Withereach, Nordengaard
Southern Eretejva Tundra
The morning immediately following He is No King of Mine
Southern Eretejva Tundra
The morning immediately following He is No King of Mine
“It just feels like so much.”
The two were awakened perhaps far earlier than they intended, the people of Withereach having awoken collectively as the dockhand caught the oncoming ship in his scope. They had broken their fast quickly, and now, they stood on the beginning edge of the dock in quiet reflection, small tin cups in-hand containing some herbal mixture which, for all intents and purposes, may as well just be coffee.
“Then don’t let it be,” Signe chimed in, her ever-encouraging, Disney Princess, sing-songy voice.
“Yeah, I know, but did you ever imagine it would come to this?,” he was clearly excited, with that little peppering of fear which made doing things that much more worth it. “The future of Withereach … riding on this one thing.” He gestured with his hands, opening them up (though careful not to spill), as he stated much more pensively, “And it’s in my hands. How did I get here?”
Signe was too old, too wise to be shocked. In her time on this planet, she had come to learn there really wasn’t any reason why anything wouldn’t happen to anybody.
“You did something. You reached out and you touched the world, and now it’s touching you back. Should’ve been more responsible.”
“But..MY hands. ME. MINE. Would you have ever guessed this, when I showed up at your door, damp and fucking – “ He tensed his fists and shoulders in emphasis. He wound up coughing, bringing the closed fist of his free hand to his mouth. Finally, “ –shaking-pissed…?”
Vand grinned to her, taking a sip of his coffee-type thing, the steam kissing his face.
A thin smile grew upon her face, remembering him as a youth; his boots swallowed by the wooden floor, but still him, red in the face, shouting righteous platitudes split apart amidst a coughing fit.
He was like a little puppy, trying to bark.
Signe couldn’t help but laugh.
“Such a trifling pair!,” she cheered in delight. “My Svalen, long dead; Yours – Never born.”
She adored their connection, and she underscored it to enhance the bond. Bittersweet, but true, and perfect in its own way.
“What poor Nordenfiir we make!”
Vand was no longer smiling. His eyes withdrew from her, cast down into the cold water below. His head nodded in understanding of her perception, his reality. Her own joy vanished instantly, the moment ruined.
“You think I’m without a Svalen.” Her implication was restated flatly.
“Oh…,” she shriveled, realizing what she had done.
“I’m just a bitter old woman…”
She betrayed herself.
“Don’t you go listening to me.”
Vand nodded again, discretely wounding her. He dumped what remained of his cup into the water.
“It doesn’t matter.”
He let that hang on the air for a minute. The breakdown was so jarring, he wasn’t sure how to transition.
“Yeah,” he nodded again. “We should be getting ready. Could you --?”
“Tell the others? Of course…”
Signe smiled weakly at him, only to tuck it away.
Vand looked at her for a moment, hesitant, before finally leaving her to the dock. She would hear him hacking and spitting as he cleared the docks.
~^*^~
There was a story Vand would have told Princess Gemaudelene, had she asked. It was about Jorn Irvad, and Withereach, and a shaman named Halamarth, and a miner named Bjarn, and how all of it came to be to end up the way it has.
It would have gone like this:
Once upon a time, the people of Withereach worked in the iron mines as a point of pride and public service, shipping off a steady supply of ore, and precious gems, and Black Ice. They did their daily duty on behalf of King Iovard; and the King, in turn, supplied them with housing, and food, and school services. Their work was well-rewarded, and their work was well-done. And so it was for years and years and years. One day, however, the Jorn of Withereach passed away, leaving his position to his son, Irvad, the first of his name. The people of Withereach took no objection to this – While they were all warriors by point of heritage, their Svalens identified more with cave work; with fostering community and giving to the tribe. There was no reason to fight Jorn Irvad for his position – though, if they had, they would have found that Irvad the Only was no slouch.
The people begin to find that newer goods were showing up in town. More traders passing by, like clockwork, bringing better food, and blankets, and supplies, far beyond what the King ordinarily supplied. The reason for this would be revealed later by the Jorn with the opening his own storefront. He announced that he would be introducing a currency, rewarded for hard work in the mines. Currency would now be the mechanism by which the people of Withereach would ensure their lanterns had oil, and their clothes without holes, and their tables well set so their children were well fed. More currency meant better items. More currency meant more work. The people of Withereach were hard working, so this not only seemed fair, but sure win for everyone involved.
And so it was that more the relaxed work hours became more rigorous. Where the day had once ended long before sundown, they were now mining into the night, using their own lamp oil to where the daylight faded. In fact, the work became its own reward – you paid for your own resources for the opportunity to make currency. For a few years, it seemed like everyone had enjoyed an increase in quality of life. The miners did not seem to see as much of their family as they once had – were no longer the same vested members of a community --, but they knew that, one day, after they paid for the new doors and the lamplights and when the kids got out of school and joined the mines themselves – they would be able to relax on the currency they had saved from all the work they put in now.
