It is still dark, nearly an hour before dawn. The cold air clings to Hamir as if trying to stifle his own body heat. Under a leather jerkin and long sleeve woolen shirt, he shivers. The cold is winning; he must not be moving enough. With long, careful strides he picks his way across the meadow, keeping his back to the tree line and shortbow in hand. Nearly a hundred paces from his usual hunting spot, Hamir stops and listens, closing his eyes to focus on hearing movement. The stillness of the morning air returns only silence to the Man’s ears, and after a few moments, he opens his eyes to continue forward. Far off to the east, somewhere past the Red River cities and Elklands Forest, a dim glow signals the coming of the Bjornen Star and a new day. Hamir stops under a tall pine tree and sets his bow down, sticking two of his three arrows into the soft dirt next to him. Breakfast is old bread and water, but should his efforts prove fruitful, dinner will carry plenty more sustenance.
It doesn’t take long for the Bjornen Star to rise, stretching its orange brilliance out over Bulund like a great sheet. Hamir uncurls himself from the coiled position in which he sat to keep warm and grabs his bow, eyes on the sprawling meadow. He’s certainly not the only one trying to find food this morning, whether it be more of the King’s Men-at-Arms like himself looking to feed their families, Hunters of the Taurus Mountains moving westward from the coast toward the peaks this time of year, or the predatory beasts of the Mountain range, their teeth sharp and bellies empty. The last of the possibilities hardly deters Hamir’s Will. No, it is the former two that would deprive him of food this morning, and he quickly scans the meadow’s edge within an arrow’s flight to ensure he doesn’t see any additional Intelligent life, squinting under thick brows and wavy brown hair.
A sudden stir in the trees, no less than fifty paces south of his spot draws Hamir’s attention. He slowly turns, notching an arrow on his yew shortbow, and drops to one knee, bracing himself against the pine tree. A few birds call out as they abandon their nests, flying up and out into the meadow. Hamir leaves them be, watching instead for whatever disturbed them. With a racing heart, he waits, hoping for his first kill of the fall, especially since the streams near their village are quickly becoming harder to fish with the influx of Sacred Bears to the shallow waters. His heart rate only quickens as the antlers emerge from the tree line, carried by a sizeable buck. The deer is no more than two years old, but life in the Taurus Mountains has fattened it nicely. With a deep breath, Hamir draws his bow and sends a short plea to Vargen.
.
== NOON == .
Covered in fur, blood, and sweat, Hamir tosses the last of the tenderloins onto the wooden carving table. He takes a step back, admiring the morning’s haul. Food for at least a Vision if salted properly, antlers to trade with the Fertile Plains Harvest caravan when they pass through along the road to Taurus Keep, and a new hide, currently inside out and drying in the light of the midday Bjornen Star. Hamir would love for the hide to become his own new clothing, but he knows better. It will no doubt turn into shoes for his children and wife. Cleaning the animal was quick work. Bringing it a mile downhill was the laboring portion of his morning. As he wipes red hands on a nearby patch of tall grass, Hamir smiles and turns his attention toward the nexus of their village.
The half dozen or so earthen roof houses stand facing the center of the village. One or two roofs emit the smoke of a lunchtime fire. The methodic “thump, thump” of axe on wood can be heard just in the trees as Men and Dwarf work to fell the large pines for firewood and construction materials. Children run wild through the village along worn dirt paths, laughing and playing with each other. Near the middle, surrounded by the tall wooden totems of their settlement, is the training pit, where the King’s Men-at-Arms hone their skills in mock battles with one another. The clang of steel on shield or metal pauldron echoes through the valley hamlet as one of the soldiers gets the better of his compatriot, and the second man goes tumbling down in a fit of curses and cloud of dust.
Hamir watches the scrum a while, arms crossed and leaning against a small chicken pen. He hardly notices his wife emerge from the house behind him.
“Have ye heard from Nors?” she inquires, startling the Man with her sudden question. “Shoulda’ been ‘ere least an hour back.” Hamir’s wife, a strong-willed woman in her late twenties, crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow as she leans against the carving table. Her golden hair is pulled back and braided behind her. She makes no mention of Hamir’s kill. Providing for the family is expected, not praised, in the Strongholds Valley. Hamir considers the question, looking over his shoulder to the forest from whence he came just hours earlier.
