Letters More than a Marauder

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Arnor sat, looking at the dawn approach the sky, casting orange light over the scours of dead Naga at his feet. Knottington was defended. Defended, hard-fought by a select group of outsiders and the courageous townsfolk who took up meager arms. The great hall stood untouched. The Naga, despite their meddling, their conniving, could not breach the powerful spirit of the town and the combined power of the outsiders.

So why was Arnor so....unhappy? Something was bothering him. He turned and walked to the abandoned inn, still smoldering. He found an intact chair, and a somewhat intact table. He found a piece of parchment from his pack, and a quill. Black ink from the inn's ledger dipped into the page, and he began to write.

Dear Maude,

I have been travelling all over the mainland for quite some time now. I have not saved any of the coin I have earned. I have spent it on every pleasure that I could think of. I have experienced many things that not many of our kind have. The views, the people I have met- the waterways alone make me wonder what we could do if we were a more sea-faring people. They fear us, down here. We stand heads and shoulders tall, weigh many more stones than they do. I suppose you know that as much as anyone would- after all, you're out there too.

I hope this letter finds you well. I was never particularly good at writing. I hope to hear from you soon.

Regards,

Arnor

He stood, walking outside. Already, the survivors were beginning their exodus. He stopped one, loading his cart. The small human man was very grateful to him, and so were his wife and children- he put a hand to stop them. The sounds they made were insufferable. The languages down here were....abysmal to his ears. But they were nice enough people, he mused. He handed them the letter. They had offered him gold...a few of their daughters in marriage...but all he wanted from Knottington.

Was for someone to deliver this letter to Maude. He gave them instructions, and a singular golden coin for their trouble. No doubt that someone wherever they went could deliver a letter to Maude- no doubt she was turning as much heads as he did. He told her where to write him back at on the back- a small inn, six miles north of Knottington simply called the Bright Tree Inn. He'd stay there, recover, and plan his next move. And hopefully- receive a letter.

 

[Maude]

It took some time for the letter to find Maude, for the woman had been on the move as soon as the safety of Knottington had been secured. Much as she was want to continue her travels with a fellow Norden, her search for another came back into play after a grateful townsperson gave tell of a man who had traveled through there one year prior. Another Norden, older and wisened. Quiet and curiously agreeable for his kind.

"His name was ... Eodahn, I think," said the man one evening while pouring her a pint in thanks for services rendered to the town, "maybe Eodar. Can't remember. Big bloke, older but strong. Spoke with an accent like yours."

But Nords held the same accent, Maude told him plainly, simple humans unblessed by the great Eogorath. How did he know the man was one of her kind?

"His face," he replied, "half covered by a black mark like carved knotwork. It was strange. I seen plenty of tats, but nothin the likes of this. It was like ... your amulet."

That was the clue she needed and she'd made quick work of leaving on the light of the rising sun, following the directions of the tavern keep and leaving Arnor with not but a simple word that she had business to tend to. Despite their bulk and lack of mounts, Nordenfiir were quite accomplished at covering ground when the right impetus was there. She was three towns south by the time the letter caught up to her, delivered by the hand of a dark-skinned elf. Maude gave it an alarmed sort of glance, having no certainty of who would write to her. Her Uncle was off on his own mission, to the College of Elbion to learn search for more clues on the amulet. He wouldn't write unless it was of utmost importance, so who?

And much to her surprise, it was from Arnor. Maude didn't know he could write and was summarily impressed.

Arnor,

Admittedly I was not expecting to receive your letter. It was a pleasant surprise.

I am coming to learn of these things you have observed in the Summer Lands - those which I have not traveled for nearly as long as yourself. You know who I am but you do not know why I am here, something I will tell you in time but it must be done face to face. I cannot trust the hands of creatures in these lands as I know not where their loyalties lie.

An apology is owed for my abrupt departure. As I said, a sudden and urgent matter has arisen that cannot wait and cannot risk another's involvement at this time. I seek another Nordenfiir by the name of Eodar who was banished from our lands by King Iordahn many decades ago. His knowledge is what I seek for something of vital importance. I wish I could tell you more, but it must wait until I find him. There are events unfolding in these lands and in our homelands that could very well spell disaster for our kind. It is not in our nature to fear the unknown, but these are things my mind cannot ignore. I fear for our people, Arnor.

Soon, we will have a greater role to play to ensure the future of the Nordenfiir so that we might one day become a worldly people and experience the wonders that you have. I am learning of these many things just as you had and you are right, we deserve so much more than what we have given ourselves. I hope one day you will help me show our people just that.

Until next we speak,

Gemaudelene

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

He sat in the inn, leaning against the headboard. There was a sleeping girl beside him- an Elf by the name of...something with an E. She was a symptom of a larger disease- the disease that had been plaguing Arnor for some time. Normally, men would be content in this situation. His purse full of coin, a warm bed, and company to share it with. He propped up a leg, and reached to the nightstand. As any respectable innkeeper wanting to keep a recurring customer, he'd been cleaning the room for him daily- and put several things to accommodate Arnor's extended stay.

