Open Chronicles Pushing Daisies

[Arnor Skuldsson]

​

Village of Learan
Northern Blightlands
Blight Sea


"Do you want to fuck me too?" Arnor scowled at the sailors across from him.

"Too much meat and cock for our liking, but not enough coin to take you to that place." The sailor said, putting his drink down. He wiped his disgusting mouth with the back of his hand. Arnor curled his fists on the table, curling the leather.

"And you charge seven bounties worth."

"Shouldn't be a problem for the Axe of Knottington." The Sailor said, laughing as he leaned back in his seat. He knew that Arnor had no coin of his own- not the amount he was asking, at least. Arnor had spent most of it simply getting to the Blightlands, especially here. He was almost completely bone-dry on coin, and was hoping the last of it he could spend before he crossed into the Tundra.

Because not a soul cared for the value of a coin there.

The Sailor sighed, leaning forward.

"Look, you have a horse, and we have to sail into a place that's frought with the undead, Pirates, and restlessness. The Civil War there... it changed a lot. Look, we'll take you, and we'll be happy to do it- but I can't convince my boys to leave two weeks early without hefty pay. I'm a good man, I just can't go off for the whim of any Nord, especially with all that you need."

"Nordenfiir." Arnor corrected him, looking out past the frost-covered window of the tavern. He stood up, sliding the sack of coin across to him. He barely had enough to cover any expenses now. "I understand. I'm sure there's something that can be done to make a good sum in a short time." He rose to a stand, fixing his cuirass and collecting his swords.

"What is it that you say you did for work, Arnor?" The Captain asked, curious.

"I didn't. I'll have your money shortly."

Two days past, with Arnor unable to find accommodating work. Pest-clearing and a would-be Necromancer. Both solved by pummeling idiots with fists. But not even clearing a quarter of the bounty. Arnor counted the coin from his most recent escapade in his hand, curling a glove around the meager collection of gold. Frustrated, he leaned forward on the bench. The city was unique in the way that it offered sitting for the sailors. Sailors often went hours without much to do, and the dockhands worked sporadically. The city felt it favorable that they had a place to sit and cause trouble in one spot, rather than all over.

But they all steered clear of the Nordenfiir that smelled of lilac. Except for a kind old lady, that sat next to Arnor. Even in the dimming lit, and the freezing cold- she seemed jovial and upbeat.

"Nice night for a walk. Haven't walked in what seems like forever."

Arnor turned to face her- extremely bundled up, her face swaddled up. The wrinkles around her eyes and the milkiness of her eyes was offputting to him, but she was a kind old woman. She sat back in the bench, the freezing cold stone bench seeming not to bother her.

"Used to come her as a child, watching the ships be built. Very interesting to see how far it's come, since I went away."

"Where did you go?"

"Away. Like we all do."

Arnor cocked his head. "We all leave sometimes, you know. Oh, where are my manners- I am Salnell. You are, young man?"

"Arnor. Son of Skuld."

She gave an inquisitive hrmph. "A Nordenfiir this far from the Tundra? Must be running."

"Running back, actually." He said, settling into the bench with her, looking out to the shipyards it was facing.

"Ah well. Good luck, young man. It's getting late, and my old bones can't stand the cold for this long. Oh, have this- I baked them for a friend of mine, but she's no longer there." She reached into her swaddled clothing, taking out a wrapped package. Smelled like sugar. Sugar and glaze. Some kind of pastry.

"Thank you, Salnell."

He stood up, as she left and wandered down the street, humming. He smiled, and walked back to the inn he was staying at. Sure enough, the innkeeper greeted him as he always did. Arnor laid the coins on the counter, paying for his night's meal and another night there. The Innkeeper cocked his head curiously and pointed at his wrapped package. Even the humans could smell it, even after the cold. Must have been a local favorite.

But he didn't seem particularly envious or jealous. Fear and curiosity carried in his voice more than anything.

"Arnor- where did you get those sweets?"

Arnor turned his head slowly, not sure how to answer him without upsetting him.

"Miss Salnell gave them to me."

The room went silent, and the innkeeper walked over and seized Arnor by the arm- and Arnor let him be dragged to one of the storage rooms.

"You gone mad, boy? Scaring all these nice folk!" The innkeeper said in a rather hushed tone.

"If you wanted a fucking sweet you can just ask, no need for all this-" The innkeeper started frantically waving his hands around. "That ain't the reason all these people are scared shitless out there, you fool!" He checked the room, for any person trying to listen closely. The walls were never thick in this town.

"Miss Salnell died six years ago when her husband murdered her. She ran the bakery. You ain't ever been here, and everyone 'round 'ere knows everyone. And believe me, we would remember your stupid self."

He ran a hand through his hair.

"Could be a million things, people trying to be coy. What'd she look like?" Arnor told him, and the innkeeper seemed to grow more distraught. It was a spot on description, complete with Arnor doing the voice. Arnor looked at the innkeeper in disbelief. He'd heard of the dead returning- but he couldn't imagine what it would take to make someone come back to life in that way. Arnor put a hand on the shoulder of the innkeeper, calming him.

"What happened to her husband?"

"Lord put him in the tower 'till the end of his days."

"He and I will have some words."




OOC:

Feel free to jump in- the dead are coming back, seemingly as they were before they died- and Arnor just wants to go home. Help him, keep the dead coming back, or help Arnor in finding out why the dead are coming back....and how. And in the process, earn enough money to get Arnor home.

 

[Naghi]

People stared. They always stared.

Naghi walked through the village of Learan with thunderous step, each foot fall creating small craters within the much large enough for a cat to bathe in. There was little grace in the way the Half-giant moved, his steps more a loping gait than a smooth motion.

There was no need to step around the common folk, they broke in front of him like a wave. He could hear whispers among them, his mangled ear twitching slightly as he heard the name of his father echoing among the streets.

A son of Menalus.

That was what he was, and the people around him recognized him as such. Even this far away from Molthal Learan was still within the Blightlands. This was the domain of his father, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

Naghi had not heard of the rumors of undeath, nor any strange happenings around this town. He was here for an all together different reason; war.

Learan was one of the few coastal cities in the Blightlands that had managed to survive the Scourings. It was a valuable resource, and Naghi intended to use it to the best of his abilities.

His thunderous steps took him past the storage room where Arnor and the Innkeeper spoke.

 

[Nina]

What was wrong with her?

Not only had she tried to climb the bloody Spine, getting involved with more magic that was healthy for a vagabond, but now she found herself in the lands ruled by bloody Molthal. Worse, there was a war brewing, the undead were stirring, further away there were rumors of dreadlords blowing up cities like candy (to the point that even Nina’s metaphors disintegrated). Resting her head in her hands, the girl stared at the bottom of her stew bowl. It’s like the whole world was getting engulfed in smoke and flames.

And she’d run out of blue.

Her fingers curled around her sketch notebook. That was important. She’d taken to walking along the beach in the mornings, before her chores, and to pick up bits of copper that had fallen off ships. Copper exposed to seawater gave off the best verdigris. In the evenings, she scraped that precious rust off to make into paint. But verdigris wasn’t a deep, midnight hue. True blue was expensive, and Nina wondered if anyone this far north had even heard of indigo. That absence became her constant obsession, and her morning walks helped little. Perhaps it was the painter’s way of trying to control the very little she could about the world.

That she was preparing her pigments herself was not unusual, though a bit of a bother. That she picked up seaweed and cockles along the way, for breakfast, was actually enjoyable. But that she always, absolutely always, had to be wary of those around her, was gradually burning Nina out. Even the Spine had been kinder. The Blightlands were unforgiving. This city wasn’t quite barbaric enough that one could just point at her in the street and declare her a slave, but, say, if she mysteriously disappeared…

Nina felt the cold of the spoon under her touch. If she disappeared, then no one would mind. A vagabond’s only safety net is their wits. And while Gray had taught her how to be remain unnoticed, the constant effort of doing so was cracking her resolve.

Out, she had to get out.

The young woman left her sketchbook on her knees, to better grab the bowl as she scooped the last few drops of stew. She tried not to think too much of who might have grown some of those vegetables. The thralls inland, she imagined, maybe a woman who’d been just as free-spirited as her before – Nina swallowed. One warm meal a day, most days, was nothing to scoff at. There were always little jobs to do, she thought. Jobs that she could do that the armored mercenaries strolling around the city couldn’t, or wouldn’t. Helping to disassemble a pig and clean its entrails for traditional sausages. Calming a horse gone crazy, and picking up the shard of glass in its hoof. Finding a lost cat. Distracting a mother-in-law. And weaving rope, lots of rope. It was a port city. It sold well.

Her smile picked up. In this rhythm, she might save enough for travel to the nearest portal stone in a month or so.

Or sooner…if she used that coin.

