Private Tales He Is No King of Mine [Vand]

[Maude]

The night through the Frosthold peaks was as silent as she had ever imagined them to be. A sky of black, dappled by a hundred thousand stars and the gentle sway of the northern lights, fell in unbidden peace against a horizon of white as far as the eye could see. Under the moonlight it was magical, serene, and a reprise from the daunting trials that had haunted her steps.

Greens looked across the quiet expanse, seeing through the fog of her breath as she paused on the precipice of the last mountain rise. Before her laid a land not yet experienced, and a town she knew of only by story alone. Withereach, the last of the Nordengaard towns before the land fell into the sea of ice and the swell of Haymar's Folly. Though their realm was covered by snow and ice, she knew it to be late spring in the south. There would be no ice to escape across and no present means to get beyond the reach of the usurper's men. Maude would have to count on the aid of others in Withereach, a risk she wasn't sure she was willing to take.

A deep breath escaped flared nostrils beyond the pelt of russet, spilling plumes of hot fog into the night air. The wind was right, carrying the scent of the settlement from miles further, beyond. She would reach them well into the night and she was prepared to ford the heavy snows and the cut of Splinter Rock Pass. With any luck they would be sympathizers and a welcome rest would be granted. Yet, as most Nordenfiir were prone to do, she was ready and willing to fight for her safe passage.

The red bear issued a tired chuff and stole away from the view, heading south through the deep snow, following the scent of the Withers.

 

[Vand]

Suddenly, there was a call that broke the serenity – shouted out over the treeline, animal in intention, but not in nature. “YIP!”

It precipitated another, “YIIIIIP!,” menacing and cruel as a hyena’s cackle.

The hiss and snap of burning wood, the billowing of flame against the wind – A firey arrow suddenly landed in the clearing, painting the snow in shadow – in the moving silhouettes of two humanoids. The air stank with their fear, the staccato rhythm of panting breath and their accompanying steam polluting the air. They were fleeing somebody, that much was clear.

“You'd better RUN!,” the voice harassed, trailing off into laughter so hard it began to wheeze. The ground was trembling. “RUNNN! *kaaf, kaff*” The coughing was high-pitched, strangled. Whoever it was was certainly having a disproportionately good time.

The runners had barely become visible before a boulder came crashing through the treeline in a cacophony of shattered branches, bouncing off the ground, and rolling as if predetermined at one of the men. His compatriot, in the thrall of his unconscious, suddenly forked in a hard left and escaped into the darkness, only peripherally aware of the earth-shaking bass thumping into the ground; oblivious to his partner, left maimed as the boulder collided into his left leg and mercilessly folded it into the wrong direction, shattering the appendage at the knee in an explosion of blood and bone shard, with such impact it instantly tore from his body. The horror of a cannonball scene in a Civil War movie.

The boulder rolled next to Maude, its surface etched in tribal drawings – It appeared to tell a story, but without any certainty as to which direction of its telling.

The runner’s shriek was barely heard under a thunderous trumpeting; had barely existed before he reached inward, drawing his Svalen out and transforming into a bear.

One of the Tusk burst through the treeline and was upon the prone bear immediately, thrashing his head to one side and goring the Nord, tearing fur and muscle and ribs from his torso and dumping it into the snow like the scooped guts of a Jack-O-Lantern. While the bear-man was large, the mammoth-man was larger – Even if the Nord were not so prone and vulnerable, he would have dominated the fight with ease. In this situation, the Tusk did so effortlessly, forcing back the bear’s desperate clawing to rain down skull-smashing elbows and punches.

Even the show put on by their shadows was one of the shocking violence.

But to a Nordenfiir?

Nothing out of the ordinary.

 

[Maude]

The scent of the Tusk met her well before the chaos of the fight. It was a scent that made the Norden's hackles rise, bidden by the unusual nature of coming across one so far out. She didn't think they traveled this far south, then again their numbers were not all accounted for. Tusks didn't answer to an Emperor - they were nomadic by nature and typically kept to their own, though the neighboring herds had deigned to answer to Borvenir. It was with their help that his new regime made such quick work of taking over the Frozen Halls. Despite their numbers being far less than the Nordens, their strength was one to be respected. Had she run afoot of an outlier group hunting down the old regime?

It was hard to say, so very little was known to her of Withereach.

A wary sniff was given to the boulder, green eyes peering down a long snout at the stories etched into its surface before glancing back towards the commotion. Best not to wait around and find out her odds of escaping - the Norden made quick work of heading towards the western slope and into the trees where the snow no longer lingered. Whatever this dispute, it was not hers to tend to - even if she had been a ranger to King Iordahn in his time.

How strange it was that a single night could shift the tides so fully.

 

[Vand]

The woods were soundless, the animals having fled the trees the instant the scent of the second runner came wafted in on the cold night air.

He stank. Bad. More than just any Norden should. It was like a thick cloud of piss hung over his smell avatar – from something so dehydrated, it came out black clumps of mud. He was nearing now.

Or so it would smell. A thin trail of his blood soaked the ground and lead off a little ways before ending abruptly in a clear indention in the flora.

“Mumma..ma…,” distant, but not too.

From the indention in the flora, whatever fell was clearly dragged, and all it would take is a glance up to see where.

“Muh..Muh…” A 40-year old baby, learning its first words. His face soaked in blood. His vascularity pronounced as if traced in orange marker.