He sat the inkwell on the nightstand, and leaned over on his side, bathing the paper in the warm light of the candle.


Dear Gemaudelene,

I'm full of many surprises. Most of them unpleasant, however, pleasantries once and a while appear. Like rain in a drought. I've experienced so much here- rain being chief among them. We, in the North- experience rain as a simple state of being. A different type of cold to most of us. Here- the rain is principle for the crops, for the well-being of all things. We can melt our snow, gather our water- but these people have a fascination with the rain. It's raining softly- I can hear it on the roof here. It's quite...pleasant in some ways. The mountains have their beauty, but we should not write these people and their lands off entirely. Many Norden are narrow-minded in their worldview, trapped by the machinations of a man who would be a God, if he could muster the strength.

These people- 'creatures' as you call them, are decent, and kind. I would implore you to be more trusting, be more open to how they live.

The Elf woman stirred, shifting in her sleep. He turned to look at her, and a sadness washed over him. She'd be gone in the morning. He'd like her to stay. But like the others before her- she'd leave. To his dismay.

I wish you all the best in your journey, your pursuit of one of our kinsman. I do not share the fear you have of our people- much as little of a surprise as that may come. Our people have cast me out, labelled me as an outsider now. My feet have tread too far from home for many of them. We only deserve that which we are willing to give, and I would ask that you give more than you take from these lands and these people.

May you need never banish misfortune, and may spirits guide you and protect you.

Kindest Regards,

Arnor Skuldsson

He folded the parchment and the Elf sat up. She smiled at him in the dim light and asked him to go to sleep. She said that letters could wait until later. She was right. No riders would take it until the morning- much later in the morning. Far after he would awake. He folded the letter and sealed it into the parcel, leather binding it together. He took the time- to carve his name in the traditional runes onto the leather. He licked the tip of his finger and placed it to the candlewick, snuffing out the light. Hopefully, the letter would find her in good fortune.

Was it respect- or something greater that Arnor saw in Maude? He fretted over it, laying his head on the pillow beneath his head, closing his eyes after a long while. He fell into a restless sleep, bothered by the reality that he may in fact, may need to face his people someday.

 

[Maude]

It was nearly a moon later before the next letter arrived into Maude's possession, presented by raven no less. Curious, she wondered at the creatures smaller stature and one less of eye. The Herrevans of Eretejva were nearly twice the size and often cackled verses and spouted follies. Their messages were vocal, oft-not hand written, such was the nature of their own ingrown magic. Made her ponder their origins as she read the man's stilted lettering by the light of candles in her room at another town Inn. The Herrevans came from the south of their lands, rumored to have been crafted by the Bog Witches, not hatched from eggs.

Maude thought on this and found she might have to take the man's word to heart in time.

Arnor,

A story occurs to me as I read your letter delivered by raven just before dusk. The tale of the Herrevans, do you know it? I should think even a boy growing up in a place so far south as Withereach would, its origins live not far from your once home. These creatures we employ to carry our messages and share the rafters of our halls are said to be born of the magics of the Bog Witches. One I had the displeasure of meeting on my journey to leave Nordengaard. I found her with a Norden within her clutches, grotesquely caught within transformation - he was neither bear nor man but some horrific golemn inbetween. His mouth was open as if he tried to cry out but he only uttered a plea for his mother while the witch cut off his nose and ears, living.

I could not stand to watch or hear her wretched voice in my head. I claimed him and put him from his misery and she laughed at my accusations of treason.

Perhaps ... my knowledge of the past and the present isn't what it should be. I was trained as a Ranger to kill these Witches on sight should they cross our boarders and yet she was harbored by the people of Withereach like family. Something happened there, in your old home, something I was made peripherally aware of connected to what happened in the Frozen Halls. I hadn't time to seek out the answers I needed but the man you once knew as Jorn in that town is certainly dead. There is treachery buried deep in those mines and I cannot help but wonder just how deep it really goes. How far it bleeds across land and sea alike.

You bid me trust the people of these lands, and yet not but two days ago a band of mercenaries made to capture me. They carried with them a notice from my enemy in the North.

Call yourself an outcast if you must, but you are Nordenfiir and you are one of only two people in all the Summer Lands I can trust. I hope I have not misplaced it.

My search for Eodar continues west.

Gemaudelene

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

He'd been splitting wood for quite some time now, making his keep at the inn. He didn't want to spend all of his money there, so he elected to be a helping hand. He was quite good at splitting wood- he was sure that the innkeeper had told the entire town about his ability to split wood as if were nothing, and the innkeeper was trying to make some money on the side. The blistering cold of winter had sent the demand for firewood skyrocketing, and Arnor was able to brave the cold and gather more, easier than most, in fact, far easier than others.

