consciously avoid thinking of Malar brings him to mind nonetheless, and I struggle to clear my head and focus on my new pronouncement of faith to the King of Beasts.  An unfamiliar sensation washes over me, that of shedding spiritual soil as I separate myself from Malar, and a new presence is felt.  It is bestial, though in a purer, less malevolent form, and when my trance breaks, I feel a sense of accomplishment.  Nevertheless, I resign not to test Nobanion’s grace, and to rely on my own strength as long as I am able.  “What is faith, if I don’t test it?” I grumble to myself, starting to climb down the ledge into the elements, into the cold night, committing everything to Nobanion’s will.  Only when I am not physically able to go forward any more on my own endurance will I reach out for his strength.

I examine the ledge for anything that might aid in my descent, ropes or ladders leading to the ledge, but find nothing.  I recall mine carts that were on the ground below, but if they ever existed, there is no sign of them now.  There are no clear paths down, but after climbing up from my death below the cave, I will not let this descent be the end of my story.  Despite the dark and wet conditions, abundant handholds are present and I’m able to scramble to the bottom of the ledge with only a few bumps or bruises.  With little more than a vague indication of what direction Fireshear lies, I begin my journey.

There is but a single trail, if it can be called that, that is traversable at all.  I am given hope by the sun peaking over the horizon to the east, heralding the dawn.  The sun’s warmth will be a welcome boon, though there is still much danger of exposure in this rugged environment.  I’ve been in this situation before, when first cast out from the beast cults, and survived, and that at least is comforting.

Little of my environment is familiar.  When last I traversed these paths it was in the company of a guide and large group of people.  I head south and east as best I can, following what paths present themselves.  That I continue to sweat is encouraging, and I stop only to grab handfuls of snow to keep hydrated.  I descend into a primal state, relying on instinct to remain on target.

A set of deer tracks converge on my path, perhaps a game trail, as the terrain begins to level and slopes fade into open land.  Snow has collected on the ground, not enough to slow my travel, though enough to reveal signs of nature or any recent passage.  Encouraged by this, I continue to follow the tracks.  The trail bends several times, following what appears to be the easiest path through inconsistent terrain.  There are moments of caution when I need to cut through brush, but no other obstacles present as I press through the chill towards my goal.

After some time, I catch glimpse of a shadow ahead, a large form that disappears before I can determine more detail.  I give the potential threat a wide berth, unwilling to risk an encounter that may lead to injury.  I cut across terrain, hoping that I’ll be able to pick up my path again later.  Though I see no signs of the creature, when I near the area where I last saw it cross, it emerges swiftly from cover and starts rushing towards me.  The creature is bipedal, perhaps a man or ogre, much larger than me, and raises a large, bladed weapon as it charges.

In a panic I examine my surroundings, looking for a path that will be more traversable by someone of my size in hopes that I can delay it and escape.  I dart ahead, changing directions seeking favorable paths, but the creature takes a single stride for each two of mine and closes the distance quickly.  My attempts to evade it fail.  In brief glances stolen over my shoulder, it seems more a man than an ogre or giant. 

The leafless trees and rocky terrain provide little in the way of advantage, though ahead I see a pair of boulders that narrow into a funnel, which seems like my best chance at a defensible position.  As expected, he closes distance fast but not before I reach the boulders and draw my knife.  “One of our lives does not have to end here,” I shout in an attempt to parley and avoid combat.

The large man stops suddenly, holding his bladed cudgel in front of him in a defensive, warding gesture.  His eyes are gray, the color of the sky, and he wears layered hides suitable for the environment.  He is hardly breathing heavily where I am nearly ready to collapse from exhaustion.

“I am not your enemy, but you will not take me easily.”  I pause for a reaction, clearly overmatched, desperate to avoid a fight.  He makes no sign of recognition, instead holding his cudgel out and pointing it silently in the direction I was headed.  I make a few cautious steps in that direction, lowering my blade, in the hopes that my life will be spared.

“Are you letting me go?” I ask suspiciously, backing away from him and heading in the way he is pointing.  He follows me, step for step, uncomfortably close.  Curious, I ask his name, not knowing if he comprehends or has the ability to respond.  It seems clear he can hear me, but voices no response.

On a hunch, I utter a few words that I recall from the language of the barbarian Anaithnid.  Whether or not he comprehends I am unsure, but he elicits a few guttural words in response that are unintelligible.  He points again with his club, so I continue in that direction, always keeping him in front of me or to my side.