There was a woman on him, spooning him, her legs wrapped around his waist as she sat on the log behind the runner, the runner who had half shifted into a Svalen, but was somehow stopped mid-way by some unnatural force. She was in the process of slicing off his nose as he muttered incomprehensibly. Based on the blood spilling from his mouth, she had already got his tongue.

The Witch raised her antlered head, looking up at Maude with bright white eyes. She was quite old – perhaps in her fifties -- and her face bore the markings of a Svalen, though clearly put there in black ink or coal. She smiled at the princess before her with those jagged, rotten teeth.

That voice again, from somewhere, “YOU HEAR THAT, IRKENVAAD?! YOU’RE WEAK! YOU’LL NEVER MAKE IT BACK TO NORDENGAARD!”

The witch raised her free hand and held a single finger over her lips, requesting Maude’s silence in the matter. She then approximated a whispered titter.

“DON’T WORRY, BROTHER! WE’LL LEAVE THE LIGHT ON FOR YA, IF YOU WANT TO COME HOME!”

Again – That wheezy laugh.

 

[Maude]

Wasn't much that could spook a Norden, but Witchcraft was up there on the very short list. For all the things her people were capable of doing, magic was not a lauded talent for the vast majority. These dark arts, spells and incantations that could stop a full grown Norden mid-shift ... it was a fair bit more than she was prepared to uncover this night.

Maude bit back a growl and witheld the desire to shiver under the weird gaze of the woman - disturbing sight be damned. The blood was nothing to a Norden, but torture was beyond their code of honor. Like slavery was ... up until just recently. This woman, this thing was no Norden. The mark on her face was a farce and her smell was putrid with the arcane. The growl could not be held any longer and tore through the thicket like a serrated blade through flesh.

The red bear pressed forward at the Witch and her victim, issuing a snarl as she reached to grab the man by the leg with her maw and rip him from the woman's grasp. His blood splattered plant and Witch alike, the sounds of his death cut short by the snapping of his neck. His voice echoed hollow with the remaining air in his lungs, bubbling red from his lips.

Maude did not know this Norden, she had no idea the story behind this quarrel, but the sickness of her stomach at the scene played out before her was enough to cast her immediate fear aside. This ... THIS, whatever it was, would never have been allowed under the reign of Iordahn and she roared her disgust and fury at the Witch while standing over the lifeless body - but she did not touch her.

 

[Vand]

The Witch did not quite jump back, but she wasted no movement, throwing open her grip to leave the man unfettered as he torn away from her. In the ensuing merciful carnage, the Bog Witch took a step back to make some distance, deposited the detached facial features in a small leather bag,….then whistled.

“You’re a long way from home,” she stated flatly, her voice surprisingly pleasant, looking to her for a moment before casting her gaze upward.

A little sparrow had flown in from the canopy, but took one look at Maude and attempted to retreat. The Witch raised her arm, gesturing it forward, but still the sparrow tried to resist, fighting with every ounce of its being to fly away in stark horror from the red bear. The Witch nodded reassuringly with each gesture…and though the bird kept looking back at Maude, it continued in its path.

It was a confusing, slow motion – Pulling and pushing with every inch gained. Just pulling that little bit more…until it landed upon the Witch’s hand. She brought it to her lips, her tongue flicking out of her mouth to lick between the bird’s beak, where its avian match resided.

Without moving her lips in any way that made sense, her voice could be heard:

“Come find me – ," she began, rolling her gaze to Maude. "...I’ve made a friend.”

The sparrow repeated the line exactly, then flew away from the witch, the bear, and the woods as fast as it possibly could.

The Witch smiled, albeit much less aggressively, this time.

 

[Maude]

Plumes of fog rolled from the grizzly's snout, the flash of green cutting through under lancing rays of canopy moonlight. Her gaze was keen on the woman, narrowing at the words spoken and the strange manner in which she called nature to her bidding. The weirdness did not escape Maude, bringing her hackles to more prominent flare.

She was struck with the desire to move on, and quickly, but also to stay and investigate as was her role as a Ranger. The former begged appeal, the latter was habit, if not utterly useless now. But a bear was difficult to break from habit, and so she stayed albeit with a measured air of wariness. There were too many unknowns in this area for her not to remain vigilant, her only comfort being she would hear and smell the Tusk approaching before it got within a dangerous reach.

"Who are you," Maude rumbled, clouds billowing on her words, "what was your quarrel with these men?"

 

[Vand]

“No quarrel, dear heart,” her voice was sweet at first, darkening as she continued. “This is gardening.”

The Witch resented the implication in Maude’s question, in the way she asked it. The more she dwelled on it, the more evident it became.

“We are killing weeds before they strangle to death anything worth having.”

“—'ve made a friend,” could be heard, barely audible. Then again, closer.

“There’s a word for it – ‘Havraekae.’ Do you know this word?,” she asked innocently.

The ground trembled slightly. A cough could be heard off in the distance. The smell of Nordenfiir once more heady in the air.

That damn sparrow flew between them, then disappeared.

The old woman’s eyes shined knowingly, as her features turned as dark and twisted as an old plum

“Oh, yes – I think you do better than anyone.”

“IRKENVAAD! There you are!,” called Vand to the corpse. His silicosis aggravated by all the moving about, he moved almost oblivious to the giant red bear – apparently having discarded the rest of his earthly caution in a case of the “Fuck-It’s.” He coughed once or twice, trying to clear his throat.