He brought the axe down on the stump once, splitting the pine log with a satisfying crack. He returned inside, feeling the warmth of the fire that he helped fuel envelope him. He may have been fine out in the cold, but he did not shy away from a warm fire. That, and it provided an excellent light for him to write on. The elf girl had come and gone, several weeks ago. There were other suitors, but he politely turned them down. The inn was getting busier- the road had become more important since Knottington had burned- now trade routes came through here. The inn had never been busier, much to the dismay of Arnor, and the delight of the innkeeper. Arnor despised the company, the innkeeper, a Dwarf named Verus. Verus was a kind man, but a businessman. Arnor did not want to be a freeloader, so he was all too happy to pay his dues in other ways.

Verus did not mind the Nordenfiir, he kept to himself. He even started to have the raven come around regularly, and a postal service for when it was too cold for the beasts to fly. It helped, people usually wanted to send packages or souvenirs home and the courier service was happy to have another stop on their route. Arnor took advantage of it, sending mail back home- but he had just received the letter from Maude.

He set the paper down, and thought for a moment on how to write back.

Dearest Gemaudelene,

It is now the dead of winter here. Travel is impossible, lest I wish to starve to death on my journey, or be set upon by creatures most foul. I am still at the inn, run by the same dwarf. He finds my company amicable, I act as a sort of deterrent to ne'er-do-wells and miscreants. The traders come here frequently now. I chop wood for the whole inn now, as my keep. I am the only one who seems able to brave the cold to gather wood. It is quite a task, but it keeps me fit and keeps my mind at ease. The work is simple, but rewarding.

The witches came when I was leaving. I ran into a few of them, while traveling out of our homeland...though none as wicked as your encounter. I hope she died a thousand deaths. I have claimed my share of lives, but torture has something been beyond my limits, my...limited code of morals. I have found that I have been nothing but a marauder, a mercenary here. Not much to be built upon during my time here. Our lands would scoff at their coin alone, our people would consider me a traitor for leaving such great turmoil.

Withereach has been a cesspool- the Jorn there was a weak man when I left. A shadow of his former self. The mines do not serve the people anymore. They serve that wretched crown. That crown that I was so happy to leave behind. I know now who you are. I would be careful here. The reach of a mercenary is only limited by greed. I know not what the crown could offer them in foreign lands, or better yet- how far their reach is here. Who knows what dangers lie for both of us. Be careful with your words in these letters, if that is the case- no doubt if they are aware of your presence, they would be watching our correspondence, or attempting to. My next letter will come under a false name, to throw their tracks off.


He stopped, unable to think how he would word this. He tapped his foot on the ground, and then became a rare thing- earnest and honest.

I wish you were here.

Sincerely,

Arnor Skuldsson

He sealed the letter with a blue-wax seal, with the image of a Stag impressed into the wax. He dropped it into the courier's box, touching his growing beard on his face, and then headed upstairs, for another lonely night at the inn. His only real joy came from her letters- just a brief moment of happiness, when he got to be as close as he could to her. He sighed and sat on his bed, until he became tired enough to sleep. His nights carried on like this, with intermittent periods of joy, followed by long stretches of sadness. He just wanted to see her again, in reality.

 

[Maude]

He was right and she was being careless, but Maude had never the need to hide herself or her identity before. Sitting with her back against the trunk of a large, black tree, she furrowed her brow as she thought about this. The Mercenary band from before hadn't been much of a challenge for her - simple humans of notable size and skill but nothing for an experienced Nordefiir Ranger. Yet they had carried a missive from Borvenir, a call to bring in the fugitive Gemaudelene of the Frozen Halls. Dead or alive.

What, now, if Arnor had been implicated?

The idea of putting others lives at risk hadn't occured to her until now, but this was a war party she was assembling. Their lives would be at risk no matter what, if they chose to follow her. It was a double-edged sword, to be certain.

Better safe than sorry.

She ran the quill feather under her chin in thought, contemplating an appropriate name for the man that wouldn't immediately give him away but could be recognizable under his gaze. As greens reread his letter a smile took her lips, something of a pleasant warmth for the words he shared of the life he now lead chopping wood in a small town where he stayed as savior to the people.

To the Axe of Knottington:

It is not something often said of us outside of our own kind, that we are to be found ... amicable. I am glad you have found a place amidst those people and a purpose for yourself there. Chopping wood may be the skill of a farmhand, but to provide for others is the writ of someone far nobler. You are doing good work, my friend.

I cannot speak to your once home - it was a place of our people I never managed to visit until it was but my only means of escape. The people there were ill, I remember visiting the communal firepit the evening I passed through. Though they rested and some even slept, their dreams were interrupted by choking, their words stilted with an incessant cough. It seemed quite poorly, something that bothers me to this day. What would cause such a place so rich in resources to deteriorate? If not the sickness of the body, then one of the mind and morals. My only clue was to the state of the then leader and his correspondence with the people.

If nothing else, I hope that one day I can set things right there.