He makes an expression I could almost mistake for a smirk.  I accept his smugness or derision, letting him guide the way, careful not to turn my back to him.  We proceed along the trail in silence, and I can’t help but feel slightly emasculated by the immense warrior.  The effects of cold and hunger begin to set in fully, and even at my new companion’s normal walking pace I have to strain to keep up.  We wind through unfamiliar terrain for nearly an hour before finally he stops.

I put a few more steps between us cautiously as he looks to the ground—more deer tracks are present, and these are erratic, the snow making them easy to see and follow.  It is as if the deer were feeding or gathering before separating in different directions, as if they ran off in a panic.  The man looks up at me, pointing his cudgel between the forked tracks.

“Are you coming with me?” I ask, not expecting an answer.  His unwavering stare is his only response.  I make a few cautious steps in that direction, and he makes to follow.

“Hope you know where we’re going, because even if you don’t kill me, this cold eventually will.”  I eye his layered hides enviously, but decide to press ahead without another word, continuing my travel with the stranger.

The sun starts to set, the day seeming to pass too quickly, hinting that the winter season might be coming or already upon us.  With the night will come deeper cold, and without shelter it is unlikely I will make it through.  We approach a small ridge, and beyond it is visible a cluster of boulders or menhirs in a small circle at the top of the hill.

There are no lights ahead or hint of smoke on the wind, but it looks as though there may be a person outfitted in traveling clothes and leathers standing among the stones.  “Friend of yours?” I ask, not expecting an answer.  There is a scattering of debris on the ground within the stone circle where even the snow seems unable to penetrate.  My large companion gazes ahead, poking his cudgel the direction of the man, uttering “heucuva.”

It’s the first time that anything resembling speech comes from my new friend, and for the first time since my rebirth, I smile.  “So now you’re talkative.  Let’s go introduce ourselves.” I stumble up the rocky hill as best I can.

The figure stands idly as we approach, motionless and expressionless.  There’s no reason any of this should be here, and I’m curious to understand what’s going on.  The faces of the ringed stones are etched with glyphs or runes, but I can’t make much of it.  It is then that I notice the ground surrounding the stones is barren of snow, littered instead with rocks, sticks and other debris.  I peer at the stones, trying to make some magical sense of them.

The runes are etched clearly and deeply in the stone, reminiscent of runes used by the dwarves of Mirabar.  I search the runes for signs of similarity to those discovered in Moonglow Cave or Oldkeep, though if there is any resemblance, it is slim.

“Is it safe to enter?” I ask the new stranger, curious to see if he’ll understand or respond.  My large companion strides forward into the circle, raising his cudgel toward the new stranger repeating the word “heucuva,” this time in a seemingly more serious stone.  The stranger makes no response.

The debris on the ground, upon closer inspection, appears to be shards of bone—when I look up at the new stranger to discern more about him, his appearance is changed.  A hooded figure with a skeletal visage has replaced the stranger, and lunges at the barbarian.

In an instant, I throw myself at the creature, attempting to foul its charge.  I am faster, interposing myself between the creature and the barbarian.  No contact is made, and instead the creature stumbles backwards hissing and clawing, almost as if it’s repelled by my presence.  I hold my knife in front of me, keeping myself between it and the barbarian.  I steal a glance to see the barbarian’s surprise—whatever he expected to happen, it was clearly not this.

When it’s evident that the creature won’t approach me, for whatever reason, my companion stoops to the ground and starts picking through the bones.  He grabs a leather pouch from the morbid debris, mutters “heucuva” again, this time with disgust in his tone, and begins to slowly withdraw from the circle.  I keep myself between him and the creature, slowly backing away.

While we escape the circle, the undead creature remains, seemingly trapped within the ring of stones.  My companion begins walking back the way we came, gesturing for me to follow.  We distance ourselves from the circle, only pausing for the barbarian to sneer one last time and repeat the word “heucuva” disdainfully.  My exhaustion is apparent, and I am on the brink of unconsciousness from exposure.  Unsure if my new companion acknowledges this or cares, I follow in the dark by instinct alone, putting one frozen boot in front of the other in silence, my breaths becoming shallow, my steps unsteady.

We reach a plateau, and the man begins to gather wood for a fire.  I am too weak to even offer help.  He looks me in the eyes, thumping his chest and uttering a single word, “Aros.”  It appears to be this massive barbarian’s name.

On the brink of collapse, I weakly pound my own chest, responding “Zeb” before letting darkness and cold overtake me.