“There YOU are…Oooh, there you ARE!,” he cooed obnoxiously, as if he were talking to a pet dog.

The Tusk joined him, boulder in hand, but suddenly appeared alarmed. He stared at the red bear, absorbing once, then again for reassurance, his eyes widening slightly. Ultimately, however, he said nothing -- Apparently deferring to the Nord. The Witch's posture shifted, indicating the same.

Vand spat onto what was left of Irkenvaad, a trace of blood floating in the mucus – then directed his attention to Maude.

“Well, who the fuck are you, then?”

He was staring at her intently -- Unblinking, pupils dilating to the point of nearly eclipsing the iris.

 

[Maude]

The implication of those slithered, sour words were cause for another snarl. Maude did not like the way the witch looked at her, did not like the lilting tone of her poisoned voice. They brought up images of the past three days that she was want to never relive again. No words were offered in return as the emerging Norden - finally, another - and the Tusk drew her attention. Tusks weren't particularly easy to read, at least not by her knowledge of them. A reserved sort on the whole, they were a noble and honorable race as well as she'd come to know.

It had been a shock to see them, then, marching at Borvenir's side, helping to destroy three centuries of tradition, honor, and peace.

The bear prickled at the audacity of the man, lips pulling over a low rumble. How dare he? But, no, she couldn't risk too much over so little.

"I am a Ranger of the Frozen Halls," Maude responded, "on my way to Haymar's Folly. Who are you?"

 

[Vand]

"Vand," Vand declared without elaboration. It was unclear if she was expected to know his reputation, or to recognize that she wouldn't, making her question silly. Either way, it was clear he was making fun of her as he continued. "This is Doggrave," gesturing to the mammoth, then the witch. "This is Signe."

Vand glowered at her dubiously, his pupil's contracting and and expanding out-of-sync.

His brows knitted critically, weighing her answer. Haymar's Folly was a body of water, this time of year -- it's relevance tied largely to Withereach. Keeping the Frozen Halls and its inquisitors from investigating the mining colony was the exact reason these two men had to die. It appeared as though he may have been clicking his teeth.

"You're looking for Haymar's Folly -- ," he restated, his tone rife with skepticism, intensity, " -- Or you're looking for Withereach?"

It was less of a question, and more of an overt correction.

On the sidelines, the mammoth-man made a gesture almost like he were confused to the the Witch. She shrugged back, almost disinterested.

 

[Maude]

Vand was not a name she knew and the man seemed off. Ill. His eyes were not right and his smell was strange. She did not like being kept by his kind nor his company.

"The port at Haymar's Folly," Maude growled, "was my destination ... until now. Our laws do not abide by torture or withcraft," her green eyes sank back into the Witch, "not even on those guilty of treason. Where is Jorn Irvad?"

 

[Vand]

Vand’s face split like a crushed a watermelon, giving way to biggest, nastiest, smuggest fucking grin on the planet. Such elation would not even be possible, were it not for the drugs.

“Jorn Irvad?!,”he spat through laughter, hissing-laughter straining out through his teeth as if from a Play-Doh spaghetti factory. “You want to see Jorn Irvad! *kaff, kaff, kaff*”

His face grimaced as the cough buckled him. He leaned over and coughed directly at the ground without any effort to cover his mouth and stop the spread of germs. His allies tensed for a moment, moving on guard to counteract their friend’s temporary vulnerability.

“Hahaha…Of course you do.” Vand returned to full-height and the other two relaxed. If it were not so dark, she could see Vand’s eyes had reddened, tear ducts dabbed with water.

Doggrave of the Tusk crossed his arms, a paternal, condescending look written across his elephant features.

“I am going to tell you something later, and when I do, you’re going to feel really embarrassed.”

“Puppy, to be honest, I don’t think I’m going to be able to feel a fucking thing for quite some time,” he scoffed, not missing a beat.

The Tusk snickered lightly, scratching his dreadlocks nervously, wincing through the social awkwardness.

“Yeah, fuck it – You can see IrVaD ThE OnLy,” Vand spoke the name in a mocking cadence, departing off in the proper direction with such deliberation that it was almost jarring. It was certainly sociopathic, anyway. "Come on, then."

“Uh…,” Signe looked to him, uncertainty evident.

Vand stopped for a moment, looking to her with a shrugging gesture, before continuing on, “What? It’s not like she can save him.” He was immune to consequences now, apparently. “ – And what was she saying about treason and torture?”

“Cub saw me ‘clipping.’ It must have given the poor dear some fright,” Signe remarked sweetly, following after him.

“Tch. Guess the ice dun't freeze as hard in the Frozen Halls...,” Vand stated dismissively.

Doggrave would wait for Maude to start moving, intent on guarding the rear.

From the front, an additional adjustment to the record -- “And it’s the WITHEREACH port!”

 

[Maude]

It was lucky for Vand that the current situation in the capital and circumstances surrounding her whereabouts were keeping the Norden from liberating his mind from its drunken stupor. Lips peeled over pointed pearls, the Norden followed at pace, her silence as dangerous as her roar. She said nothing more for the duration of the trip, given to lingering nearer to the Tusk than the other party members. The witch made her pelt prickle and the boy her blood boil.