There is a forest here of naught but black trees for as far as I can see. Their bark is as dark as ebony and smells of ash, the leaves grow clouded and grey. I chanced to climb to a higher bough to gather my bearings only to discover a sight which escapes description. A tree, taller than any mountain, whose branches reached so high I could not tell if they held up the clouds or the clouds held them. There is something moving about this place and I wish I could explore it further. Wish I could have shared the view with you. No words or painting could do it justice.

I have lingered long and lost the sun. This place is old and quiet, I feel as if I could walk here for ages, but my path draws west and west. Keep this piece of me with you so that I will not become wholly lost.

Dea'roh

Maude pulled a dagger from a sheath on her hip and reached up to the underside of her skull where she cut a small braid free. Its length of red gleamed in the fading sun, beads of stone, shell, and bone woven within the layers. She laid it flat at the bottom of the parchment and rolled it into the letter before tying it off with twine and capping the ends.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Her letter came amidst the frost, where the snow stopped and the air stood still and like a sheet of ice over the land. The caravans and traders slowed, but stayed steady enough. Commerce never stopped, and neither did the people. They may not have the natural resistance to the cold- but even still, they were hardy, resilient in their resolve to better their lives. Arnor could admire that. It was why he began to not only split wood for the inn, but for the town that was slowly forming from the ruins of Knottington. Survivors began to rebuild, using the same timber from the town that lay only a few miles down the road. He found it...comforting, knowing that people could truly rebuild.

The wood he split kept the town warm, and didn't require a person to come and split it, taking valuable time away. That, and braving the cold was not something most of them wanted to do, and Arnor was all too happy to split the wood. Verus had grown cranky in the last few months, more cranky than usual. He liked the inn, but he wasn't fond of new businesses. He had a monopoly on food, drink, and housing for the moment. He knew that it was shortly coming to an end soon, so he had Arnor helping improve the inn. Arnor remarked that the best improvement the inn could make was better beds- to which Verus replaced the furniture around the bar.

Smart move, if Arnor believed it. The latest letter came with the usual courier, but it felt...heavier than just a letter. He felt something inside of the parcel. He thanked and paid the courier, though it wasn't required. He paid him to get a warm drink inside. The cider that Verus continually made from canned apples was becoming a local favorite. He took the letter, and walked to his read, and read it. He could...smell her. He held the piece of hair, cut from her head as a way for her to travel with him. He held it tightly in his hand, running his fingers over the threads of hair. He held it to his nose. It was as if she was there with him. His nose, more sensitive than others, picked up the lovely scent of her hair.

She remarked that he smelled bad, once. It deeply affected him, to be honest. He had since begun a rigorous process of bathing and scrubbing. The influx of traders allowed him to sample a great many deal of soaps, and floral scents caressed his nose with each bath that he took. It was part of his daily routine, he spent quite a lot of time preparing the bath. He had his own bin outside, and heated his own water with the firewood he chopped. Verus let him keep it, building him a shack. Verus said that if he could improve it enough, then other patrons could use it. Arnor wasn't happy about the prospect of sharing his private retreat- his iron wash bin, was quite something to ask for to be made. Then again, the blacksmith said that he was at the town hall and saw what Arnor did for Knottington. He was all too happy to build him an appropriately-sized washtub, one that would fit the brutishly tall man- with some room. The blacksmith said that he should find a lady to share it with.

Arnor only thought of one person he would even consider being close to like that, and she was leagues away. He thanked him for his generous gift, and built the shack around it. It had been two weeks, and Arnor had placed several furs, and lined the walls to trap the heat inside. No gaps in the wood, stuffed with moss or animal fat- produced a particularly warm, and private place. He sank into the bin, and reached to the small table that he built from a tree stump, and opened her letter finally.

His eyes read over the parchment, fingers delicately weaving the piece of her hair that she sent him. He held it close to his nose, before putting the letter down after he read it. He walked back to the inn, up to his room to write her back. He sat on his bed, and thought for a while before writing. He spun her lock of hair in his hand, as he wrote.

Dea'roh,

The town of Knottington has survived, in a way. They are rebuilding. You would be proud of them. Resilient people, these humans, dwarves and what have you. Not caring about inter-species bickering or squabbling. Just...building a life here. It's peaceful, tranquil, and more comfortable than anything I have ever done. I have built a small home, if you will. Home is not something I am familiar with, as I left mine, if one could consider what I left a home. Through fault of my own, and others, it became broken, fractured. This place is....tranquil. What a home should be.

I would much rather be here with you, in a quiet place, than visiting far-off vistas. Sights to behold are one thing- but I would rather have someone than to see something. The sickness you speak of, is a symptom of a larger disease. Consider it a sore upon a leper- a manifestation of the disease that has infected our people.

The black trees you speak of- you should see the tundras here, green with white. We are so used to frozen plains, that I believe we have forgotten the beauty that lies within green. For myself, I failed to see the beauty in the small things, for which I could say is a fault for many of our people, a common thread among their limited worldview. Our people have so much, potential. Have so much, wasted as they sit, idly in their homes, under the burden of poor leadership.