‘No!’ Nina’s soul revolted against the thought. She could feel the coin through all the layers of rags she had wrapped it with. The coin was wrong. It came from the other side.

A woman with large, straw-colored curls in her hair had chuckled and flicked it at her in exchange for a portrait. Nina didn’t really do portraits. She didn’t do faces, period. But the woman was more interested in getting a drawing of her dress, and what a pretty dress it was! Madder-pink, with ruffles and embroidery all over. A flower pin made of woven rope on her chest. ‘I’ve never been to a carnival,’ the woman said. She was very particular about getting the embroidery right. That’s why Nina had to make so many sketches. ‘My darling said we’ll go together one day. I heard that there’s sausages on sticks and you can pay people to draw you in your best clothes! These clothes are pretty enough for a carnival, don’t you think?’

As she let the spoon fall in the bowl, Nina heard it ring. She carefully looked around her.

Quiet. Too quiet.

Like that time, when she was leafing through her notebook, and the tavern girl asked to see. Her scream had been shrill and sharp, like a seagull’s. Like then, people looked unsettled. The woman with the woven rope pin had died two years ago, they told her. She watched the innkeeper drag a massive mercenary away, and she breathed in deeply the scent of cookies. Nina had told no one about the coin.

However, since then, she’d taken to gathering what she called ‘mementos from the dead’. She figured it might help her unravel this mystery.

The room started breathing again. A few people, uneasy, snuck through the front door. Nina took advantage of the occasion to return her bowl and disappear in turn. Unnoticed, she walked around the walls of the inn. She wondered if she had caught a migraine. For the last couple of minutes, it was as if someone was pressing a lit cigar through her temple. Harder, and harder.

Nevertheless, she was going to steal one of those cookies.

“I don’t want to wrongly accuse, you know.” She heard the innkeeper say, as she snuck in the dark storage room through the door to the outside. That’s where he had dragged her back then, too. “But…There’s a stray kid who’s been living around here.” His voice was an almost incomprehensible babble. “I let her stay in the hay barn. I have children too, you know. Not from around here. Quiet. Does odd jobs. People’ve been whispering about her mixing odd substances, and Ol’ Rikey swears that he saw her chanting in the cemetery at midnight, though he also swears that devils stole his booze and beat him up with the bottle.”

The pain in her temple intensified. Now, when she closed her eyes, Nina saw sparks. All she wanted was to curl up and rest. But if she did that, then someone would no doubt burn those cursed confectionery treats on a sage fire before she nicked any.

Bottles on shelves were beginning to rattle. It occurred to Nina that this wasn’t only in her head, that this might’ve been one of those quakes of earth that she’d lived through in the Azure Archipelago. It was said that some of them would be strong enough to turn cities to dust.

However, in the moment, all Nina could think about was ‘what a marvelous distraction!’. Soundlessly, she snuck closer, biting her lips to distract from the pain in her head. Closer and closer, like a shadow, using the regular rattling to hide her steps. With her back against a shelf, she’d only have to reach out her hand and requisition a cookie. The earth rumbled.

Then she stumbled, and fell face-down with her hand in the cookie bag.

“You! In my home!” The innkeeper looked like he didn’t have enough air.

“I’m sorry…They smelled so nice…” Nina whimpered. She scuttled back, the obviously foreign beads rattling in her hair. She wasn’t a good enough liar to convincingly play the fool, but in the moment the woman had no better idea. Her gaze brushed over the mercenary, uncertain of how to deal with him. “Just because someone dressed up and played a prank doesn’t mean the cookies aren’t deli-“

“Out! Out of my house!” The innkeeper screamed.

Nina decided it was high time she bolted out of the room. But what she would not escape was the half-mutters of ‘Necromancer! Witch!’ that followed her.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

It was not often that Arnor was at a loss for words, even short, snappy replies that he had come to be known for. He and the innkeeper exchanged a few more words, before the Nordenfiir exited the storage room, the innkeeper holding onto his stomach.

Arnor didn't tolerate a lot of things, and racial tirades about outsiders and his people were not welcome. He spotted what he assumed was a half-giant- but something eerily familiar about him. He paid him no real mind, but as he walked, he almost knocked over a smaller woman. She was a foreigner, like him. He opened the door, letting the bitter frost in.

The frost was too biting, too bitter. Arnor blinked, adjusting his eyes. Even his people would notice this frost, this cold. Something was off here. He turned back to stare at the innkeeper, then the obviously frightened girl.

"She stays."

His words carried the weight of a worried man. And a man of Arnor's reputation, skill, and experience- that worry meant something, to say the least. Arnor clicked his teeth and watched Rhi trot along. From the saddlebags, he swaddled his very large horse in another blanket, and closed the door behind him to the inn. He led the horse to the stables, settling him down into laying down. The horse would do no good in this freezing cold. Rhi had no objection- after all, he was a horse, and a lazy, drunk one at that.

He pet his horse for a while, before Arnor's boots began to march along the freezing ground. He stopped. No snow. No wind. Just the frost. The town went inside, huddling in corners. Intense frost for humans. Even bad for him. The hair on the back of his neck stood up. Silver blade, axe, and longsword.

And the trick up his sleeve. He shivered slightly under his chainmail and heavy leathers, and began to make his way to the town jail. That's where he should start, he thought. The frost began to set in, intensifying over the roads and over the port. For now, any carriages, horses, or ships would not be leaving the city anytime soon. And this was no normal frost, no natural occurring entity. Too fast, too deep...

And designed. Over the roads, over the water.

The frost had come to lock them all in the isolated city.

 

[Naghi]

Cold had never bothered him.

The Blightlands were unnaturally hot ordinarily, a work of Menalus. Some said it was a spell that had been constructed by the fire-giant, some sort of magic that scorched the land and kept it dead. Naghi knew the truth of course, but even he had felt the cold before.

His mother had once told him that she hailed from the far north, beyond the Blight and across the seas. She had told him stories of that land, and explained that it was the reason he frequently did not suffer the elements as others did.

Naghi now was unsure of such things. His mother would not have lied, but over the years he had seen his brothers do similar things to he.

"I don't care if it's cold." Naghi said as he stepped forward, dwarfing the man before him. "I need ships."

"S-Si-Sire. W-we can't. Not with this frost sittin in the harbor and half our men too afraid to gather the lumber."​

A growl escaped his throat and he reached to grab the man by the throat. Fear crossed his eyes, and then suddenly Naghi felt a chill.

The half-giant stopped in his tracks, his head half turning towards the center of the town. Lips thinned, glowing red eyes narrowing as he looked around, then he glanced down at the man. "Tell me more of this."

 

[Nina]

((ooc: Have I mentioned recently how awesome you people are? You’re awesome))

“Niaaaa!” The angry call from below startled the painter. She fell off the eaves of the barn, where she’d climbed to grab her backpack (tied up high, away from prying hands), down into the hay. The cold made it feel like landing in a bed of needles. “Help me carry the firewood, will ya? And mom needs you in the kitchen, so hurry up already!” There was more than anger in the cook’s daughter’s voice, Nina thought. “Move it!” She shouted. There was fear.

The weather. The weather was all wrong. The unnamed mercenary had done her an act of kindness she could not possibly repay. Even on a normal evening, a night under the starry canopy would’ve been rough. Now, it was a death sentence.

A pity she might not live to take advantage of that kindness.

“Lez. You know ‘bout the ol’ lady livin near the salt marshes?” Nina whispered, her teeth rattling with the cold. She’d skipped the stairs, instead jumping through the hatch between the attic, where hay was stored, and the barn where the animals lived. The beasts kicked their hooves and mooed and cried, apart from one cow who’d curled quietly to the side. Its nostrils were blue. Lez was throwing as many logs as she could in a sack, while holding a basket with the inn’s best egg-laying hen on her other arm. Nina put her backpack on and hurried to help.

“Baba Lina? Ain’t no lady.” The woman’s lips narrowed. “She’ll be fine. Yogos’s wife will put the rolling pin on him if he doesn’t bring her in their house.”

“Lez. Someone needs to solve this. This.” The vagabond looked askance at the world around her, as they walked towards the main house. Even the familiar yard, with the chicken feed and feathers and poo, looked infinite and claustrophobic under the fog. “Someone who can see things like Baba Lina.” Nina glanced sideways at the woman. Lez was a strong, sturdy woman, who could carry a pig in each arm, but she probably didn’t know much of magic. “Listen. If anyone asks, you don’t know me. No one here knows me, you got it?” Her voice grew high-pitched. “I don’t want to get this place burned to the ground.”

She put the logs on the ground, near the wall, and kept walking.

“You crazy, girl! Get in the house right now!” Lez shouted.