It was several hours walk and at such a staggeringly slow pace that the glaciers of Morne might've beaten them there. If she didn't know any better, a major lack of discipline ran rampant through Withereach - unsurprising given the distance from the Capital. The further the towns strayed from the King's eye, the further they strayed from the laws and traditions. There were tales, even, of entire clans having set off across the frozen ocean in the dead of winter to stake out their own lives beyond the realm of Nordengaard. Maude could hardly imagine why - King Iordahn had been the greatest leader in their history. Why opt for self-exile? It made no sense.

This entire evening made no sense.

She hoped that the lights of Withereach would hold some answers.

 

[Vand]

They began their trudge back to Withereach, finally rejoining the ghostly glow of all the moon and stars and how they illuminated the eternal snow. It wasn’t long before they had developed a cadence; that rhythm of boots stomping down the fresher powder.

“He isn’t usually like this, just so you know,” Doggrave offered to Maude, his voice as low as it could be and still be heard. “There are elixirs for many things…Some to ease the sting of trickweed..”

One stomp…two stomp…One stomp…two stomp…

“Some to lighten the burden of having to make bodies by the pile…”

The Tusk wasn’t trying to be conspiratorial, or to in anyway ingratiate Vand to Maude.

Really, he was just trying to her to open up a bit to the world.

Because, really, it wasn’t about to get any better.

“Is she still her Svalen?,” Vand muttered directly into Signe’s ear, leaning closer.

“She is.”

“Oh, by Eogorath…,” he became temporarily more animated, broadcasting irritation. “These weird Northern twats, I swear.”

Signe seemed unaffected, her composure unwavering as she trudged through the snow.

“She’s hiding her affects,” the Witch stated matter-of-factly.

Vand grinned, glancing back, perhaps a little too long – his teeth white and visible as the snow.

“OooOooh – Is she?”

The drugs made the trip that much more bearable for Vand – the aforementioned music of their step had become literal music, and for bouts he was convinced they were actually flying. Sometimes, they were standing still while the world for them.

Sometimes, Maude in her Svalen form ceased to be, and she was the apparition of his own spirit that had so far failed to appear.

At a certain, unclear point, the Bog Witch split off from the group without a word, separating to disappear into a nearby wood. Vand peripherally noticed this, raising a hand to wave goodbye, then promptly forgetting all about it.

He was following the beat of a drum that had continued even in these early morning hours, where the stars began to fade and the black became more and more blue. In Earth time, it was probably nearing 3:45a.m.

The coastline was littered with hovels stacked two high, and fed ultimately to a dock from which they would ship their goods nearer to Nordengaard, rather than caravan them through the mountains. There was a wooden pathway that led up into the hills and presumably to the mines out of which they worked. There was another ramp, while coastside, was almost exiled…feeding up a hill into a well-gardened yard and an estate much larger than the rest. It was alone, but still very much in view, very present.

Some of the homes nearer to this estate appeared to have just gone through personal hurricanes.

They had reached Withereach.​

Vand lead the group toward a central bonfire where a party had once taken place, but had very much died down, and was forced to reconcile the fact that drums he had heard earlier were entirely in his head. What remained, however, were a handful of Withereachers, passed out or in a drunken slump around the central fire, watching an old man plug tirelessly, balls-deep in, presumably a woman, in her Svalen form. Vand stepped over to the festival table, dipping a finger in the leavings of what functioned essentially as a punchbowl, and then placed to his tongue. “Hornberries,” he reflected aloud.

Apparently, they had missed the real Saturnalia. “Yeah, Igoooo!,” he called to the elderly man with the insatiable sexual appetite. Igo dreamily raised a hand in response.

He turned to Doggrave, “Go fetch our Jorn for her nibs, would you?”

Vand was being sarcastic about the premise of Maude’s royalty. In reality, he was still oblivious to it. Doggrave departed without issue.

Tearing off a slab of meat that had long gone cold, he then snacked on it, regarding Maude the bear.

“I can see it in your eyes – You want to get in there,” nods, exaggerating how knowingly. “Igo wouldn’t mind.” He shrugs.

"You’re a very pretty bear…and I’m sure as shit he’s up to it.”

“Fucksake,” he remarked, taking a big bite of his animal flesh.

 

[Maude]

Maude gave the crowd surrounding the firepit a cursory glance, green eyes not honing in on anyone in particular. No, not even old man Igo. Vand's jeering was decidedly ignored, the bear's nostrils flaring at the many strange scents lingering in the air. Withereach had become a stinking pit if the stories of its nobler days were anything to go by. It saddened her to play witness to it, thinking that something must have gone amiss over the last several years with the King and his Council.

Iordahn would never have stood for this. What a disgrace.

She was lead away from the fire by the trail of death, leaving Vand to his meal and Igo to his pleasure. There weren't many bodies around, but the few that she could find had been dealt death in ways hardly worthy of a Nordenfiir. This was savage and needless. Many of these Nordens had suffered - a fate that made her veins run colder than those deep within the mines beneath this town. More frigid still than the arctic bay just beyond the edge of town.

If Maude didn't know any better, and she didn't, the corruption of Borvenir had extended as far south as Withereach. Just how much farther did it go?

HAW.

HAW.

A flutter of wings and drifting black feathers announced the arrival of a large raven. It soared through open night sky, winging overhead the great red bear to land upon an empty stump near the fire, near Vand. Three beady black eyes took in the blazing man and his meal, feathers ruffled against the chill.

"Haaaa-ow is a nightmare like a thundercloud?"