“Nay, Hild,” he replies, scanning the tree line before returning his gaze to meet her icy blue eyes. “I’d go an’ fetch ‘im, but I think it’s proper time ‘e learns t’ bring ‘imself home on ‘is own.” Hamir nods to himself, making the decision to leave his teenage son in the forest. His wife does not look amused.
“Ye’ll find ‘im, and ye’ll bring ‘im home, should ye want any o’ this meat fer dinner.” Hild overrules him with an ultimatum, snatching one of the bloody deer steaks with a hand and waving it before Hamir’s face. He laughs as Hild sneers, breaking into a smile before him.
“Come, Tulip, let ‘im be a man fer once.” Hamir pleads his case as Hild furrows her brows once more.
“Don’t ‘Tulip’ me! I’ll not ‘ave one less mouth t’ feed jus’ because ye let ‘im die by boar tusk in the damned woods, Hamir!” As she raises her voice, a few onlookers are accidentally introduced to the conversation, as they can’t help but overhear. Hamir shows her both palms in an apologetic fashion before grabbing his sword belt and backing off.
“I’ll get ‘im,” Hamir states, fastening the belt as he turns to go. “…Tulip.” He can hear her scoff behind him, but he knows she shares his laughter on the inside. Hamir walks past the training circle, tapping his fist on the Wolf totem for luck as he always does. He stoops to grab a small iron buckler shield, and one of the Men waiting his turn in the ring trots up beside him.
“Oi, Captain,” the taller Man greets him. “Heard ye an’ Hild bickerin’. Thought I’d walk with ye.” The Man is wearing a blue tunic, leather boots, and a sword of his own, a much larger two-handed blade that is belted high on his waist. Hamir nods to him as he continues toward the trees.
“What ye heard there wasn’t bickerin’, Conrad. If Hild was angry, we’d all know it. Ye’d be the first t’ see my head on a pike, I’m sure,” Hamir jokes with his follower who breaks into a wide smile and bellowing laugh.
“If it means I take over as Captain o’ th’ village, maybe I’ll get ‘er mad at ye meself!” Conrad continues laughing, following Captain Hamir into the forest. They talk lightly for a while until the village is well behind them. Both their voices now quiet in the woods, both in search of Hamir’s son and any stray animals, Conrad continues.
“Hamir,” Conrad whispers, ducking his large head under a low hanging branch Hamir passed beneath moments ago without stooping. “Do ye think the Cities will ever revolt?” Hamir turns his head briefly to give a puzzled look at his friend. Conrad’s stoic face tells the Captain he’s being serious.
“No,” he responds in an equally grave and quiet tone. “No, I don’t think they’ll do som’thin’ like that.” After another pause, he adds, “They need us, Conrad.”
Hamir considers the thought of Bulund’s major cities turning against the King. It’s an idea that isn’t as far-fetched as he’d like to believe. In honesty, it wouldn’t take more than two or three of them to band together before their numbers outweigh all of Taurus Keep and the Strongholds population. The King of Bulund has never had a force as large as the one King Bos Tau IV has put together. Is it out of fear? Is he concerned that his poor leadership will result in a national revolution?
Faudree, Giblund, and Watercrest… Yes, that would likely be enough to rival the Army of Bulund on any day. They wouldn’t even need to bother with the Forgotten City of Rettan or the Island city of Bastion. With just those three, and maybe the Woodland Elves, Hamir thinks to himself, what with all the farmland and water access they own, King Bos Tau IV could find himself walled up in his tall castle and starved while the Men and Knights under his command fall to the countless thousands of Bulund’s citizens in an uprising.
Conrad sighs, answering after a minute, almost beneath his breath. “We need them more, Captain…” Hamir agrees, but says nothing, instead holding up a fist to stop their forward progress as the forest dissipates into a small clearing.
A fresh blood trail. Ahead in the clearing, a dead boar… and something else lying beside it. Hamir shuts his eyes a moment, sending another prayer skyward to the Wolf god.