She should have run, Nina thought. Her fists clenched. She should have run, but the fog made her afraid of what she could stumble across. She heard a rustle of skirts behind her, and tensed. She’d seen how hard Lez could hit when one of the farmhands had tried to cheat her at dice.

There was the sound of metal rattling on the ground.

“If anyone asks, you don’t know where this came from.” The other hissed, and disappeared. Nina looked down.

A poker. Old, rusted. Iron. Nina’s eyes widened. Clever woman. Iron, silver, fire and salt. Good to have on hand when undead or spirits were involved. Though not all of them worked on all spirits. And she doubted whether salt would at all in a city where probably even the ghosts smelled of the sea.

Smashing things with a poker worked largely regardless of life or undeath, Nina figured. She tied it over her backpack, imagining how the frozen metal would have peeled off her skin to the blood if she hadn’t been for her two layers of gloves.

She wasn’t sure where she was heading. She walked through the streets, cognizant of little but the mist and the seed of a headache. It was dream-like, with the fog muffling sounds like wool. And every mote of it vibrated with magic. So much magic that when she’d hurriedly woven her cantrips, on the eaves, she’d been too afraid to tie them completely for fear that she could call something beyond her control. That had never happened before. Part of her felt she should be heading to the town prison, to follow the trail the mercenary had laid. Not that she expected him to walk into a creepy stone tower in this weather, but if he was mad enough to do so, then it was a madness they shared. Then there was the part that dragged her feet forward against her will. The part that heard whispers of war alongside those of undeath. Sons of Menalus. Molthal. The part that found a deep footstep in the road, crouched down, looked around to make sure she was alone, and spit in it. Nina stopped against a wall, and sobbed. Tears and snot froze on her face, and had to be picked off by hand. Was she trying to save this town from frost, only for it to end in fire?

So she followed the hunch her cantrip had laid. The seed of a headache. She had the strong feeling that she’d need his help to complete the weave. That was no divination; cantrips only hinted how things tangled together. It was easy, she remembered, to mistake their warnings for advice. Nina stopped as the half-giant’s outline grew out of the fog, alongside several smaller figures. She stayed back and listened. There was talk of ships. As if all that monster wanted, she thought with pursed lips, when entering a functional outpost, was to drain it and step back into the war. Then something glimmered in her eyes. He asked questions! Even with all the magic that Nina felt boiling inside him, could it be that…he couldn’t…just sense what was happening? Her stomach knotted. She walked behind him. Not invisible, just quiet. One of the men was mumbling to the half-giant that no one could tell for sure what was happening.

“I can try.” She said.

She bowed. The half-giant was part of the ruling class, and she would admit to that even if she thought all of them deserved the rolling pin. She straightened her back.

“I can try to fix this.” She repeated.

She’d wait until she had the half-giant’s attention. Look in his eyes. High up. Nina would normally never do that, but it is exhilarating to look in the depths of a chasm before jumping down.

“For a price.”

Yes, she was dead now.

She smiled. She would not say any more unless questioned. Some pain and injury, expected for her impudence, could be endured. Some couldn’t, but that had been her gamble.

Perhaps she’d miscalculated, Nina dreamily thought. Perhaps everyone in the town did know more than her on the matter, and her magic-sense was irrelevant. Maybe the half-giant had brought an actual competent wizard along. If that was the case, then she’d made a fool of herself on top of being, you know, dead. But if her expertise was indeed needed…

“My price is the war.” Nina would say. There was an amused detachment in her voice, as if her soul had gone with the seagulls. “I don’t want this place razed to the ground. I don’t want people starving because all they’ve got was taken by the army. I don’t want this place breaking to shambles in two years time from bandit raids because everyone able to hold a weapon is either in the army, toiling the mines, or dead.”

“My price is peace. For this town.” Her eyes were sharp, laughing. She gestured expressively, a weird gesture when she was bundled in more layers than a baklava. “Undoubtedly, a peace in which war ships may be built for the glory of Morthal, or other support actions discussed with the relevant town leaders. But peace nevertheless.” She paused. “Clemency.”

Nina pressed her hand on her chest.

“I am a nobody, and I speak for nobody but myself and my own selfish interests. But I know one or two things about magic.”

A smile.

“Is this nobody’s price adequate, Son of Menalus?”

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The town jail had frosted over. Many of the prisoners had been caught too quickly in the frost. The guards had done the smart thing and huddled them together in a cell, stuffing coals into a fire to try and keep them alive. Most were the town drunks and petty thieves, not worthy of any death resulting in being frozen.

The guards were not keen on letting Arnor in. But the desperation, coupled with a few greased palms, let the brutish Nordenfiir inside. He was lead to the husband of the murdered woman, a crass old man. Rotting away in a stone box. Arnor kicked the stone wall near him. The guards came to put him with the other prisoners, but Arnor stopped them, and woke up the old man.

"Wake up."

The man peeled out from a wool blanket to a large man standing over him, with two swords and an axe.

"Another fucking visitor. Look, I did it, just leave me be-" Arnor cocked his head. "Another visitor? Who else would visit you?" He spoke in a way that was gentle, but commanded presence. His accent was comforting to some, and lightly intimidating to others. All depended on the person, really.

But this man was just annoyed.

"I don't need no stinkin' bearman wanderin' into my fuckin' cell and botherin'-" He was stopped when Arnor seized him by the throat. "Do not insult me, or I'll let you freeze in here." He released the grip around his neck, letting the man cough and recover.

"Some scholarly lookin' type came in the middle of the night. Wanted to know about my wife. Said he was doin' history on the village. Asked where she was buried." Arnor's eyes darted around the room, before he glanced upwards. The plot did so thicken.

"And did you tell him?"

The man nodded. "Didn't see the harm. Ain't got no use in lyin' no more. I confessed long ago, why can't you people just leave me be? Go see for yourself, near the temple." Arnor stood up and left the man to be huddled with the other prisoners, trying to survive the onslaught of the cold. The long coat he was wearing clung tightly to his body, Arnor marched to where the temple was, even in the frigid cold.

But whispers at the back of his mind, the instincts of a hunter, told him he was being followed. Not maliciously, but something was there. He clicked his silver out of it's sheath, and checked his axe. He had to make sure his sword wouldn't be frozen into the sheath in this cold. Even in the frosting cold, the Temple was easily found. Lights and lamps had been lit, to lure the poor and the downtrodden to come take shelter there. A great many number of people gathered there, avoiding the freezing fog.

And there it was. The grave of the woman he met not too long ago.

Dug up- but the body remained. He crouched down near the skeleton of the poor, lost soul. Mouth agape with decay and eyes long ago rotted- but a curious detail on the skeleton. A cut, fresh. Too clean for claw marks of any nibbling rats or vermin, or something worse- the flat, sharp cut of a knife of decaying flesh of her face. In the cold north, bodies stayed like this for quite some time, somewhat preserved.

And someone took advantage of that. Arnor tapped his foot on the ground as he stood, looking around. The feeling of being watched came back. He had an inkling of a suspicion of what was going on, but lacked concrete evidence. He'd only heard of stories of Gravelings- monsters that would take on the appearance of whoever they could get a bit of flesh from, and brewing a potion.

So there was at least one. But from what he knew of Gravelings- they worked in groups to undermine and cause chaos. Ultimately they'd eat their victims, preferring human flesh above other meals. At least, from the stories. But here it was, in front of him.

From page to reality.

 

[Naghi]

Naghi stared down at the little human that had approached him, his glowing orange eyes settling on her with the implacability of stone.

Humans were such interesting creatures.

Grown men had a habit of cowering before him, their knees weakening and their face paling as he only looked at them. He had seen Guards twice this girls size throw themselves from Windows just to avoid a quick word from him.

To say that her approach was unusual was an understatement. Particularly when she began to negotiate with him. She stated terms, offering a deal that to anyone would have been fairly placed and maybe even taken.

The Half-Giant only stared however.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the little human standing in front of him, her size dwarfed by his mountainous figures. From the corner of his gaze he could see other humans watching them, a few peeking from their windows while others openly stared in the street.

Nahi paid them no mind. "Clemency."

He mused on the word. This village meant little to him, it's men and the aspects of war they could provide even less. He had intended to take them all after they built his ships, but what would be the consequence if he did not?

Lips pressed together and he reached up to run a hand through the thick lengths of his great Red beard. A smile touched his features.

"The Nobodies offer is acceptable." He stated, though quickly continued before she could respond further. "With one change."

The Half-giant loomed over the girl. "When the magic here is broken, you travel with me."

Naghi had access to mages. Wizards and Sorcerers flocked to Molthal, but the problem was they all held loyalty to Menalus alone. If he were to succeed in his plans, that would not do. He needed his own mages, his own servants.

Why not start here?