 

[Vand]

Vand grinned in self-satisfaction as Clifford the Big Red Bear took off in her huff. In her mind, the reign of her grandfather was unchallengingly immaculate; Nordengaard a Camelot, and Iordahn its Arthur. It was so easy to believe in problemless society in its Golden Age when you were of the people who benefited so much by it. Certainly, Iordahn would not stand for this. Perhaps, that was true.

In fact, the way Vand understood it, King Iordahn, in the days leading to his demise, wasn’t standing for much of anything anymore – to strike down would-be usurpers, to fuck his women, to even make it to the bathroom on time before soiling his robes in front of the whole royal court.

To the people of Withereach, the usurping of King Iordahn was not the tragedy, but the fact that it was piece of shit like King Borvenir to finally do it. Why had no one in Nordengaard seen the writing on the wall, that the King was now unfit? Was there no one with enough honor or courage to make a hard decision and shoulder the responsibility of it to spare Nordengaard from a monster who would take advantage of the weakness of an old man? In the luxury of the capital, Compassion and Cowardice had become intertwined, and it so damned the people into Tyranny.

Vand would not see history repeat itself so soon. He would rouse the rabble, and they, together, would gut their parasites from their town on their own terms, rather than lay in wait and weakness for some other Borvenir to come put them in chains, then do it for them.

An oversized raven cawed, landing nearby, and Vand glanced down at it casually. The Nordenfiir was well-versed in the magic that permeated a land haunted with ghosts and giants and mammoth-people. Hell, he ran with a witch as part of his usual crew. In this, he was not unaccustomed to something as unusual as a talking bird in his day-to-day life.

The fact he was on drugs just made it easier for it all to take.

Vand failed to identify “Ha-Owww” as “How,” and so he only deciphered a new question –

“Is a nightmare like a thundercloud?”​

Doggrave appeared just beyond the fire, shoving along an incredibly disheveled Irvad the Only. The once-Jorn’s clothing was stained, his face a permanent mask of agony and disgrace, but perhaps the most interesting part was the sign he still bore around his neck, written in Norden scrawl – “Public pissbucket.”

“To the ocean, maybe – Mine is a bear,” Vand replied to the bird, confident that what he said he said was not only clever, but, in earnest, revealing a bit of himself in the process. More on this later.

Back to elderly toilets.

“Ooooooh – You must have really pissed off the wights this time, pigfucker,” Vand taunted, moving in on the broken former-Jorn. In truth, Vand did not expect anyone to take the sign that seriously. After all, when the party had left to round up the deserting aristocracy, not one person had taken advantage of these new facilities. As the night wore, however, and the drink was consumed in excess, the lung-diseased miners began to remember just how they hated their employer and proceeded to show him just how much. “Ah well – It’s not much worse than how you used to shit on us, right? Even-Stevens.”

Irvad sniffled. He hadn’t been crying, exactly. He was so furious yet so powerless that the fury began to manifest as such. Vand and Doggrave ignored this, thinking it was a bit of a low-hanging fruit and too far off-message. Doggrave shoved the man forward at an angle, causing him to buckle to his knees upon the ground. His head hung, his gaze affixed in the dirt.

“Where’s our companion?,” Doggrave asked in regards to Maude.

“Beats the fuck out of me – I think she’s looking for her old college friends, or something,” Vand dismissed her, no longer interested. “Did they get everything from –” Vand stopped; redirected the question to an armored townsperson, apparently associated with the effort. “We gut the place yet?”

“Sure did.”

“Anything worth a damn?”

“Yeah, actually. One second,” and the dude ran off to fetch it.

“C’mon, shistsain – You’re gonna love this part.”

Vand snatched up one of Irvad’s chains and proceeded to drag him in the dirt toward the Jorn’s old estate.

 

[Maude]

Maude was watching this transpire from the side of town. A moment of consideration for the Jorn, for the Tusk, for the blazed out of his mind Norden, for the witch, for this town. Every fiber of her being screamed to investigate, to see things here set right, but her power to make things so only existed now in her memories. What authority she once had lay with the body of her slain King and murdered family.

The Frozen Halls had never been so far away.

With the ice of loss, grief, and hatred in her blood, the red bear turned away from the town limits and turned her back on the party and the Jorn. What happened here was no longer her concern and, certainly, she was of no further concern to them. That was probably the best exit she could have hoped for.

Snow gave way to cobble, gave way to wooden planks. Red fur shifted into leather and forged steel; pinked skin, hard eyes, long red hair. Gemaudelene of the Frozen Halls stepped across the wooden docks and stopped as she reached the edge. The expanse of Haymar's Folly was not frozen over, but the waters were frigid for certain. They were much too far north for anything else to be the truth, even if the Folly had shifted itself into warmer southern spring waters.

Ships dotted the horizon, large and small. Some she recognized as Nordenfiir make, others she could not recognize at all. Human, perhaps, or maybe elvish. Hard to say just how many different nations had used these waters for trade.

"If you came to inspect the shipment, it's already gone out," a woman's voice from behind her.

Maude turned on her heel, gloved hands balling into fists, green eyes landing on a woman who appeared slightly younger than herself. She had the look of a Norden - even carried a sword of Nordenfiiri make. The clothing pointed to one of the western mountain tribes but she did not smell like a Norden.