.
== DUSK == .
The crowded common room of Hamir’s house is quiet, other than the crackling flames of the central fire and occasional whispers. The village is suspended between celebration and mourning. A boy’s first kill is a serious matter among Highlands villages. Seeing as that kill is a boar, and one as large as the one Nors slew, the village should by all rights be in the midst of a party, drinking and celebrating the boy on his acquired manhood. Instead, many of the villagers are funneling into and out of the Captain’s house to check on Nors’s status, which at present, is not great. Nors lies still on the table, a mess of bloody rags and poultices shoved into various wounds on his body. The floor beneath the table has pooled thick with blood.
“Should have never opened my mouth,” Hild softly speaks again, wrapped tightly in Hamir’s arms. “I said it… I said ‘boar’, Hamir. I spoke it into being!” Her strong features are absent, replaced by a worried expression, but there are no tears. Not yet.
“Tulip, ye didn’t do this.” Hamir consoles her as a few of the village women agree. “He’s a man now, an’ we’ll get ‘im treated an’ wrapped up just fine. An’ when ‘e comes out the other side, he’ll be a proper Highlander.” Hild’s anxiety is not deterred by her husband’s words. Conrad stands across the table from them, covered in a mixture of boar and human blood. He has yet to abandon the home since arriving hours earlier. He runs a hand through his hair, clearly struggling with his thoughts, before speaking up.
“Captain, it’s not too dark yet.” Conrad says only this much, waiting for his friend’s answer. Hild looks at the large Man fearfully before staring upward at her husband, who shakes his head.
“I won’t bring my boy to a Mystic.” Hamir speaks slowly and with purpose. “I won’t ‘ave ‘im laid out on a table an’ shot up full of evil.” He speaks with authority and conviction, but there is a sad uncertainty in his voice that gives opportunity for Conrad to continue.
“She’ll help ‘im, Hamir.” Conrad leans on the table, his huge frame made larger by the dancing fire light. Beneath him, Nors’s chest rises and falls softly beneath more bandages with rapid, unconscious breaths. His face is covered by a thin cloth. “She’s not a witch, like ye think.” It’s an uphill battle, reasoning with Hamir on this issue, but Conrad presses on, risking his very livelihood with each confession. “I’ve seen ‘er. I’ve been in the place. She’s not a witch.”
Those inside the house murmur to each other as Conrad pleads guilty to having communed with a Mountain Mystic, which under normal circumstances, would come with a penalty of banishment from the tribe. Hamir looks up at his friend with glaring eyes and opens his mouth to speak, but Hild beats him to the punch.
“Take him.” She speaks equally to Conrad and Hamir, but loud enough so that all listening can hear. “Take ‘im there, Hamir. Take some of the Armsmen and go get ‘im cured.” A Dwarf in the corner of the room shuffles nervously with large breaths at the mention of visiting a Mystic. A few others, Men and Halflings alike, share careful glances at Nors’s body upon the table.
“Hild,” Hamir gives his argument one last push, holding his wife even tighter and whispering into her ear. “We’ve seen worse. We’ve cured worse on our own. What if she ain’t like Conrad says? We do not trust witches.”
Hild breaks free from his grasp and stands as all eyes are drawn to her. She approaches the table in the center of the room, laying a hand on Nors, and raises her other hand skyward. With a whisper, she closes her eyes. A single tear rolls down her cheek before, all of a sudden, a loud crack of thunder is heard nearby. The men and women in the dark room huddle closer to each other as in the next instant, a white hot flash of light emits from Hild’s skyward hand, nearly blinding everyone as gasps and shouts of fear rise up. Just as soon as the lightning came, it left, leaving Hild standing above her son, her eyes blue and glowing, her hair golden and shimmering in the aura of her hidden essence.
“Hamir, you’ve trusted a ‘witch’ fer the better part o’ yer life. Now go an’ get my boy healed.”
The Visuals: i.imgur.com/yqv29uv.jpg , i.imgur.com/voUyMKd.jpg
Captain Hamir Balenson: s12.postimg.org/iuppre5q5/Hamir.jpg
Lady Hild: s21.postimg.org/fi5tno29z/Hild.jpg
Man-at-Arms Conrad Hilenson: s15.postimg.org/8ehlmlp0r/Conrad.jpg
.
