#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.

Paths diverged (the future of D&D)

A few years back, I wrote about my long-term vision for D&D in this post. As I reimmerse myself in the game after some time away, and after having spent many, many hours reflecting on settings, homebrew vs. published worlds, and previous campaigns prior to launching with Phelan, Khadhras, and Ged, I finally feel a true framework for my future DM endeavors beginning to unfold.

For months (even years), I’ve been at odds with the ideas of building out my own world vs. giving up the massive investments I’ve made (and continue to make) in Forgotten Realms (and, to a lesser extent, Ravenloft). Though it’s early, I’ve started to bridge these opposing forces in the High Forest campaign, while also stirring the longevity cauldron by forging a path with Jason to further Zeb’s legacy. I don’t want these efforts to be mutually exclusive, nor do I want either of them to prevent me from executing on other D&D initiatives that I’ve placed on the backburner for so long.

In short, just because I’m actively working on a particular D&D project doesn’t mean that other campaigns should retire, will retire, aren’t “canon” within the space I run, or won’t be allowed to come to fruition. This isn’t a complex idea, but it’s something I’ve had difficulty believing and coming to terms with. Kicking off the latest 1:1 track with Zeb* has been an essential catalyst: our content is too good, too deep, too historied to not continue on with for as long as we want it to go. But neither should the greatness of Zeb’s story preclude other arcs from being played, nor other worlds from being developed for the long term.

The missing piece that I’ve talked about for years is a gritty, in-person AD&D game in the spirit of “halflings vs. ogres” (maybe even using Basic Fantasy!) that pulls hard on the simulationist strings. This would almost certainly not be in Realms, and when the time is right for such a game to begin, I’m not going to defer it because it would spell the end for Zeb, Phelan, Khadhras, or Ged... because it won’t.

Rather, what I see myself doing is having a few separate, ongoing DM tracks. They may not all move quickly, and each may wax and wane based on real-world happenings and where I’m most keen to invest at a given time. We’re all adults with families, jobs, and responsibilities, after all. In truth, I’ve already started down this road, but I think it’s important to disclaim it going forward, lest any players start to feel that their current campaign is in its death throes or that there won’t be additional opportunities to get involved in games I decide to run.

This post is little more than an introspective exercise for me to look back on later. When I think about D&D games that have been running for 40 years, the work of Erikson/Esslemont, Alexis Smolensk, and others, the value in history, consistency, richness, and depth is abundantly clear, and something I want to continue to strive for over time. It won’t be achieved by throwing away my last 20 years of DMing and starting from scratch, nor by failing to forge new paths into new endeavors and even new worlds for fear of losing all that's come before. The key is for it all to be interconnected in some way, even if subtle—as this is what will enable the web of time and space within and between campaigns to expand as the years go on.

* By the way, I know I wrote in the “Longevity” post that “If a PC dies based on dice rolls, I’m not going to intervene.” And, to be fair, I didn’t. The TPK happened and we moved on, started a new campaign arc with different characters. The party and campaign as we knew them were no more. In a high fantasy setting, though, with gods, magic, and other preternatural forces directly involved, I don’t feel in the wrong for having left a door open for Jason (or Sean, though he elected to close it). Zeb’s “rebirth” has come at great personal cost (both story and mechanical) and allows us to continue chronicling an epic character in an organic and nondisruptive way. Know that I didn’t take this decision lightly, and nothing short of the monumental set of circumstances surrounding these events would have allowed it to occur. If anyone believes otherwise, feel free to throw your current character in front of a raging orc horde and see what happens. :) 

The Hunted

The Beastlord stalked amid the ocean of departed souls, seeking his prize. Wading in the tide of spiritual essence, unfathomably powerful claws sifted through that which once was, and that which had yet to be. 

Malar found his quarry, feebly bound to the former champion of Mystra, the tethers loosening, dissipating to nothingness.

As if they’d never been.

The Black-Blooded One bore down upon his subject, the Beastlord’s closeness demanding fealty, submission, acquiescence.

What it found was… betrayal.

“The Hunter becomes the Hunted,” a guttural call resonated behind him. The Beastlord turned to face his adversary, his near-equal in stature and power, whose primal utterance crescendoed to a godly roar.

Malar was not amused.

“A priest, abandoned his god at the hour of death—”

Nobanion’s voice was calm, baiting. The Beastlord spat.

“I know well what he would become!”

“A soul that serves no master,” Nobanion continued. “The most wasteful of wastes, what before us you have sown.”

Malar snarled, bearing enormous fangs that glistened with the lifeblood of a thousand worlds, poisoned by the Beastlord’s unyielding malice over a thousand eons. Sentience swirled around them, goading a battle fought thousands of times before, and yet to be waged as many times and more again.

“Claim the soul, then, Firemane.”

All awaited Nobanion’s reply.

“It is claimed.”