The shop became less and less consistent, however. Some months, the meat was rotten, sometimes the portions meager, but the price did not fluctuate. “Tough times in the world,” Irvad would allege. “It’s what the traders charged. You’re getting a fair rate.” Though, while the miners seemed to be working harder for less, Jorn Irvad only seemed to get richer – his estate even populating a mercenary detail of errant barbarians and Dark Elves, many of which were former guards of Nordengaard on Irvad’s seemingly infinite take.
There was a rumor going around that, following the successful sale of a burlap blanket, that Irvad turned to one of his guards and laughed, albeit quietly, “These stupid fucks will buy anything.” This was widely regarded to be the misinformation of the lazy and deservedly poor.
One fateful day, a miner named Bjarn – the hardest worker, really; never complained – seemed to come down with a bit of a cough. His co-workers asked about it, worrying he would contaminate them as well, but Bjarn was not to miss work – Time was money, after all. Still, they persisted, and he was forced to take a day off. A day which became a week. Bjarn simply was not getting better – blood accruing in the thick spats of mucus that he was hacking up, well into the night. The Jorn was all too happy to provide a doctor (At Bjarn’s expense, mind you) to give a proper diagnosis. The doctor Irvad brought it gave Bjarn a clear bill of health, declaring it simply related to seasonal sinuses. After all, some Nordenfiir has such pronounced issues on account of their keen sense of smell – And, if you consider it, Withereach is a bit south for Nordens.
The Spring came and went and Bjarn continued to cough, worse and worse. Some other people did, as well, though they tried to conceal it. Unable to afford another visit with Irvad’s doctor, Bjarn elected to sneak a trip to see the Bear Shaman Halamarth – a man who rarely saw visitors anymore, as the people were too busy working to attend ceremony. It took Shaman Halamarth not long at all to see what had happened – due to continuous exposure to the dust of the mines under the unsafe conditions that came from the workers being forced to shoulder safety expenses, Bjarn’s lungs were scarred and caked over in rock dust. There was no way he was ever going to get better.
Bjarn and Halamarth rallied the people of Withereach, determined to bring it to the Jorn’s attention. They were able to assemble a small, but reliable posse as they marched on the gates of Irvad’s estate. By now, the credibility of Irvad’s healer was under scrutiny, and an explanation was demanded. Jorn Irvad refused to meet the allegations, or answer any questions, simply choosing instead to send down his mercenary fighters to protect his assets. He was heard by the townspeople who had gathered for the scene to have shouted to his men, “Do what you have to – Just don’t let beyond the gate.” The workers had queued up at his estate only for explanation, not a fight. They were armed with nothing except their fists, their bodies unarmored. And yet, for whatever reason, though no call to shoot was ever heard, the mercenaries opened fire upon the posse with their crossbows. They reloaded and did it again. Perhaps people would have fought if they had understood what was going on, but…nobody really did.
In the end, Shaman Halamarth was the only one left alive.
In the morning, Jorn Irvad would gather the people of Withereach. His healer would proclaim that he had determined the root of the cough which inflicted everyone was none other than witchcraft performed by an embittered shaman who had lost his place in the community. Halamarth was angry that nobody saw value in the old ways which gave the shaman so much authority and power and so conspired with the witches to bring everyone back into his dependency and discredit the Jorn. Halamarth was offered no final statements and was burned alive for his treason. This explanation did not line up in the hearts and heads of the community, but then again, it was logically sound, and it was easier to do nothing than something.
The people begin to find that newer goods were showing up in town. More traders passing by, like clockwork, bringing better food, and blankets, and supplies, far beyond what the King ordinarily supplied. The reason for this would be revealed later by the Jorn with the opening his own storefront. He announced that he would be introducing a currency, rewarded for hard work in the mines. Currency would now be the mechanism by which the people of Withereach would ensure their lanterns had oil, and their clothes without holes, and their tables well set so their children were well fed. More currency meant better items. More currency meant more work. The people of Withereach were hard working, so this not only seemed fair, but sure win for everyone involved.
And so it was that more the relaxed work hours became more rigorous. Where the day had once ended long before sundown, they were now mining into the night, using their own lamp oil to where the daylight faded. In fact, the work became its own reward – you paid for your own resources for the opportunity to make currency. For a few years, it seemed like everyone had enjoyed an increase in quality of life. The miners did not seem to see as much of their family as they once had – were no longer the same vested members of a community --, but they knew that, one day, after they paid for the new doors and the lamplights and when the kids got out of school and joined the mines themselves – they would be able to relax on the currency they had saved from all the work they put in now.