== BEFORE DAWN ==
.
It is still dark, nearly an hour before dawn. The cold air clings to Hamir as if trying to stifle his own body heat. Under a leather jerkin and long sleeve woolen shirt, he shivers. The cold is winning; he must not be moving enough. With long, careful strides he picks his way across the meadow, keeping his back to the tree line and shortbow in hand. Nearly a hundred paces from his usual hunting spot, Hamir stops and listens, closing his eyes to focus on hearing movement. The stillness of the morning air returns only silence to the Man’s ears, and after a few moments, he opens his eyes to continue forward. Far off to the east, somewhere past the Red River cities and Elklands Forest, a dim glow signals the coming of the Bjornen Star and a new day. Hamir stops under a tall pine tree and sets his bow down, sticking two of his three arrows into the soft dirt next to him. Breakfast is old bread and water, but should his efforts prove fruitful, dinner will carry plenty more sustenance.
It doesn’t take long for the Bjornen Star to rise, stretching its orange brilliance out over Bulund like a great sheet. Hamir uncurls himself from the coiled position in which he sat to keep warm and grabs his bow, eyes on the sprawling meadow. He’s certainly not the only one trying to find food this morning, whether it be more of the King’s Men-at-Arms like himself looking to feed their families, Hunters of the Taurus Mountains moving westward from the coast toward the peaks this time of year, or the predatory beasts of the Mountain range, their teeth sharp and bellies empty. The last of the possibilities hardly deters Hamir’s Will. No, it is the former two that would deprive him of food this morning, and he quickly scans the meadow’s edge within an arrow’s flight to ensure he doesn’t see any additional Intelligent life, squinting under thick brows and wavy brown hair.
A sudden stir in the trees, no less than fifty paces south of his spot draws Hamir’s attention. He slowly turns, notching an arrow on his yew shortbow, and drops to one knee, bracing himself against the pine tree. A few birds call out as they abandon their nests, flying up and out into the meadow. Hamir leaves them be, watching instead for whatever disturbed them. With a racing heart, he waits, hoping for his first kill of the fall, especially since the streams near their village are quickly becoming harder to fish with the influx of Sacred Bears to the shallow waters. His heart rate only quickens as the antlers emerge from the tree line, carried by a sizeable buck. The deer is no more than two years old, but life in the Taurus Mountains has fattened it nicely. With a deep breath, Hamir draws his bow and sends a short plea to Vargen.
.
== NOON ==
.
Covered in fur, blood, and sweat, Hamir tosses the last of the tenderloins onto the wooden carving table. He takes a step back, admiring the morning’s haul. Food for at least a Vision if salted properly, antlers to trade with the Fertile Plains Harvest caravan when they pass through along the road to Taurus Keep, and a new hide, currently inside out and drying in the light of the midday Bjornen Star. Hamir would love for the hide to become his own new clothing, but he knows better. It will no doubt turn into shoes for his children and wife. Cleaning the animal was quick work. Bringing it a mile downhill was the laboring portion of his morning. As he wipes red hands on a nearby patch of tall grass, Hamir smiles and turns his attention toward the nexus of their village.
The half dozen or so earthen roof houses stand facing the center of the village. One or two roofs emit the smoke of a lunchtime fire. The methodic “thump, thump” of axe on wood can be heard just in the trees as Men and Dwarf work to fell the large pines for firewood and construction materials. Children run wild through the village along worn dirt paths, laughing and playing with each other. Near the middle, surrounded by the tall wooden totems of their settlement, is the training pit, where the King’s Men-at-Arms hone their skills in mock battles with one another. The clang of steel on shield or metal pauldron echoes through the valley hamlet as one of the soldiers gets the better of his compatriot, and the second man goes tumbling down in a fit of curses and cloud of dust.
Hamir watches the scrum a while, arms crossed and leaning against a small chicken pen. He hardly notices his wife emerge from the house behind him.