I wish for more, for them.

He stopped writing and intertwined the hair in his hands. The braid was long, and fitting...

I do appreciate your gift. I miss you so. Your gift brings more comfort than I care to admit aloud. I hope you enjoy the one I have enclosed.

He began to work, asking Verus for a long, thin piece of leather in which to work with. He cut it into a long, thin strip, then another. He intertwined them together, creating a braid. He reached up to his own hair, pulling out one his own braids. He cut it with a clean slice of his knife, pulling his hair taught. He intertwined his braided hair with the leather, and set it into the letter.

I hope you find what you are searching for. I wish I could join you, but I understand your need for solace, solitude in your quest. I hope that it pans out well for you, that everything you hope to achieve occurs. May fortune guide you, and I hope you value the gift I have bestowed upon you, as much as I appreciate the one you have bestowed me. Fare well, for I could not bear the thought of not laying eyes upon you if not but once more.

Regards,

The Axe

He sealed the letter with the stag again, and wrote her false name on the front. He looked down at her braid, before reaching, feeling where one braid was shorter than the other. Mirrors, were not afforded to him yet. He had one coming, from a caravan. It was a steep price, but one he would pay dearly to look at his appearance. It was a rarity that he looked forward to, simply looking at his reflection. He braided her red streak into his hair, letting his hands fall to his side. He would deliver her letter in the morn, but sleep took him for the moment. He fell into a dreamless, warm sleep, and would instruct the next courier on how to deliver his letter to Maude.

 

[Maude]

It was a small town just at the end of the black forest of Allir Reach that she received his parcel. By this point Maude had no rations and barely any coin left. It was enough to get a few days rest and meals at the Inn. The timing could not have been more perfect and made her wonder just how much faster this whole journey might've been had she a Strekker mount and the experience to ride it. Such as it was, the Ranger had only ever seen the Nordenstrekkers once in her life; not terribly tall for a horse, but broad and as hardy as their riders. Nothing short of a dragon could spook those horses, and nothing short of a mountain could stop them in a cavalry charge.

She looked upon the leather braid with a tired warmth, warming it within the palm of her hand while she read the letter.

It occured to her that Arnor was a far different man than what he outwardly impressed. Not such a strange thought, given that Nordens were known for their coarse and rough exteriors, though deep down many were quite honorable and warm. Among family, friends, and loved ones there was no greater and more loyal a companion than a Norden. Given the terrible fate of all those she once called family, friend, and loved ones this new fondness she found for Arnor struck her hard.

She would have liked nothing more than to share a meal with him, exchange stories, and keep his company at her bedside. Rangers often elected not to take mates given their lives of constant flux. Rarely were they ever in a single place long enough to set down roots. Maude hadn't minded before, back when Iordahn ruled and she had a purpose, but her purpose now was less clear.

Save her people. But how?

Words did not come easily that night and sleep was just as difficult.

She woke to a day where the sun had not yet broken the horizon but the settlement's bell rang an alarm to wake its people. Maude was on her feet and out of her room, sheathing her twin Solstal swords at her back as she made way to the bar where the innkeep was frantically packing things into a box.

"What's happened?"
"Orc horde approaching from the north. We're evacuating to the forest."
"The forest? But there's nothing in there."
"Orcs won't go in it, never have, the forest is the safest place. You should come with us."
"I can't."
"Then you should leave, and quickly at that."

Maude looked around at the people packing up their things, clearing out what was most precious so that the horde would have nothing to keep. "The carrier, does he ride yet?"

"Not seem him, he's the room at next yours."
"Shit."

She pulled her satchel from her back and found spare parchment and her quill then began scribbling.

An orc horde marches from the north.

Thank you for your gift, I will keep you close. Pray your tidings see me swiftly and safely to Alliria.

Yours,

Dea'roh

She had just enough time to tie and label the note before the courier made his feverish flee back into the east. Her own escape from the town followed swiftly along the forest edge heading west. Nordens were capable of marching for days on end, but they weren't especially good runners. When the trees thinned and left her to open plains she could see the silhouette of the horde and hear the thunder on the horizon behind her. Maude ran fast and ran hard, making way towards what appeared to be a smaller, bare chain of mountains ahead. It was at the fringes of its rise that the scouts on their hideous mounts began to catch up.

Lungs aflame and legs crying for reprieve, Maude threw herself forward to the ground, landing upon paws of red fur and pushing herself into a rolling lope. She could run and climb faster as a bear.

But not quite fast enough to evade their arrows.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Her short letter was hurriedly written, he could tell by the handwriting. The inn he was at was bustling again, with people staying overnight to escape an apparent all-consuming conflict coming to the Spine. The Spine, it would seem- would be the deciding factor in what would come of the Summer Lands. He touched the red streak in his hair, thinking of her for a moment before fetching his pen and paper. It was fitting that he was on his last piece of parchment, because he knew, deep down, that something was stirring here and that he would be whisked away to do something soon. It was an impending feeling of not dread, but purpose. Something was coming. Something foul and evil.