 

[Nina]

There is something hypnotic about falling off a cliff. The way the rushing world wraps around you, unobtrusively, like a waterfall that is also a blanket. The way everything feels so absurd that your lips can’t help but tense, barely not bursting into laughter as you look into those red eyes. The freedom. Not so much the part where you hit the ground.

Silence pooled in the street, around a man with fiery eyes and a young human.

“I will.” Nina’s voice trembled. Her eyes glazed over, as if the other’s request had struck her right between the temples. Her mittens bulged awkwardly as fists clenched inside them. “Unbound, of my own free will, I will.”

Nina reached for her backpack, and suddenly found herself in a pile on the ground. She stared. Someone has to fix this. This.’ Her own words echoed in her mind. ‘Someone has to.’ It occurred to her that she’d slipped on a frozen puddle, yet it almost felt like it happened to someone else, someone else than the travelling painter with a broken dream and enough emotions to drown a sea. ‘I have to.’ She picked herself up, and dug into her backpack for her tools of the trade.

A coil of light brown rope. Packets wrapped in waxed paper. She handled the packets as a poisoner would handle their wares.

“I will need your help, Son of Menalus.” She said. Her smile had the weight of a book. “Unless you have another name or title you wish to be addressed by.” She wasn’t sure how honorifics worked for his race. The intricacies of protocol as a mage versus a normal human…She didn’t know what happened to travelling painters who conned half-giants into believing they were mages, but her imagination could supply. She handed him an end of the rope. “Could you hold on to this?”

She moved quickly. The reason would become apparent when she asked for one of the townspeople to kindly come closer with one of the torches. She couldn’t do what was needed wearing her heavy mittens. After a moment’s hesitation, Nina took off her second layer of gloves as well, and stuck them into her pockets. She winced.

The rope was brown and flaky under her fingertips, burning almost like metal in the cold. She took two steps back, wrapped a coil of the rope around her shoulder, and passed it back to the half-giant.

“Cantrips are about weaving a reflection of a moment in time.” Nina explained, while uncoiling the rope. “It’s like looking in a puddle and noticing things about the world you previously didn’t.” Another coil around her elbow, and then the rope was passed back to the half-giant, then back to her. The frost made the rope crackle, and Nina thought it sounded much like her fingers would, when the other caught on to her scam. The woman didn’t mention that cantrips weren’t necessarily about magic. They were primarily a thinking trick.

Her fingertips lost sensation, and Nina almost didn’t feel when she got to the end of the rope. She looked down. There, it split into three thinner loose strings. These, she would continue to weave through the others, in the manner of a cobweb or a net, only stopping for moments to unfreeze her fingers against the torch. The woman had crafted the rope out of the bark of a rowan shrub, but she hadn’t had the time to finish. Still, it felt like the right thing to use. Her grandparents favored rowan, or witch wood, when dealing with the spiritual. It also had another name, which seemed like a bad pun in lands ruled by Molthal.

Mountain ash.

“Normally I’d just use thread, but the scale of this is absurd.” Nina whispered to herself.

She reached to the side, and from the waxed papers she took out the mementos she’d so carefully stolen. The torn piece of a scarf. A copper ring with a copper flower. A silver coin. A cake. A stack of wedding invitations. She threw them on the shifting web, with a few tugs here and there to keep them in place. Then she threw on more things – a verdigris copper coin, a bit of hay, a piece of metal that had gotten stuck in her shoe (it had fallen from the harness of mercenary’s horse, but Nina didn’t know that).

“I’m afraid I’ll need more.” She told the half-giant. “Fire, or blood. Yours.” She bit her lip. “Just a few droplets. Sparks. Your magic is strong. Its nature is opposite enough to this,” she pointed around, “that it might shed some light on the matter.”

Perhaps it was magic. Or perhaps it was the logic that through the magic fog, his fire had still given her a headache.

Were he to refuse, Nina would make do with embers, just like if he’d refused to hold the cantrip, she’d use a fence instead. She’d tug and pluck strings, as if they were part of a musical instrument, or a game of cat’s cradle. One minute passed. Then two minutes. Three. Shapes succeeded each other, including a wheel with spokes where the mystery bit of metal was the hub. Her fingers were aching and numb with the frost. Nothing happened, apart from the papers lightly smoking.

Then one of the ropes passed through another. The ring fell, and was caught by a length of rope that went through it.

Nina thought that perhaps she imagined it. She pulled and prodded, and the two coins spun on their sides across a bridge formed by a thread of the scarf. The cake broke in two, then caught fire, and then she pulled a string that wasn’t there. Then another.

She coughed, as a scent of decay wafted off. As she pulled invisible strings along with visible ones.
Paper invitations grew darker and arched under the heat, until they became scorched, rotten leaves. They formed in the shape of a face, which fell off to reveal something that might have been a face. With teeth. The cake grew lumpy, a mixture of soil and gruel. The silver coin and the copper ring, which had been the eyes, turned black with patina. The scarf, the one item she hadn’t been sure whether it belonged in the story at all, grew threadbare and rotten, and strangled the leaf figure just before it faded away.

Their shadows were shimmering, dripping like ink through the strings. She had a bad feeling.

“Burn it! Burn it quickly!” She yelped.

It was if she couldn’t untangle herself quickly enough.

“Two-faced?” Nina paced around. In the end, all that was left of her cantrip was a memory and a few bits of rope and metal scattered around. “Curses? Deception…illusion?” She tried to grasp the meaning of it all. “People who aren’t people.” Her boot hit something, and she crouched down to look. The verdigris coin had darted off and embed itself right under the surface of a puddle. “Under the ice.” That bit felt important. Oddly important. Her eyes darted around. Her voice rose. “Does it sound like any myth, legend, fable you know of?”

Whispers.

“Baba Lina might know.” Someone replied. Midwives knew things.

“Someone should ask her. She’s probably at Yogos’s place.” Nina said. Then: “Where did the fog come from? The land or the sea?”

“The land.” Someone piped up. “I was in the crow’s nest when I saw it.”

The woman’s pacing sped up, and she turned abruptly.

“That kid. He had the scarf, he said his mother just gave it to him. Said he was kidding when people got scared. I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure…” She muttered. So she’d only cut the end of the scarf. She stopped by the nearest townsperson, who looked oddly terrified. “‘Bout this height, with a mole right here, that looks like a hive?”

“Ollie? Oliver, son o’ Oskar?” Came the answer.

“Where is he?”

The mementos, they were bad. Nina’s stomach tightened. Had she allowed the fog to be cast by gathering them together? Or it was because she was gathering them up, rendering them unusable, that the evil presence behind this had preferred to take more drastic measures?

Think, Nina, think. First Law of Magic. Where could they be getting the power for a spell of this scale?

“Oskar’s still on the sea. Ollie’s been living in the temple ever since his mother died, two months ago.”

“This is bad. This is very bad.” Nina grumbled. She looked drained. “If you see him…tell him to take off the scarf and burn it. He’s in danger. But watch out. Don’t go following his voice to strange places. Keep fire nearby.” Her voice folded. “He may not be the same.”

The temple was inland, on the hill. There seemed to be no doubt as to where she should be running.

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

It was in the icy cold that Arnor performed well. It was also here that he felt most at ease. But this frost was unnatural, clinging to the skin as if it was trying to envelope the person. The cold followed those who remained outside. Like ghosts, encircling him.

Ice was difficult to trek across without being heard, without making a sound. Arnor's ears were well attuned to the particular sound of crunching ice. A sharp, flat sound, elongated. A footstep, someone breaking ice.

He turned to see the woman from before. The baker. Arnor's eyes narrowed, withdrawing his silver sword. In the freezing cold, Arnor took the time to run it across his armored forearm, removing any debris. The cold would make his metal brittle. Couldn't take the chance to stab them.

Then there was the second option.

Arnor approached the woman, who seemed as surprised to see him as he was surprised that she came back to the scene of the crime. Then, the stories he heard in passing of Gravelings were true. They needed a bit of flesh from their victim to become them. Part of their ritual, he imagined. Arnor seized the woman by her throat, to her protest. Lifted her up.

Heavier than he thought. Heavier than a woman advanced in years should have been. Coats and all. She gagged and acked and protested, but relented. Her voice changed. Crooked teeth turned into a malicious sneer at the Nordenfiir.

"You're awfully persistent for a group of people who've never invented shit in their existence." Arnor threw her to the ice. She shifted. Like a snake shedding it's skin. It was hard not to throw up, hard not to gag. Perhaps one of the ugliest human-like things he ever laid eyes on stared back up at him. Skin was pulled in tight. Must have been able to loosen it at will, take the ship of the person. Didn't want to think of the science of them.

But they were sentient.

"Tell me what the fuck you did to this place. Where's the frost coming from?" He sneered, debating crushing her throat then and there. But then, what would he learn?

"Wouldn't help us, it wasn't up to us!" She squealed out, writhing under his crushing grip. But a keyword made Arnor's eyes sharpen slightly.