“Have ye heard from Nors?” she inquires, startling the Man with her sudden question. “Shoulda’ been ‘ere least an hour back.” Hamir’s wife, a strong-willed woman in her late twenties, crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow as she leans against the carving table. Her golden hair is pulled back and braided behind her. She makes no mention of Hamir’s kill. Providing for the family is expected, not praised, in the Strongholds Valley. Hamir considers the question, looking over his shoulder to the forest from whence he came just hours earlier.
“Nay, Hild,” he replies, scanning the tree line before returning his gaze to meet her icy blue eyes. “I’d go an’ fetch ‘im, but I think it’s proper time ‘e learns t’ bring ‘imself home on ‘is own.” Hamir nods to himself, making the decision to leave his teenage son in the forest. His wife does not look amused.
“Ye’ll find ‘im, and ye’ll bring ‘im home, should ye want any o’ this meat fer dinner.” Hild overrules him with an ultimatum, snatching one of the bloody deer steaks with a hand and waving it before Hamir’s face. He laughs as Hild sneers, breaking into a smile before him.
“Come, Tulip, let ‘im be a man fer once.” Hamir pleads his case as Hild furrows her brows once more.
“Don’t ‘Tulip’ me! I’ll not ‘ave one less mouth t’ feed jus’ because ye let ‘im die by boar tusk in the damned woods, Hamir!” As she raises her voice, a few onlookers are accidentally introduced to the conversation, as they can’t help but overhear. Hamir shows her both palms in an apologetic fashion before grabbing his sword belt and backing off.
“I’ll get ‘im,” Hamir states, fastening the belt as he turns to go. “…Tulip.” He can hear her scoff behind him, but he knows she shares his laughter on the inside. Hamir walks past the training circle, tapping his fist on the Wolf totem for luck as he always does. He stoops to grab a small iron buckler shield, and one of the Men waiting his turn in the ring trots up beside him.
“Oi, Captain,” the taller Man greets him. “Heard ye an’ Hild bickerin’. Thought I’d walk with ye.” The Man is wearing a blue tunic, leather boots, and a sword of his own, a much larger two-handed blade that is belted high on his waist. Hamir nods to him as he continues toward the trees.
“What ye heard there wasn’t bickerin’, Conrad. If Hild was angry, we’d all know it. Ye’d be the first t’ see my head on a pike, I’m sure,” Hamir jokes with his follower who breaks into a wide smile and bellowing laugh.
“If it means I take over as Captain o’ th’ village, maybe I’ll get ‘er mad at ye meself!” Conrad continues laughing, following Captain Hamir into the forest. They talk lightly for a while until the village is well behind them. Both their voices now quiet in the woods, both in search of Hamir’s son and any stray animals, Conrad continues.
“Hamir,” Conrad whispers, ducking his large head under a low hanging branch Hamir passed beneath moments ago without stooping. “Do ye think the Cities will ever revolt?” Hamir turns his head briefly to give a puzzled look at his friend. Conrad’s stoic face tells the Captain he’s being serious.
“No,” he responds in an equally grave and quiet tone. “No, I don’t think they’ll do som’thin’ like that.” After another pause, he adds, “They need us, Conrad.”
Hamir considers the thought of Bulund’s major cities turning against the King. It’s an idea that isn’t as far-fetched as he’d like to believe. In honesty, it wouldn’t take more than two or three of them to band together before their numbers outweigh all of Taurus Keep and the Strongholds population. The King of Bulund has never had a force as large as the one King Bos Tau IV has put together. Is it out of fear? Is he concerned that his poor leadership will result in a national revolution?
Faudree, Giblund, and Watercrest… Yes, that would likely be enough to rival the Army of Bulund on any day. They wouldn’t even need to bother with the Forgotten City of Rettan or the Island city of Bastion. With just those three, and maybe the Woodland Elves, Hamir thinks to himself, what with all the farmland and water access they own, King Bos Tau IV could find himself walled up in his tall castle and starved while the Men and Knights under his command fall to the countless thousands of Bulund’s citizens in an uprising.
Conrad sighs, answering after a minute, almost beneath his breath. “We need them more, Captain…” Hamir agrees, but says nothing, instead holding up a fist to stop their forward progress as the forest dissipates into a small clearing.