He put pen to paper after a moment of thought.

Dea'roh,

I hope Alliria treats you well. I hear the weather is something to behold. I pray that you yourself, are also well. I worry about you. I sit in relative safety and comfort, but I fear that will not be for long. The Spine grows dark. Not in light, but in scope. I can see it in the people's eyes. Darkness dwells, in these warm places. Something foul, something wicked this way comes. I pray that the Nordenfiir can avoid it. I do not wish evil upon anyone. Firstly, the Naga at Knottington- beasts, they were. Now, something else comes. It fills the air, the trees. The air is tense.

I wish you were here, it would put my mind much more at ease. But I know your mission is important, much more important than the musings of a lonely man at an inn. The townspeople have come and gone. There are only a handful of Knottington survivors here now. I have suggested that they keep the name, and leave the destroyed city for the crows. There exists nothing there but pain. I would have liked to go back and pull apart the wreckage to build something, but the townspeople are content with leaving it to the Earth. They have buried their dead, they do not appear to want to bury their old homes in the process.

But, my time at the inn here, with Verus and all the others building here- is coming to an end. We now have an inn, a butcher, a trapper, a blacksmith, and growing. Knottington will live on, as well as the people who chose to stay. However, I will not be here much longer. There has been a call for Sellswords and capable fighters to aid in the defense of Belgrath, a Dwarven city not too terribly far from here. I will be joining a caravan of others. The coin interests me, but not so much as the prospect of defending the city. The dwarves, I have known to be a kind people. I cannot see a reason for a horde of orcs to attack them. Belgrath is also not as populated as it once was. The orcs are attempting to attack a weak spot in the dwarven community, and I expect them to find only death and failure. I have never met an orc, have you? I do not like to generalize species or peoples as one, but I hope this encounter does not sour my perception of them all. I imagine that they are like you and I, in most cases. Just misled or misinformed. Perhaps greedy and violent. That is war, I suppose. There are no truly innocent sides, just people waging war.

I have enclosed a sketchbook I have made over the past few weeks of my stay here. I do hope you enjoy it. It is only partially full. I hope you will replicate my habit of sketchwork. I hope that this letter reaches you soon. I will write once more, when I reach Belgrath. I pray that the Gods grant me strength and protection during the upcoming siege.

I will think of you. I have braided your hair into mine, so that you may never be far from me. I will wear it proudly until I see you again.

Yours in confidence,

Skuldsson

Nobody knew his last name..even in his homeland. He was, for the moment, just Arnor to many people. Orcs or other prying eyes would not look twice at a letter marked Skuldsson. But he knew that she would know. The courier seemed confused. The price for postage was steep to go so far, but Arnor seemed intent on paying it and then some. The courier shrugged and took his parcel, and his payment, and left. Arnor turned and gave the inn a look, then went inside to collect his things, and say his goodbye to Verus. He would return, some day, he promised. Verus remarked that he needed to bring the woman that he always wrote to. He said he would try. He shook his hand, and shouldered his pack. He let his hand linger in Verus', before turning to walk to the caravan, gathered at the butcher, gathering supplies for the journey.

He took his place, hanging his face off the rear cart. He watched the rebuilt Knottington disappear as the distance grew, and a sadness washed over him. He waved a meager goodbye, before leaning against a crate full of swords and scabbards. He pulled the fur blanket over his body, the only thing that he took from the inn. He drifted into a light sleep, more out of boredom than fatigue. He hoped to reach Belgrath soon.

Waiting was always the worst part. He just wanted to see Maude again- nothing more, and nothing less. But Belgrath called for aid, and Arnor would answer. One could never say that Arnor Skuldsson would back down from helping those who asked for it- besides, he was also getting paid.

 

[Maude]

It was her second night occupying the Apothecary shop under the care of an elf named Syndell. Not entirely by choice, but by necessity. The arrowhead wound in her shoulder wasn't healing well and while the infection seemed to be under control, her fever persisted. Syndell worried that the poison had seeped too deeply for poultice treatment to work and though was crafting an antidote, she feared it may not work. The real question was, if the poison remained so well rooted, what was keeping Maude from dying?

Maude read Arnor's letter, picked up at the courier's post in the late afternoon after returning from the Archival Hall, while Syndell worked at her table fashioning a new poultice. Something stronger with some variation of ingredients she'd not tried yet.

"You need a real Healer to look at that," the elf muttered, glancing to the woman sitting on the cot, armor and clothing off, the broken flesh of her shoulder angry from being cleaned.

"How much will a Healer cost me?" Maude said in return, slowly sipping at the most recent tonic Syndell had given her with a grimace. It burned horribly on the way down and it tasted like mud.

"Likely more than you can afford if your bartering with me is anything to speak of," the elf replied.