Us.

More of them.

She outlived her usefulness with that word alone. How many of them? And now- who was causing the frost, if not them? Arnor let up on the woman, and held the torch he used to examine the body near her. He sneered down at the creature, writhing and cursing him. Gravelings were clearly not misunderstood creatures, they were violent and manipulative.

That's why when Arnor threw her off of the temple grounds and down the hill- after he let it on fire, he didn't feel particularly bad. Subterfuge and deceit was not his thing- and this situation didn't call for a light touch. No- this situation was too volatile, and was getting worse by the hour. Something was coming for this place. And the Gravelings weren't the cause...

But perhaps they were a symptom of the disease, a precursor to the plague.

Arnor wished he had his Templar friend with him, or any of the scholarly people he met over his time to help him figure this out. Anastasia would've known what to do, or even better- could have rode in with a great many armored assholes to help stamp out this problem.

 

[Naghi]

Naghi watched the girl closely, though he did not provide the blood she requested.

His bother had been a Witch, one born of a darker magic than even Menalus himself. She had taught him the power of blood and the strength that came with it, offering it to anyone even of his own free will would not occur. Not when there was yet so much left to do. His eyes narrowed as the girl performed her ritual, watching her closely.

Then he moved.

The Half giant was not entirely ignorant of the ways of magic, though his own was a power that would do them no good here. Yet the Witch had give him more than enough to go off of. Without a word he simply signaled for her to follow.

He had no idea what was to be found at the Temple, but if it was the source of all this then it would have to be burned.

In the coming months this this village would be necessary for his war. He intended to keep his bargain with the girl, and if that were to happen it would need to be freed of its curse. Hefting his axe the size of an ordinary man Naghi moved forward. His steps seemed go rumble the very earth.

This Grows tiresome. He thought to himself as he marched forward.

Naghi had come here not to help. He was not a Templar or soldier of fortune or anything of the sort. He was the son of Menalus, the ruler of these lands. He would have what he came for.

Magic or no.

 

[Nina]

Run and stumble, little painter, the mist seemed to whisper. Isn’t it fun how the town is erased all around you? Laughable. Pitiful, the mist cackles. Look at you, tilting your head, trying to catch the sound of steps of a murderous warlord following behind you. Do you find it reassuring? Is it the only familiar sound in a soundscape of little creaks that make your heart jump? Ah~…but you haven’t lost your way, have you?

Perhaps you should have brought a torch.

Nina turned back, trying to figure out the right path. She walked into a wall. Gasped. Only it wasn’t a wall, it was the half-giant.

“Have you ever wondered whether you are fighting the right war?” She whispered, once they started walking again. They were alone in the street. She didn’t even know his name, but apparently that didn’t prevent her tendency to throw herself off cliffs. “No one ever fights the one thing ruling over everything and affecting everyone, in the Blightlands.” She stated, surprise in her voice. Her fists clenched. She had to jog to keep up. “The Blight.” Her voice softened in the sort of understated sarcasm that had steel underneath. “I guess you and your esteemed father find the Blight useful.” Keep the population low, and you can control both the humans and the orcs. Nina’s lips curled in a dark smile. “But then you get things like this.”

‘I hope you’re happy.’ Nina’s thoughts burned her lips.

Ahead of them, a star fell through the fog. Nina turned to the half-giant, then hastened her pace. It could be just a lamp that dropped from the temple above, its lights already dimly visible through the mist. She didn’t hear the howl. Sounds were muffled. Only, as they got closer, she caught faint sounds. Squelching and scuttling. Crunching and tattering.

Nina rose on her toes, and whispered to her companion’s elbow.

“Keep going ahead. ‘bout thirty steps. I’ll check that out.” With the thunder in the giant’s steps, no one would hear her come closer.

And approach she did. Step by thunderous step. At first she saw nothing. Then her eyes just about made out a shadow on the ground. Two shadows. Her stomach turned. She saw a tall figure hunched over a smaller one, its teeth buried in the victim’s neck, ripping pieces of flesh. Devouring them with febrile fervor.

The figure raised its head, and Nina saw a halo of hay-colored curls scattering the little light falling from the temple above. Sharp teeth. The figure sniffed. Its eyes turned straight to her. It dashed, away, helping itself with its hands, but not before Nina threw the lasso she had in hand. The creature fell like a sack of onions.

It then turned around and leapt at Nina, teeth glistening. Fast. Very fast. The moment Nina realized was the same moment when claws dug into the shoulders of her coat.

“Erm!” The woman yelped. She might’ve meant to say ‘help’, but when you live on your own, you lose some social reflexes.

The two combatants rolled around in the snow. Nina punched and pushed and headbutted. The creature was weaker than her, its limbs crooked and thin, ashen skin stretched over ligaments and muscle with little fat in-between, but its claws and teeth were sharp. Nina had her winter clothes, though. Better than gambeson. Hard to bite through someone’s carotid through two fluffy scarves. When the being aimed for her unprotected eyes, Nina grabbed it by the wrist and twirled it around in the air, before throwing it. She thought she heard a joint pop. If others helped, it would be over even sooner.

“Speak! I know you can speak. Which of you did this? How? Where?” Nina would ask, once she had the monster under control. At least, she thought, thinking of glowing red eyes, one of the monsters. She was about two meters away from the bound cannibal, the lasso in her hands. The cannibal hissed.

“Or…perhaps you are indeed a beast, and should be culled.” Nina frowned. “With fire.”

The being’s eyes went wide. It tried to break away, but the lasso only tightened. It tried to go for Nina, but Nina was always dancing around two meters away. It was a bit like catching a wild horse. Exhausted, the being fell to the ground. Luscious locks once more grew on its head, red ruffles with embroidery wrapped its body.

“Please! A witch turned me! Save me!” She shouted, in a melodious voice. But the rope made a full transformation impossible. “I beg you!” Then it froze, and gave Nina the dirtiest look of her life. “You’re going to burn me anyway.”

“Why would you say that?” Nina asked. The woman creature tilted her head to the side, and Nina felt cold. Of course. The kid.

But when she looked more carefully, there was no kid lying in the snow. It was another creature just like that, and it was charred.

“You might be useful to me, and I don’t burn those people who make themselves useful to me.” Nina carefully said. The creature looked at her as if she’d grown an extra head.

“Who summoned the fog? Where did you do it?!” Nina shouted.

“Not me! Not us!” The creature cried. “We thought it was you!”

Nina stared. They thought it was…her?

“Why would we do it? The-“ Bitter, the flesh-eater spoke a word that sounded like ‘wormlings’. “They can’t handle this cold.” Nina wondered whether wormlings were their children.

“The mementos?” The woman snapped. The cannibal glared with round, uncomprehending eyes. “Your little gifts. Your curses.” Nina translated.

“Misfortune. Found it in the crypts. Bad luck for them. Fresh meat for us!” The creature gasped and hissed in a way that made Nina fear it was dying, that she’d injured it too much, but then she realized it was laughing. “Small magic. Feeble magic. Not this. Not us. Apart from yours. Yours wasn’t, no-no.” The cannibal shook its head as if pulled by strings.

“What curse did mine have?” Nina felt herself sinking.

“Nothing.” The grey creature said. Nina stared, and her interlocutor’s face twisted in a grimace. “We wanted you gone! Dirty hwitch, sticking ‘er nose everywhere. Signing, chanting! Finding us, finding us. Nooooo…” She/It wailed.

“Are you…” Nina gasped.

Are you stupid, she wanted to shout. The strange mixture of careful planning and utter idiocy was giving her the heebie-jeebies. Somehow they – whatever they were – had been smart enough to spread curses among the townspeople, and cautious enough to try pay her to leave – but also ignorant enough of humankind to not grasp that simply leaving their cursed items and coin in the street would have worked far better than invoking the dead.

She’d have picked up a lost coin, Nina thought with a chill, without a thought.

Smart enough to target those more likely to fall for it, like foreigners, like children, in the same way a pack of hyenas might go for the stray and weak. Yet stupid enough to give their hideout away.

Were they beasts, or were they people? And what did that make her, as a ‘hwitch’ they seemed to fear? Was she conning them, or were they fooling her?

Nina had sung in the cemetery at midnight. Of course she had. She’d figured that if ghosts were involved, that’s when they’d be up for business. And she’d chanted The Pirate Lords Shanty, because being in a cemetery at midnight was giving her the bloody chills. That now she knew that she’d been watched by hungry cannibals all along wasn’t making her feel any better.

“You eat people?” Nina quietly asked.

The creature bared its teeth.

“Listen, little one.” Nina bared her teeth back. “I could care less about you eating dead people. It’s when you messed with the living that you made an enemy of me. Did you steal the kid? Oliver? Ollie?”