A fresh blood trail. Ahead in the clearing, a dead boar… and something else lying beside it. Hamir shuts his eyes a moment, sending another prayer skyward to the Wolf god.
.
== DUSK ==
.
The crowded common room of Hamir’s house is quiet, other than the crackling flames of the central fire and occasional whispers. The village is suspended between celebration and mourning. A boy’s first kill is a serious matter among Highlands villages. Seeing as that kill is a boar, and one as large as the one Nors slew, the village should by all rights be in the midst of a party, drinking and celebrating the boy on his acquired manhood. Instead, many of the villagers are funneling into and out of the Captain’s house to check on Nors’s status, which at present, is not great. Nors lies still on the table, a mess of bloody rags and poultices shoved into various wounds on his body. The floor beneath the table has pooled thick with blood.
“Should have never opened my mouth,” Hild softly speaks again, wrapped tightly in Hamir’s arms. “I said it… I said ‘boar’, Hamir. I spoke it into being!” Her strong features are absent, replaced by a worried expression, but there are no tears. Not yet.
“Tulip, ye didn’t do this.” Hamir consoles her as a few of the village women agree. “He’s a man now, an’ we’ll get ‘im treated an’ wrapped up just fine. An’ when ‘e comes out the other side, he’ll be a proper Highlander.” Hild’s anxiety is not deterred by her husband’s words. Conrad stands across the table from them, covered in a mixture of boar and human blood. He has yet to abandon the home since arriving hours earlier. He runs a hand through his hair, clearly struggling with his thoughts, before speaking up.
“Captain, it’s not too dark yet.” Conrad says only this much, waiting for his friend’s answer. Hild looks at the large Man fearfully before staring upward at her husband, who shakes his head.
“I won’t bring my boy to a Mystic.” Hamir speaks slowly and with purpose. “I won’t ‘ave ‘im laid out on a table an’ shot up full of evil.” He speaks with authority and conviction, but there is a sad uncertainty in his voice that gives opportunity for Conrad to continue.
“She’ll help ‘im, Hamir.” Conrad leans on the table, his huge frame made larger by the dancing fire light. Beneath him, Nors’s chest rises and falls softly beneath more bandages with rapid, unconscious breaths. His face is covered by a thin cloth. “She’s not a witch, like ye think.” It’s an uphill battle, reasoning with Hamir on this issue, but Conrad presses on, risking his very livelihood with each confession. “I’ve seen ‘er. I’ve been in the place. She’s not a witch.”
Those inside the house murmur to each other as Conrad pleads guilty to having communed with a Mountain Mystic, which under normal circumstances, would come with a penalty of banishment from the tribe. Hamir looks up at his friend with glaring eyes and opens his mouth to speak, but Hild beats him to the punch.
“Take him.” She speaks equally to Conrad and Hamir, but loud enough so that all listening can hear. “Take ‘im there, Hamir. Take some of the Armsmen and go get ‘im cured.” A Dwarf in the corner of the room shuffles nervously with large breaths at the mention of visiting a Mystic. A few others, Men and Halflings alike, share careful glances at Nors’s body upon the table.
“Hild,” Hamir gives his argument one last push, holding his wife even tighter and whispering into her ear. “We’ve seen worse. We’ve cured worse on our own. What if she ain’t like Conrad says? We do not trust witches.”
Hild breaks free from his grasp and stands as all eyes are drawn to her. She approaches the table in the center of the room, laying a hand on Nors, and raises her other hand skyward. With a whisper, she closes her eyes. A single tear rolls down her cheek before, all of a sudden, a loud crack of thunder is heard nearby. The men and women in the dark room huddle closer to each other as in the next instant, a white hot flash of light emits from Hild’s skyward hand, nearly blinding everyone as gasps and shouts of fear rise up. Just as soon as the lightning came, it left, leaving Hild standing above her son, her eyes blue and glowing, her hair golden and shimmering in the aura of her hidden essence.
“Hamir, you’ve trusted a ‘witch’ fer the better part o’ yer life. Now go an’ get my boy healed.”
.
== NIGHTFALL ==
.