"Then it's up to you."

Syndell frowned, apparently not pleased with this prospect.

To the Axe of Knottington,

It's hot in Alliria, though it could be due to the fever that has taken me.

You ask if I have met an orc and I say - yes, from a distance. In my escape from the orc horde I was not fast enough and they left me their parting words of poisoned arrows. In a three-day journey across the grasslands I was able to treat two of the wounds but the third in the back of my off-shoulder was not something I could tend. The Apothecary that treats it now says though I should be dead, I will in fact survive. It doesn't feel that way.

Knottington's part is only a chapter in your journey. Help the people of Belgrath as you have helped those in Knottington. I am certain you will defend them well - after all, you have a name to uphold: Serpentbane. I look forward to hearing your stories of this great battle.

She smirked and this and looked to the sketchbook sitting next to her, paging through the drawings for a second look. A curious momento from the man - she'd never received a drawing from anyone before, let alone a book of them.

The sketchbook is a curious thing, your drawings are well - one of your many unexpected surprises. I have no artistic leanings myself and I am afraid that you will be sorely disappointed by my attempts. Or perhaps you will smile and laugh - something I would be pleased to provide.

I have learned that the person I seek passed through Alliria 30 years ago and moved on, further west, but hopefully not much farther. The Apothecary beg me stay to continue treatment of my shoulder. I find I cannot rest until I accomplish my task. I leave tomorrow, Eogorath willing. I cannot say I ever truly believed in fate, but the recent tidings make me wonder - I have found two more of our kind here. Perhaps it is your gift I wear upon my wrist that protects me and keeps me going.

Dea'roh

PS: I saw the strangest looking Strekker come through the Merchant Square today with a neck as tall as a tree and spots like a leper. Curious creatures these people keep. I have attempted to draw it for you.

Spoiler

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The Dwarven city of Belgrath was about to come under siege. It was the third night in a row that Arnor had watched the distant campfires, smelled the burning wood and the filth of the orcs. The third night, and undoubtedly the last, would bring them in the morn. He looked over the battlement. He had, been kindly given, by a fleeing shopkeeper, a pencil, and parchment and a singular letter. He had only a few more moments left before the dwarves who wished to flee would fly under the cover of darkness. He sat beneath a watchpost, the dwarf in the tower not minding the mercenary writing under the light of his post.

He looked beyond, at all the campfires. At the death approaching. For the defenders, for the orcs. For what? He couldn't say. It wasn't his place to say. It was not his land, it was not his people. He was here for the violence, and for the money. He put pencil to paper, sketching the elaborate battle scene on the back before he began to write her letter.

Dea'roh,

Cowards. Using poison arrows, a tool of the poor hunter. I will be sure to answer them in kind for their transgression. I am glad you are well. I could not say what it would do to my soul if you were to part so violently, from such an insufferable, awful enemy. Your tenacity keeps you alive. You have much to do, the Gods will not let you part so easily.

I have heard many things about battle, from those who think that there is something glorious to be had about war. War simply is. I find no glory in it. Only coin. I can see their fires from here- smoldering wreckages. They consume so much in their path- the trees, the land shudders with their marches. They march in step, shaking the ground as they approach. I can hear the great beasts and see the endless tents they have set. The siege will be quite something- their numbers may be in the thousands.

And I must be honest with you, dearest-

Like all things in life, there is risk in it, risk and consequence. I have not told you much of myself. I suppose, at the eve of the possibility of me being killed, and this be our last correspondence, there is no time left to be dishonest, or hide any truths. I will attempt to lay out what I seek to keep from most to you, in this more earnest and darkest hour for Belgrath- and myself.

My name is Arnor Skuldsson. I was born in Faarin, outside of Sanctuary. My people were hunters, trappers of the great herds guarded by the Pale King. The Pale King, as you know, was supposedly killed some time ago- causing food shortages and causing a great deal of strife, affecting all of the Nordenfiir, across the Tundra. The Pale King was allegedly killed by my father. My father, was the Jorn of Faarin. My father sought to improve the life of his people, and he thought the removal of the Pale King was the way to let the herds be more accessed by his hunters.

This lead to his undoing. I was angry with my father, as a young man, for doing something so foolish. He was a drunkard, after a few months of the strife occurred. He was angry with his failures, angry at the world I suppose. He became violent, he became bashful and spiteful of myself for speaking out against him. He hit me with a bottle, over and over. Blaming me for our family's woes. Our mothers addiction to drink and foul magics brought forth by the witches, sustaining her life in a unholy way- he blamed me for it all, in his rage. I reacted with my own rage-

I killed my father with that bottle.

I ran, I ran to the summer lands. I was found innocent, mind you- self defense. The removal of the Jorn that killed the Pale King was looked on favorably- and thusforth I was not outcasted, but it was suggested I left my home. I wish to return, to lead my people better than my father did. I do not know what's happened to it since. I hope to return, and set things right.