"Mm," the woman held up her hands in a sign of non-threat, "beg pardon, Ranger. Didn't mean to intrude."
"I'm not here to inspect the shipment," Maude scowled, giving the woman a hard look-over, green eyes hovering over the weapon at the woman's back, "who are you and what clan do you hail from?"
"I am Sigrith," a simple answer with a short bow, "of Hjerim."
"Hjerim ..." Maude's brows rose, "Jorn Thurna?"
"The very same."
"Are you a daughter of hers?"
"Her seventh daughter and a once-honored Shield Maiden."
Maude eyed her, to which Sigrith nodded and continued, "My father was a human. I was not granted a Svalen at birth."

So many questions cycled through Maude's mind but the sound of water slapping against the docks brought her back to the present. She opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it and instead offered the traditional Eogorath watches you still.

Sigrith nodded a quiet thanks, "If you are not inspecting shipments, what can I help you with, Ranger?"

"I seek passage to the south lands."
"South lands," Sigrith turned to glance at the ships currently tethered in the bay, "that ship at the end can take you there. They're taking a shipment of ironwood and make port at Huntstown. Captain Armistead's a friendly man, he takes travelers aboard all the time. For a fee."
"Thank you, Sigrith."
"Of course ... I didn't catch your name?"
"I didn't give it."

Sigrith watched the Ranger go with a faint coy smile, "Signe's never wrong."

 

[Vand]

Irvad crunched up, trying to protect himself by transforming into a ball as he came in contact with the hard, frozen ground. The dragging of him, at some point, had included a lifting up – and he couldn’t escape the hunch that that kindness was purely for the point of later throwing him back down.

Before he had even opened his eyes, the former-Jorn felt the mammoth’s giant mits on his chain, his shoulders, ripping him up from the ground and forcing him back to his knees in front of a Vand who appeared to be acting as a presenter for a live-show. The stage? Irvad’s governor estate, prominent in the setting behind him.

“Get ready! Are you ready?,” Vand grinned, way too wide. After a second of silence, he nodded on behalf of Irvad. “Yeah. Y- *kaff, kaff*…You’re so ready.”

Vand turned around raising a hand in the general direction of the housing, larger than its peers, then brought it down suddenly. The lick of flame could be seen immediately, marbling the texture of the wood.

Irvad gritted his teeth, snarling at the upstart. “That’s right. Burn your community to the ground,” he spat.

Vand turned to face him, his face serene as he spoke what, to him, was obvious. He made sure it was damp with condescension. “This isn’t our community, Irvad – It’s just your house.”

“And in your new utopia, I suppose your Jorn’s going to just be completely comfortable sleeping on the ground?” Irvad finally matched Vand’s gaze; his condescension, as well. Every old man confident he somehow gleaned more in his decades of safe mediocrity than the youth in their short blaze of radical Promethean fire.

“You’re not getting it,” Vand said, rubbing his face in exhaustion for the first time. He could feel the effects of Toad Stool starting wane, leaving behind only the ache of over-extension. “There’s not going to be another Jorn. No more lords, no more bosses.” Grinning again, playfully exaggerative, “Anarchy in Haymar’s Folly.”

“We’ll see how long that lasts – They’re Nordenfiir,” Irvad rationalized, his unconscious vomiting up ideas to justify his behavior and excess. “They need to be lead. They need to be guided by a strong hand, or they will bite it.”

“What a clever party line,” Vand shook his head in amusement, not buying a word of it. “What hope can our vision have in the face of such wonderful marketing?” He theatrically shrugged, looking to Doggrave. Ultimately, he conceded to Irvad without conceding a thing, “Well, fuck, Irvad – I guess I’m just an optimist.”

A little boy in his sleepytime jumper ran up beside Irvad. He would stand on his tip-toes once or twice, then awkwardly hop around on one leg, not really making eye contact with anyone. Vand and Doggrave just sorta stared at the kid for a moment, until Doggrave finally ushered the interaction along. “What do you need, cub?”

“I need to use….the potty…,” the kid said again, his awkward dance continuing.

It took the three of them a moment. “Oh, right – Yeah. Do your thing,” Vand offered, crossing his arms and disengaging Irvad for the moment to give the kid some privacy. He rocked back and forth, orienting his body more toward the burning home of the Jorn.

Meanwhile, Irvad’s head hung low as the child proceeded to piss all over his calves.

“You didn’t even ask me what was inside of it…There was a fortune, and you just set it ablaze. You’re so fucking stupid.”

"Yeah? Says the guy with human shit all over his face?” The moment landed hard, punctuated by Doggrave’s bursting out in trumpetous laughter. Vand squared off with Irvad again, coming back around with a heavy dose of ‘the point,’ “We sacked your plaza, man – We gutted it hollow. That, there, is just the husk of whatever legacy you thought you were leaving –”

Turning back to the fire, waving farewell. “And now, it’s on fire…Bye bye!”

Suddenly, the guard-type from earlier came running up, an odd-looking two-handed sword in his hand. Vand regarded him, heard a quick declaration of what they had found, and took the weapon for inspection. “By the way – There was a LOT of gold in there...,” Vand begin, holding the sword so Doggrave could see it, too, as he was clearly interested. Irvad’s face went pale, and though he hadn’t been saying anything at the time, his silence seemed somehow more pronounced. “Where did you get all that, I wonder? From our iron?"

Irvad said absolutely nothing.