“I don’t know!” The creature cried. Nina tugged onto the lasso for extra convincing.

“I don’t know. It’s” The creature let out a hoarse, ululating sound and the painter once more was sure it was dying. “prey!” After a pause, Nina wondered if that had been a name. Of course. There were more of them.

“And your name is…?” She checked. The answer was a hoarse, phlegm-filled, dying cough. But you can call me Zariel, the creature added.

“Well, Zariel. I’m Nina” Nina nodded. “Glad we were able to have this conversation. I’m going to let you go now.” She smiled widely.

The creature looked up at her in terror.

“Your kind bring back anyone they’d taken. Unharmed.” Nina spoke quietly. “As unharmed as possible, and I’ll know. In the meantime, I solve this.” Nina gestured to the fog, and tendrils of it swirled around her as she did. “For your kind, and mine. And afterwards we meet again. Then we can discuss the useful skills you have, and how I may potentially be able to provide you with more corpses that you can find in this measly little town. Or-“

Nina prodded the fog with her mitten.

“Or. You prove most unhelpful. Make yourself a menace. I fix this trifle anyway, and when I finish, I know where to find you. And I know about fire.” Nina hated looking in people’s eyes, but now she stared.

And yet she’d let the monster go. As per the agreement. That is, unless the warlord had more questions for it. Her?

“I thought shapeshifters might make good assets for the army.” She told the warlord, after the creature ran away. It ripped off an arm of the dead, burned creature as it did so, and dragged it after it. As they started to head back toward the temple. She wondered if, having grown up in the Blightlands, he’d know more about what the hell she just talked to. “If they can follow orders. What do you think, m’lord?”

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Out of the fog, came Arnor Skuldsson. And holding in his hands, was the head of the recently spoken monster that Nina had attempted to mingle with, attempted to get information out of. It rolled along the crowd, before meeting the Blightlands dweller and the.... girl. Arnor had no idea what she was. Didn't really care. Silver sword sheathed on his back, Arnor glanced between the two, sneering slightly. In the dense fog, his piercing eyes shown in the darkness.

His ears, attuned as all of his people's were- picked up most of their conversation, especially as they drew near the temple.

"They aren't shapeshifters. They're Gravelings. And they're nasty little things." He looked up at the Half-Giant, finding him familiar but rather unappealing. His look, unlike most men, was not diverted out of fear, but annoyance and a desire to rid himself of present company, and be on his way home. "And as far as I know, both of you and everyone in this damned place is one of them." Arnor stopped and his head turned sharply.

A sharp breeze, on the upwinds. Carried a smell. Necrotic tissue. The dead. Buried shallow. Wet soil. Brought to the surface. Gone. Probably the graveyard up on the hill. Didn't smell it there. Smelled it down here.

Strange.

He stared at the two strangers, feet spread only slightly apart, waiting for either of them to attack.

"I am Arnor, son of Skuld."

 

[Naghi]

Naghi found that the little Witch talked a mile a minute.

It was a trait that he himself could not have replicated if he tried his hardest. Conversation was hardly his forte on the best of days, something he could easily admit. What did one need Charisma for when you could sunder mountains with a single strike.

What he found though was that his new Witch had a penchant for gathering information. As she moved and acted Naghi always paid close attention. Every step she made, the way she spoke to the creature. It was interesting in a new sort of way.

He had found someone useful.

Annoying, but useful nonetheless.

When she spoke of his father Naghi tightened slightly. His muscles tensed and he nearly rebuked her, but he thought better of it. If he let her have a little leeway now it would likely go well. Besides, there was time for that sort of thing later.

The entire time throughout their journey Naghi remained mostly silent. He answered in nods and short grunts. Terse words were often the best.

It was only when the Hunter Appeared that Naghi opened his mouth to finally speak. He did not like being accused of whatever a Graveling was. Being compared to such low beings was...insulting to say the least. Yet he needed this curse gone.

"This witch has promised me an end to this curse." Naghi did not give his name. There were others for that sort of thing. "I intend to see she fulfills her word."

He narrowed his gaze. "You seem to hold knowledge of this."

 

[Nina]

Few had ever seen Nina as angry as she now was. Her lips were narrow and trembling, and her frozen cheeks might’ve as well been metal heated to a white blaze.

“I’d be a nasty little thing too, if humans kept killing my brethren.” She said. It was a startlingly soft voice, as if all the anger went into the effort of disguising itself. It was a good reflex, for when you were weaker than more than half of the population. “I had negotiated with that person. Her – their name was Zariel.” Nina said. The human mask had been a woman, but Nina didn’t know whether the Graveling – was that the name? – was female too. Or whether they even had gender. Maybe they reproduced by mitosis.

Nina wasn’t sure what mitosis was, but she had read the word in one of Gray’s books, and anger tended to bring the complicated words into her mind. Misdirected anger, some of it may be. But, Nina thought with a hollow in her stomach, it’s no good to properly direct your anger when its object is barely on your side. She felt the constant burn inside her mind.

People can’t deal with large numbers, she thought. It was like that bard had joked in the tavern. Kill one person? You go to prison. Kill ten people? They drag you up the gallows and you dance the sisal two-step. Kill more than a thousand people? People can’t deal with that. It’s almost like they go. W-well…Well done! You must get up very early in the morning!

“My name is Nina.” She replied.

When the half-giant called her a witch, she just smiled.

“If I was a Graveling, what would that change?” Nina asked Arnor. “If you thought they were involved, what does straight-up killing them solve? And if they’re not involved, as I suspect, why do you insist on making enemies as if we didn’t have enough already?”

She raised her palms in peace gesture.

“You’ve been asking questions. I have too. Let us work together. If I focus…I think I might be able to tell the Gravelings apart.” She focused hard on him, her gaze stabbing through his forehead. A sly smile curled on her face. “Of course, for that you’d have to trust me. Nice axe, by the way.” The axe felt magical. Her face turned a shade paler. It almost hurt to exert her magic senses in this fog.

She knelt near the cut-off head, and closed its eyes. The skin was papery and grey, like old leather, and blood the color of mold had frozen on the underside of its throat. Nina pulled a flowery rag out of her bag and used it to wrap the head.

“I will try to return this to their family.” She said.

And, near the cemetery, was the temple. The temple, she thought. Priests kept legends, records, rumors. Some of them may be useful. Her cantrip, was it useful? She’d asked the wrong question. She looked at the fog and thought of how frightening things were even scarier when they didn’t have a name.

“ ‘Under the ice’.” She told Arnor. “Do these words mean anything to you?”

((ooc: The bard’s story isn’t mine. It’s from here, and it’s worth a chuckle youtube ))

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

"When they wear the face of a recently deceased person with the intent on putting more people in the ground- sentient or not, you should consider who you consider your friends and who's worthy of mercy." He watched her wrap the head, narrowing his eyes.

"Based on what I've seen, you've probably already met most of the family. If I had to guess, most of the-" He stopped, and there was that smell again, when the winds died down. Necrotic flesh. Tissue, dead. Loose soil. Bodies buried in shallow graves. A lot.

He looked towards the sky, then back down to the pair. He looked over the Giant, finding him rather... stupid. Stupid was the best way to describe his people. Stupid, arrogant, and lacking in humility. Convinced that conquer was the best form to live one's life.

"Most of the town was probably murdered and replaced." He said, forming a theory based on a few pieces of information he had at his disposal. The chill grew in intensity, frost covering the buildings and their feet. Arnor blinked, then turned his back to the pair, thinking.

"Probably buried underneath the ice to hide the smell from curious passerbys, travelers. Monster Hunters. But the Gravelings didn't expect this, this-" He stopped, and ran his fingers over the ground, feeling the frost. Like the frost he'd find in the Tundra, in it's coldness and thickness. The frost of the morning, solidified by the night's intense cold.

"Fog. But from what I have seen, this is not fog, if I had to guess."

He looked back up at the Temple, seeing the lights go out.

"It's revenge."

 

[Naghi]

That news was unfortunate.

The village was one of few that sat on the coast of Molthal. The waters here was dangerous to tread, and it took brave men to try and work them for fishing and other trades. If most of the village was already dead then it meant the whole place was useless to him.

It will have to be burned. He thought to himself.

Then suddenly a thought occurred to him. His lips pursed, and glowing red eyes narrowed to a slit as he peered down at the Monster Hunter. "These gravelings."

He mused.

"They are intelligent?" Naghi needed to fight a war, one that even his father could not deny.

Molthal had long since used beasts and monsters within it's ranks. Menalus made use of Vampires, Werewolves, even ghouls at the behest of his necromancers. Why should this be any different?

He had a witch, he had his own magics.

Perhaps these creatures could be bound.

 

[Nina]

Was this a story about people, or about things?