The shop became less and less consistent, however. Some months, the meat was rotten, sometimes the portions meager, but the price did not fluctuate. “Tough times in the world,” Irvad would allege. “It’s what the traders charged. You’re getting a fair rate.” Though, while the miners seemed to be working harder for less, Jorn Irvad only seemed to get richer – his estate even populating a mercenary detail of errant barbarians and Dark Elves, many of which were former guards of Nordengaard on Irvad’s seemingly infinite take.
There was a rumor going around that, following the successful sale of a burlap blanket, that Irvad turned to one of his guards and laughed, albeit quietly, “These stupid fucks will buy anything.” This was widely regarded to be the misinformation of the lazy and deservedly poor.
One fateful day, a miner named Bjarn – the hardest worker, really; never complained – seemed to come down with a bit of a cough. His co-workers asked about it, worrying he would contaminate them as well, but Bjarn was not to miss work – Time was money, after all. Still, they persisted, and he was forced to take a day off. A day which became a week. Bjarn simply was not getting better – blood accruing in the thick spats of mucus that he was hacking up, well into the night. The Jorn was all too happy to provide a doctor (At Bjarn’s expense, mind you) to give a proper diagnosis. The doctor Irvad brought it gave Bjarn a clear bill of health, declaring it simply related to seasonal sinuses. After all, some Nordenfiir has such pronounced issues on account of their keen sense of smell – And, if you consider it, Withereach is a bit south for Nordens.
The Spring came and went and Bjarn continued to cough, worse and worse. Some other people did, as well, though they tried to conceal it. Unable to afford another visit with Irvad’s doctor, Bjarn elected to sneak a trip to see the Bear Shaman Halamarth – a man who rarely saw visitors anymore, as the people were too busy working to attend ceremony. It took Shaman Halamarth not long at all to see what had happened – due to continuous exposure to the dust of the mines under the unsafe conditions that came from the workers being forced to shoulder safety expenses, Bjarn’s lungs were scarred and caked over in rock dust. There was no way he was ever going to get better.
Bjarn and Halamarth rallied the people of Withereach, determined to bring it to the Jorn’s attention. They were able to assemble a small, but reliable posse as they marched on the gates of Irvad’s estate. By now, the credibility of Irvad’s healer was under scrutiny, and an explanation was demanded. Jorn Irvad refused to meet the allegations, or answer any questions, simply choosing instead to send down his mercenary fighters to protect his assets. He was heard by the townspeople who had gathered for the scene to have shouted to his men, “Do what you have to – Just don’t let beyond the gate.” The workers had queued up at his estate only for explanation, not a fight. They were armed with nothing except their fists, their bodies unarmored. And yet, for whatever reason, though no call to shoot was ever heard, the mercenaries opened fire upon the posse with their crossbows. They reloaded and did it again. Perhaps people would have fought if they had understood what was going on, but…nobody really did.
In the end, Shaman Halamarth was the only one left alive.
In the morning, Jorn Irvad would gather the people of Withereach. His healer would proclaim that he had determined the root of the cough which inflicted everyone was none other than witchcraft performed by an embittered shaman who had lost his place in the community. Halamarth was angry that nobody saw value in the old ways which gave the shaman so much authority and power and so conspired with the witches to bring everyone back into his dependency and discredit the Jorn. Halamarth was offered no final statements and was burned alive for his treason. This explanation did not line up in the hearts and heads of the community, but then again, it was logically sound, and it was easier to do nothing than something.
Interestingly enough, it was this story about witchcraft that would propel a young Vand to attempt confront the witches of the bogs when he and his father inevitably caught the cough. There, of course, he would meet Signe, the Bog Witch that would become one of his longest and most-trusted friends.
Silver linings, and that.
Silver linings, and that.
Later that evening, Bjarn and the others were laid upon their ceremonial barges, set off into Haymar’s Folly, and torched as per traditional Nordenfiir funerary rites.
With heavy hearts, the miners would return to work the following morning to attempt to resume their normal lives. However, one final upset appeared in the form of a banner with Norden scrawl, hanging at the mouth to the cave. It read:
“These stupid fucks will buy anything.”
From almost the moment that the ship had dotted the horizon, the Nordenfiir of Withereach had been anticipating its arrival, and while the workers and townsfolk dutifully continued to fulfill their daily duties, pretending their bests that they were unaffected by the coming traders, it could not conceal the palatable anxiety in the air.
This arrangement had to succeed. It was too important not to.
For their autonomy from the new crown. For the promise of survival.
For the restoration of their dignity, bought then thrown away. For a sense of agency in their own short lives.
For that bear, once roaring in their hearts, refusing to submit.
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