“And then there’s THIS ugly bastard--,” Vand presented it to Irvad, wielding it as he would in combat. “Who made this for you? One of your 11 year old girlfriends?”

Irvad remained silent, as if he thought his lawyer was on his way.

It didn’t matter – The question were largely rhetorical, at this point.

“Paper mache?,” Vand feigned ignorance. “No, it’s not, right? It’s Black Ice.” He lifted the blade, watching the black obsidian quality catch in the firelight. The sword was poorly-smithed, the shape of the blade almost like an errant stick having fallen from a tree. The edge was less that than it was a series of a crudely shaped teeth for a sawblade, smashed into whatever sharpness it gleaned by a heavy hammer, or maybe even a rock.

“It’s not exactly pretty, is it?” That much was evident. “Is it valuable?”

It had to have been, Vand wagered. Otherwise, why would he keep it?

Irvad was staring at the ground, hoping it would swallow him up.

“Shit, Irvad – You were awfully chatty a second ago,” Vand cleared his throat; coughed, spat. “Your tongue dry out?”

Vand passed the blade to Doggrave and advanced upon the fallen man in chains.

“Here, let’s grease it a bit.”

Vand, using his thumb, swept up a piece of shit on Irvad’s face and drew it to the man’s mouth, rubbing it passed his gums and onto his teeth.

Irvad protested, then roared, transforming into his Svalen – The Jorn was huge, and it was clear why he ruled for so long. Vand jumped back in reflex only to advance again, fists-clenched, their eyes locked.

“I swear to Eogorath – If you don’t change back right fucking now…”

Irvad had not even broke his chains. He lingered in the form a moment before reverting to his humanity, dropping immediately to his knees, broken.

Vand wiped his hand off on his own trousers in a superstitious removal of germs. Bringing the same hand NEAR his mouth, he coughed into it again, readying his lungs for this next big push as Irvad let what had just happened sink in. The former Jorn started to cry, ashamed; disgraced.

“Who was paying you for the Black Ice, Irvad?”

Irvad sniffled in compliance, “There are traders…They come every 30 suns or so…”

Doggrave chimed in, “When will they be here next?”

Irvad resisted the Tusk. At least until Vand pushed it, “Answer him.”

“Tomorrow…The next day…Soon.”

Vand nodded to Doggrave, who nodded back, leaving to go speak with some of the guards.

Irvad looked up, his eyes wet with tears and the onset of Pink Eye. He muttered, begging. He was so low as to be barely audible.

“Let me go…I’ll give you everything…”

“By the wights, Irvad ,” Vand groaned, “Have some self-respect.”

“Just let me go, please,” Irvad persisted. “Everything. You’ll be so rich…”

Vand backhanded the hell out of Irvad, his bear claws slicing into his cheek as it knocked the man to the ground. Vand promptly lifted him back up by his collar, speaking sternly into his face.

“IRVAD. WE ALREADY HAVE EVERYTHING. IT’S OVER.”

Then threw him back to the ground. He collapses into a heap of tears and pleading.

Vand sighed. The Toad Stool had completely worn off. He was so tired, and maybe that’s what made the rebel empathize with the former oppressor.

It had been a long day for both of them.

“Give him a pirate’s baptism – Let him get cleaned up.”

“Oh, thank you…,” Irvad praised. Doggrave had returned along with two people acting as guards, dragging him off.

“Ugh.” A pirate’s baptism, essentially, was tying the suspected pirate to one of the pillars of the dock and letting the rising tides more or less waterboard them. The fact that Irvad thanked Vand for this “mercy” was beyond disgusting to the rabble-rouser.

Vand shook his head at Doggrave. “Unbelievable.” He coughed.

“Yeah,” Doggrave agreed. He moved around to Vand’s back to help gird on his new sword

~^*^~​

The two heroes of Withereach would eventually return to the fire where Sigrith was waiting for them. Perhaps Doggrave was more familiar with her, but Vand had seen her enough in passing to not be totally shocked by her presence. When he saw her with the bird, of course, something earlier suddenly made a lot more sense. He vocalized this flickering on of a lightbulb.

“Oh! Right.”

Doggrave drifted over to an open spot on the ground and took a seat, his legs out in front of him and bent so as to create a rest for his massive arms. Vand took a seat on a nearby sandbag positioned between the Tusk and Sigrith, figuring she’d chime in.

When not drowned out by the crackling fire, the night was so still that Irvad’s whimpering could be heard in the distance...

…as could the citizenry of Withereach, periodically waking up from their snoring to cough in the night.

Vand yawned.

 

[Sigrith]

The Norden witch had claimed the open log where the three-eyed raven sat, joining the circle in silence. She'd not properly introduced herself to the peoples of Withereach, though she'd passed through at the side of Signe a few times before. Her face was not an unknown and, certainly, not an easy one to forget. Even for a disgruntled mine slave. Quiet amusement settled over the woman as she kicked her feet up to rest on a smoothed sitting stone nearby and leaned to light a pipe on the flames of the fire.

By the time Vand and Doggrave had rejoined the circle she was well surrounded by blueish smoke and the aroma of smoking weeds. The kind Vand might recognize to use for times of relaxation and enjoyment, when one needed to ease their spirit into comfort. Raven's feathers glinted at her shoulders, pieces of silver sewn into long braids that faded from ebony to ash mingling among the pauldrons. A large sword sat by her side like a warrior fit for a quiet rest.

Haw, said the raven, peering at Vand.