Things that want to crawl under your skin and wear your face. Things that lurk in the fog with sharp teeth. Things like the fog itself, freezing Nina’s knees until she gasped with effort just standing up. She wasn’t sure any of the other two would help her if she didn’t. Her eyes darted round the small group. Things that burn cities to cinders. Things that kill in the darkness without warning. She looked at her hands. Things that lie and cheat and gamble the lives of hundreds.

People do bad things for complex reasons.

“Mercy? No. Just practicality.” Nina answered to Arnor’s admonishment. Her hands clenched. She remembered Ollie’s scarf, and the voice of the Graveling, so startlingly human, and her voice wavered. “Dead people can’t return potential hostages. Dead people can’t convince their friends not to attack us, because we fight something that frightens them too.” Was that mercenary going to crawl through narrow underground tunnels to drag people back, if that was needed? Had he seen the size of those Gravelings?! “Some battles cannot be won with a blade.”

‘Some can, but shouldn’t.’ Nina added in her mind.

Things or beasts? Beasts or people? The answer, her grandparents had taught her, is not bound to the subject. It lies with the observer. Things just happen, and you may change them, but you can’t communicate with them. Beasts may be intelligent and walk on two feet, but their nature is so different that you cannot coexist in the same space. With people, understanding is possible. Learning. Conversation. Compromise.

If her grandparents could say that some clouds are people, and if she herself had seen the shard of a person in a warlord likely responsible for more deaths than all the Gravelings combined, then perhaps the Gravelings deserved discussion beyond a slash across the neck. Otherwise, how would they ever know that humans are people?

Shuddering from all joints, Nina asked Arnor about her cantrip’s hint. She thought he’d mock her, but instead it was as if the man was struck by thunder. His voice had the metallic ring of things falling into place, but before things could fall into place many had to fall apart. ‘Most of the town was probably replaced’, he said.

“Can’t be! How do you know? I’ve-” There was no denial in her tone, just the shock of someone struck between the temples. The warlord’s question, which would normally fill her with hope, now was just a blurry fact that she reflexively avoided interrupting. Afterwards, she continued: “I’ve lived here. Weeks. They’d have gotten me by now. I…” The shuddering became painful, and Nina had to pause her breathing to keep it bearable. The realization of what she’d said seeped under her skin. “It doesn’t make sense. The cookies, everyone warned you…” Her voice was breaking, partially due to the ice growing in a waxy pellicle between her teeth and the inside of her lips, and partially due to shuddering. If most of the townsfolk had been Gravelings, would they have sent people so obviously suspicious on enticing duty? Would they have kicked a fuss about it? Nina’s eyes went wide. “Unless some of the Gravelings work against the others.” If humans could have aims different to other humans, why not them? Perhaps outcast Gravelings, who only got to gnaw on leathery years-old flesh, didn’t want to wait until their more successful cousins decided to throw them a bone. And yet, it would have been too easy to kill both her and the mercenary. A mug of hot wine…it’s so cold outside…never wake up. Her voice dropped a few notes. “Unless the masks are starting to wear them.”

Partially human. But which part?

“Just how much can someone be a human while still…not being?” Nina wondered.

So many unanswered questions. Of Gravelings and a little town lost in fog. Of a quiet warlord who had bound her to his fate. Of the temple where the lights turned off. Too many questions, and too little time until the frost would bite her deeply enough to held her down. Nina wasn’t sure which particular question she was answering when she said:

“Well I am going to find out.”

She started moving towards the temple, using her poker as a cane to feel the path in the darkness. The only light was the flickering torch the mercenary was holding, behind her. She moved like a drunkard, the frost having bit into her legs and toes enough to affect her balance. She ran like that. Someone, she thought, had to do it.

Her gloves clenched on the handles of the temple’s doors, shaped like spiraling sirens. The sirens had eyes of mother-of-pearl. There was no sound. She wondered what she was going to find inside. Things, or people?

She opened the doors.

There was no one inside.

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

He wanted to tell her that these things would be good. But they were not- from what he knew. Regardless of anything that else he would encounter today, he knew that beyond all of that, this girl would never view the world the same. She'd see evil for the first time today.

And for that reason, Arnor stayed silent on the trek up to the temple. The giant came, as he figured he would. He saw it in his eyes. The hunger for power, the lust for conquest foolishly squandering life. Analyzing every bit of terrain and person in service to their cause. And he'd end up like all the others that sought conquest. Ruin. No great civilization ever lasted. Something overtook them all, whether it was a sword or the years. All good things came to an end. So, to that end- Arnor sought it foolish to attack, and attack and attack for years and years- building something that would crumble due to nature itself.

The Nordenfiir, Maude- they had it right, in a sense. They understood history, his people. They knew the reality of what they were and did not hide behind a facade of civilization. They were open about their brutality, their tenacity and their love of life. But the Nordenfiir found life to be lived best in different ways.

The Half-Giant sought to live it by trying to create something to be remembered for, but at the end, people would only read footnotes about the conquerors of history, or bury them under some other awful brute. But that wasn't living. That was just surviving.

Arnor pitied him.

As the temple stood empty, Arnor was the first inside. He crouched down, running his hands over the floorboards, where makeshift beds and beddings had been made. People brought their things here. Alcohol, wine, filled his nostrils. They had been here, just recently. Fires still lit, candles knocked over. Explained the lights going out.

The stench of wine filled his nostrils to his left. A quick glance showed him why. Someone had knocked over the bottle.

Candles snuffed out. Beds thrown asunder. Wine knocked over.

The stench of the dead. Close. Soil, so wet.

He looked down.

Loose floorboards, then.

He walked along, waiting for a draft. Air was colder in one spot. He shoved his foot through the floor.

Went straight through.

Arnor turned to his companions, or at least, the least likely to try and kill him. And he drew his sword, and stepped into the tunnel, disappearing.

The Hunter went on the prowl.

And the Fog came closer.

 

[Naghi]

The fog grazed against his skin.

It seemed to attempt to wrap around him, reach out, touch and caress his flesh. His fingers tightened around the heft of his axe, the cold iron length of it suddenly growing red with head. There was no fire born of him, but slowly the fog began to melt away.

His fingers danced over the weapon.

Magic was not foreign to him. His mother had once taught him the way of her own people. It was an old sort of craft, the kind that most had long ago forgotten. His father had allowed him use of it, though always with a warning.

Lips thinned, and lowing red eyes hovered over the creeping fog that parted away with every step that he took.

He moved into the tunnel behind Arnor. "Come little Witch."

The half-giant urged

 

[Nina]

The floor of the tunnel rustled under her unsteady steps. The warlord’s steps were silent, rising and falling vibrations that flowed through her bones. Arnor’s steps, further ahead, punctuated them with the weight of armor and thoughts. Their shadows shook violently on the walls. Nina had picked up and lit a lantern in the temple above, thinking light would be useful if Arnor had to let go of the torch to fight.

Stone tunnel. Dirt and stone floor. Nina’s glove brushed against the wall. Properly built, not just cobbled together. Tied together with clay and straw to strengthen it. Apart for the wooden ceiling-floor that Arnor fell through. She looked backwards. Shoddy architecture? Or something more sinister? It was like walking into a grave.

Don’t assume malevolence where stupidity can do the job. Yes, but what is the risk of doing so? Nina’s eyes glistened with tears. And if it was malevolence, how far back in time did the roots of this evil go?

Her breathing fell in the rhythm of the others’ steps. She was there with them but also, wasn’t. The girl had tried to warm her hands against a bowl of embers when they’d entered the temple, and found that some of the cold would not leave her bones.

Maybe it was just paranoia. Maybe she wasn’t who she thought she was. But the words of the Master of Crows rung in her blurry mind. Her magic, the little magic she could use, was a consequence of her life force being ripped asunder. It was literally held together by a thread, even if that thread was a metal craft of the Clocktower. Her magic sense was the equivalent of one’s sense of touch being more sensitive across an open wound.

Fog isn’t good for wounds, she thought.

Not that she thought much, now. Instinctively, she stayed close to the half-giant. The pain inside her settled into an oscillating balance where she wasn’t sure if it felt cold enough to be burning, or if the blaze was strong enough to leave her numb. Every now and then, she’d try to reach out with her magic sense, to make herself useful.

All she could feel beyond the glowing motes and searing fire of her small group was the growing darkness.

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

The tunnels were dark, and full of the smell of necrotic tissue, flesh decaying. Lanterns, unlit, dotted the walls. Arnor could make his way in the dark, well enough. He turned and put a finger to his lips. The hunter in him told him to lay low for a moment. The air grew tense. The air shifted around the trio.

People were moving. But not people. Cold, gray hands came from the darkness and dragged Arnor inward. Steel met flesh. Bones cracked. He was enveloped in darkness, wildly, flailing, fighting. Dragging knuckles across face. Finding necks in the dark was hard. Extremities- were easy to find. His left hand grabbed an arm. His right slashed where his left wasn't.