I fear not for my death, but the absence of you in my life. I seek no glory here. I seek only a safe return to you. You have cut me where no other has, Dea'roh. I loathe others, vindicated each year otherwise unknowing of the way you make me feel. You are a wondrous person. It saddens me to hear that you are in pain, and that I am not there. If I am to survive the siege, I will march straightforward to wherever you are, wherever it may be. I would march across a thousand deserts and climb a thousand mountains to lay eyes on you once more.

Yours, as always-

Serpentbane

 

[Maude]

She'd lost track of the days, knowing only time by the memories of the places she had been. When last she was aware, it had been a month since she left Knottington, but that seemed a month ago yet. These long stretches of being away from home, away from familiar and friendly faces were no stranger to her. Her duty to the throne had been one that saw her trekking across all the mountains and snow-covered hillsides, through the forests of Nordengaard to keep the King's peace and carry his will.

But she'd never once made it to Faarin.

By the light of a waning campfire, to the sound of dozing travel companions, night owls, and crackling flames, Maude read and re-read the last letter from Arnor. His story and circumstances were terrible and she felt only a sympathetic pull towards his plight in light of her own.

It was good, in a way, to learn these things, but it wasn't how she envisioned learning them. Across a table at an inn, conversing over a plate of food and a horn of ale. Quiet confessions of a past lost to all in the din of the crowd but the person sitting opposite. Brow pressing inwards, she internalized a welling mixture of emotions at the words written on the paper before her. Since when had reading letters ever been so difficult?

Serpentbane,

My travels have taken me far and wide through our homelands and now through the Summerlands. The pride of my life had been to serve my King, enacting his will across the tundra and throughout the various settlements we all grew up learning about. As a little girl I dreamed that I would one day visit them all, meet every Jorn, and sample the air from each peak and valley. Unfortunately I fell short of Making the 12, and Faarin was one of the few I could not cross from my list.

I remember my mother telling me stories of your home and the Festival of the Hunt. Always wanted to go to see the great campfire and listen to the songs sung by the Mother huntresses. She told me tales of the legendary hunters and their fantastic kills. Of pelts so beautiful they could only be worn by the King. Of a meal within the great hall and the excitement of the townspeople. Of distant Jorns paying their respects to the legendary Pale King.

How I wanted to meet him, to see his herds and visit his land of green.

Knowing these stories and now your own, I find myself caught between my distant memories, wondering if there were any truths to my mother's tales. I remember nothing of reports from Faarin about what happened and it makes me wonder if Iordahn kept it quiet. We all relied on the Pale King's herds, we all understood what it meant to uphold the sacred pact. Not a single Norden child grew without learning these truths. What a panic it could have caused had word gotten out of his demise. It makes me wonder if it's true...

The paths laid before us both seem to be full of dangers and uncertainty. Be safe, my friend, and fight well. I will think of you often and pray Eogorath see you through safely. If the day should come that we stand victorious at the capital, I will do what I can to see your wish through. And if you find a moment of quiet and respite, tell me more of your home. I may never make it there, but perhaps your words are enough.

Dea'roh

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

He'd been...gifted. Gifted! Paper and pen. Only after defeating four orcs at once, in his defense. He became something of a 'deal' around Molthal. The human that could defy the strength of the orcs. Out do them, in essence. And so, he had requested a few things. Amenities, to keep the man who raked in more coin than any other fight in years happy and content. They figured that if he was to make them money, they could at least furnish his living area.

But it was his request of a letter, and coin for postage that drew them off guard. Courier services were mostly for the inner Molthal types, rarely did the Orcs need to send a letter out to someone. Most letters were derogatory in nature. Orcs solved those problems with their fists.

He tapped the quill to the page.

He liked the one at the inn better. He could only vaguely recall her last letter. It was still at Belgrath, he imagined, along with the rest of his gear. And his money.

Dea'roh,

I do not wish to speak of home any longer. The memories are painful and they bring me no comfort. I consider it no more a home than I did the inn that Verus owns.

I regret to inform you that I am now a slave in Molthal. And now just the run-of-the-mill slave, either. I happen to be the premiere gladiatorial showcase for the city now. They think I'm a human here. Must be the blood in the air. Covers our scent. Or the fact that my baths are now far fewer than I would like.

The sands here are a cruel brown color, mixed with red. The walls of the pits are lined with spikes, for crude executions in combat and making it much more difficult for me to escape. Fret not, my red-haired companion, I will without a doubt, find a way to execute an escape. I say this freely, because half of the Orcs here can barely read their own language, much less ours.

And yet, there comes another crashing wave of bad news.

I have contracted a fever. It comes in spurts. Painful, awful, crippling spurts. I hope that I can find a cure, or it may leave me. Otherwise, I fear that if one of these weak, pathetic orcs do not get me- this wretched disease that I have contracted will. Please be safe. You're one of the few lights I have in this darkness.

Shine on.

Yours,

Serpentbane