HAW.

HAAAAA-OW is a nightmare like a thundercloud?

Sigrith gave the bird a curious look, "Talkative tonight are you?"

Haw. Feathers ruffled.

"Because you always see a nightmare coming, but it isn't always what you expect. Like an Heir apparent passing through a mining village..." she gently puffed her pipe, coy smirk dancing in the firelight.

 

[Vand]

Vand watched Sigrith for a moment, weighing her words carefully. He had no idea what she was talking about, so, naturally, he began to plug it in the best he could as it seemed relevant to him.

“I keep thinking about –”

Fortunately, Doggrave had seen these gears start churning in the dissident’s head early on and moved quickly to shut down the crazy machine.

“She’s saying the princess is no longer our problem,” Doggrave stated loudly, cutting Vand off before he went off the reservation.

“The princess…? You mean the –”

“Yes, the red bear. Remember that thing I was going to tell you --?”

“Ah, fuck.”

“ – This is it.”

Chagrined, Vand tiredly laughed at himself. When he was done, he coughed a bit.

“I bet she was worth a fortunnnnee…,” he commented dryly, facetiously; his voice an approximation of someone else who might actually care.

Vand rubbed his face again, leaning forward into the fire. His soul was as tired as his body.

“Irvad offered me gold,” Vand started, his voice a bit confused. He was a reflective now, in the wary afterglow of his comedown. “He told me he could make me rich. Not everyone else – Just me. Like that was why we were doing this, y’know? Because we all secretly wanted to be Irvad the Only – the guy covered in shit -- right now -- at the end of the dock…”

Vand shook his head, his brow furrowing.

“Like it all his wealth was worth not only my Justice, but that everyone here. That, while he paid us for our time, and our work – a few extra gold in my pocket would make right for what he took for free from our breath.”

He was almost growling, his face having warped into a deep scowl in the firelight, made all the more sinister by bone half-mask. He was a monster now; a demon tasked with retribution.

“That he should have his life, while Withereach stayed sick, and Bjorn, and Halamarth stayed dead, and I sat up…on a big chair…in a big house…on a big hill…coughing, and coughing, and coughing.”

Each comma, each ellipses was a gun going off; hard nails driven into a figurative coffin designed to fit Irvad the Only.

Vand snarl rescinded as his seething, of course, provoked a coughing fit. Doggrave slapped him hard on the back twice, causing Vand to project a glob of bloody mucus, crackling like bacon as it hit the fire.

His tone mellowed into an honest confession.

“I don’t think I understand money – Do you?"

Doggrave shook his head. "No."

He looked to Sigrith.

 

[Sigrith]

She was silent, a statue spewing smog over a hot breath in the cold winter air. Strange eyes, one green and one violet, paled over the faces nearby with a wonder for the souls that lay restless within. Unbidden by a magic that had refused so many here - Signe had told her - so many souls lost to an illness that spread far deeper than skin, than bone. It permeated the culture of the town, turning something familiar into something not.

A bitter carcass of a once proud, wise, and mighty beast. Starved of story, and morals, and truths for so long that it had stopped searching for sustenance and seemingly accepted the state of things.

Some nights she thought it made her sad, but her time with the Witches had morphed those sorts of feelings into steam for the machine of contemplation. The stream of consciousness, all ribbons of color in the night sky.

"You don't have to understand money," the woman replied, tapping ash from her pipe, "you only have to want it. And when you don't want it...you only have to understand the people that do."

Witches didn't want for money, usually.

Eyes like northern lights settled on him as he coughed, the pipe stuck from her lips turning towards the raven who nibbled at it.

Haaaaawww.

Haaaaaaa-ow fast the river flows around the mountain that tries to stop it.

 

[Vand]

Vand searched her eyes – the still, blue, moonlit snow to her aurora borealis. He was so tired; it was so obvious.

He nodded in contemplation to her words, never one to ignore the wisdomof the witches, regardless of their obscurantism or convolution. Vand meditated on them in the fire.

He could be the mountain. He could be the river.

Or he could recognize the more obvious truth:

He was neither of those things.

And his enemies weren’t either.

They were all so much less consequential; their lives so much shorter.

Even still, the mountains, the river – they, too, would all die eventually.

So, what did that mean? For Irvad? For Withereach?

For justice?

Maybe different things at different times. Maybe everything at once.
​

Vand didn’t know.

​

That was okay. He didn’t need to decide what it all meant right now.

“So,” he finally broke the silence, “…which princess was it?”

“Gemaudelene, I think,” Doggrave answered. The “I think” was an affectation he had acquired from people; it was designed to make him appear more humble about his infinite knowledge. In truth, he knew it was Gemaudelene. 100%.

“Ah…,” Vand grinned, “…think I made a good impression … y’know --for when she comes back to take the throne?”

“I think you make an impression…,” Sigrith offered honestly, though diplomatically. Her smirk betrayed her level of diplomacy.

“No. Absolutely not,” Doggrave killed the idea dead, his delivery deadpan. “I don’t think she liked you at all.”

“Huh,” Vand reflected, weighing it over. “Long live King Borvenir, I guess.”

Perhaps, anywhere else in the world, one could hear the sound of crickets carrying on into the night.

But here, in Wintereach, there was only long bouts of stillness…torn asunder suddenly by the coughing fit of one of its citizenry, and then another.

And Vand, among the choir.

Fin.
​