Nordenfiir steel met Graveling arm.

The steel did not give, but the arm did. A scream rang out in the darkness. Blood pooled. More arms grabbed, claws scratched at his cuirass. The prowess of the son of Skuld shown, even in the darkness. An elbow lashed back, breaking bone and cracking skin with a powerful blow.

Gravelings retreated further into the tunnels. He walked back to the Giant, and looked down, after all the chaos and commotion. In the dim light, he saw it.

Rows.

Rows of shallow graves.

From what he could tell even in the darkness, the tunnel was lined with them- with a walkway built in the middle. Crude labels lay near the shallow graves, of names, and occupations.

He turned back to the girl and the Giant.

"You want to help them now?"

He walked back to the entrance, checking to see if they had been followed. The frost lay at the entrance to the tunnel- as if lingering there. And then, he noticed that the frost- seemed to light up. And he saw a hand in the mist of the fog, leaving a print on the side of the wall. The same way one would if they were leaning over to look into the tunnel.

Arnor stepped three paces backwards before falling over, near a grave.

He muttered something in his native tongue, something close to asking his ancestors for protection from the spirits.

Who's spirits, remained to be seen.

 

[Naghi]

Not help.

Naghi had no interest in helping anyone but himself. That was what his father had taught him to do. That was what he had learned after half a century of life. No one came before you, not family, not friends, and most certainly not a village of nobodies.

These gravelings were dangerous to the ordinary folk, but that was alright. As the Hunter stepped up in front of them and taunted the Witch Naghi cocked a smile.

As Arnor turned away the Half-Giant regarded the Witch for a moment. His lips thinned as he looked around the fog. Glow red eyes pierced through the misty veil, focusing on the object within the graves. He could feel death here, sense it in the air.

"Blood and corpses." He mused as he stepped towards the crypts. "An all too familiar sight."

Fingers flitted over his axe, and he firmly planted it in the ground.

Three small words were uttered, his eyes pulsed for just a brief moment, and then some of the fog began to split away. The ground beneath his feet grew warm, and a new sort of magic flowed into being.

 

[Nina]

Suddenly, Nina felt inexplicably afraid. A cold anger enveloped her, and she starred daggers at her companion’s backs. They thought themselves so strong, and yet they’d fall all the same with a knife in the kidneys. That thought scared her. Yet when she opened her mouth to say something, the mercenary asked for silence.

The light coming from Nina’s lamp snapped and splashed in spinning puddles on the walls upon hitting the ground. Her shoulders bent under a sudden weight. A grey arm had wrapped around her neck, over her two scarves, gripping like a vice. The ringing of metal and the plinking of light hitting stone filled her ears, as she fought to breathe. She felt thin limbs around her, and aimlessly kicked. Scent of the grave. Taste of fear. Taste of blood from a bitten cheek, so hot that it scalded her tongue. She felt something hug her right leg, and there was a sharp pain just behind her knee. With a strangled scream, the woman fell over. Yet the ground kept moving, frozen cobblestones rasping her cheek. ‘Away,’ the woman dizzily thought. ‘They’re trying to drag me away.’ With strength borne of desperation, she clenched the poker in her hand. She reached out over her shoulder, again and again, stabbing the darkness behind her before turning to smack the Gravelings in front of her.

When the monsters left, scuttling back into the tunnels in fear of Arnor’s sword, they left Nina there. Twitching, she gathered herself in a ball. She stared at the glistening end of the poker, before slowly moving her gaze behind her. At first, she thought she’d gotten one of its eyeballs. Then she realized that her poker had gone much deeper. Her lips trembled, as her body wasn’t sure if to throw up or to laugh. She shook herself off the Graveling.

She moved. Her leg gave up under her at first, and she looked to see. Behind her knee, her pant leg was slashed by a thin line with red edges. There wasn’t much blood, but that could be because with the frost and the earlier scuffle in the snow, her outer trousers had the consistency of bark. Nina pushed herself up again. Putting most of her weight on her left leg and the poker, she could stand. She took a shaky step.

Behind her, the Graveling twitched. It let out a hoarse, monotone groan, that only stopped when Nina slashed its neck with her knife.

And the mercenary mocked her.

Nina stared.

“There was no blood in the tunnel. No drag marks. Do you understand?” She answered. The dirt floor, even frozen, should’ve carried the tracks.

He was right. These weren’t the traces of a human group being abducted in the temple. Not unless the humans among them had been very few, or the route different. Arnor had been the one to speak it first, but did he truly grasp what he was saying?

Because if most of the townspeople were Gravelings, what was he going to do? Was he going to punish a massacre with yet another, assuming that he actually could? She walked among the graves. Blood and corpses, the warlord said, and Nina clenched her fists. She imagined houses burning, people who had shared their bread and salt with her running outside only to be cut down by the mercenary’s unforgiving sword.

To him, it would be only justice. But she, she’d lived among those people. Murderers. She forced herself to read the names.

‘Jaina, daughter of Jain - Fishwife’.

‘Uros – Orphan, acolyte’

‘Elas, son of Noah – Baker’. He’d given her a loaf just out of the oven, Nina remembered. It was soft and hearty and had potatoes in it.

“I’ve made an agreement. To protect the people of this town.” Nina said. Names were blurring in front of her eyes. Some of those placards looked old

‘Zariel, daughter of Ylana – Mayor’s daughter’

Nina gently left the flowery bundle of the head she'd carried nearby.

‘Elizabeth, daughter of Maria – maid of all work’ Her finger clenched on the poker.

“People, not humans.” Nina said. “If that means execution for a great crime, so be it. But I would like a trial. If I don’t at least try to understand, then I could hardly call myself a person.”

But there was no time for a proper discussion. The fog was gathering. Like the others, she stared at the handprint in the frost.

She thought of the temple’s dimmed lights. So sudden. You turn off the lights when you are trying to hide. Hide from what?

Her eyes lit up in understanding as she glanced around her group. She thought of the fear and hatred she’d felt just before the Gravelings’ ambush. She wondered if her sense had reflected their fear and hate. She wondered if they had a point.

“Did we bring it with us?” Nina whispered.

The warlord called upon his magic in preparation, and Nina grit her teeth. Even with her eyes closed, she could feel the flow of aura. Yet it wasn’t as painful as she’d imagined. Rather…It felt like something so close to the root of magic that she could hardly feel its shape. A rushing river full of possibilities, yet too wild to settle in any one shape on its own.

‘Something unconstrained, that could easily be given shape.’

“ ‘Scuse me, imma borrow this-”

-were her words, as she bent down and scooped a handful of magic from near the axe’s blade. There was a snapping sound, like a match being struck. In Nina’s hand, the piece of drawing charcoal that she’d taken out of her pocket started lightly smoking. She was so shocked at what happened that she didn’t even have the dignity to look surprised about it.

Instead, the woman walked towards the handprint on the wall and wrote above it in large, lightly burning letters, and read it out loud for good measure.

WHO ARE YOU?

Arnor Skuldsson

 

[Arnor Skuldsson]

Arnor stared at the girl, before he walked towards her, disregarding the lumbering Giant protecting her with a simple glance. If the Giant wanted to get froggy, then Arnor would certainly jump. But the Giant wouldn't like what Arnor could do in cramped spaces, human- or otherwise.

He seized Nina by the scruff, and pinned her against the wall of the tunnel.

"Look! Look at them!"

He forced her head to look into the darkness, at the rows of shallow graves of rotting, recently deceased corpses.

"This is reality. There are no courts, there is no law here. They are all dead, do you think a trial, hours set in debate of whether or not they are guilty would help?" Glyph-marked fingers grabbed her face, forcing her to look at him.

"I am reality. The world is ugly, and cruel, and brutal. And these things- made their choice to kill these innocent people to take what they had and move on. And they would have done the same to you. And from what I know of the stories- worse, since you're a woman. So you tell me- you tell me if you want a trial now."

He dropped her, letting her collect herself against the wall. Breathing heavy, Arnor fixed his hair. He was an angry man, but he didn't want the girl to see how ugly things were. But it was too late. The facade of goodness and kindness in the world would forever be shattered here. Life would not be the same for the girl. She'd want to help people, still- but this would remain on her conscience for the rest of her days.

The frost stopped- stopped spreading. And from the darkness, a cold chill came not as a wind, but as if someone had tapped each of the heroes on the shoulder, beckoning them further into the tunnel.

Deeper into the tunnels, there were footsteps, but too heavy, too loud to be from the Gravelings. And the sound of chains, deep, rumbling chains- but they carried an echo that seemed.... ethereal.

Arnor swallowed, looking ahead.

He did not feel like going first anymore.