A Dutiful Son

The winter sun rose as high as its wont in the hoary blue of the noon-day sky. Corrac shrugged deeper into his furs, his already broad shoulders afflicted with the dry chill. The warmth of the hearth-fires reached not to the lower halls of the keep; the entrance halls, the storage rooms and dungeon cells. Corrac’s empathy went to whichever poor souls found their way to the embrace of Fulcairn’s gaol in the winter, for they would get none from the place itself. He suspected it had been a design of convenience by his ancient forbears. If one had the poor sense to be detained in the harshest of seasons, theirs would be the harshest of punishments. Haelyn forbid such a thing should pass so soon, but on his father’s death and his own ascension, Corrac intended to build a furnace in the gaol. No one should be punished for a crime they have not been proven to have committed.

Another weight, however, rested heavier upon his heart. It concerned his brother. In all of the ten years since Cathal’s birth, Corrac had known this day would eventually come. It had been the proscribed four generations after all, and as heir to Wilder’s Gorge, he himself was too important. Young Cathal had been marked for this duty upon his conception, and there was little and less anyone could do to alter the course of the boy’s life.

Corrac nodded to Finn, one of his father’s veterans, as he exited the keep and entered the castle bailey. He could already hear the pounding of hooves from the training grounds. His boots crunched into the fresh, dry snow that dominated the earth beyond the reach of the keep’s polished wooden floor. Winter was Corrac’s favourite season. Everything was clean and crisp and dry. People joined together in alliance against nature itself. It was in winter when Wilders were most truly Wilders. Corrac, despite his dearth of years, knew his people and he loved them best when they truly loved each other; no one could do without their fellows when the sun waned and the ice goddess scratched at the threshold of every home.

He waved jovial greetings to each servant and tradesman he passed as he crunched down the path to the training grounds. Upon arrival, he spotted his little brother, young Cathal, riding at the quintain atop a shaggy pony matched to his diminutive frame. Cathal was hunched intently over the pommel of his saddle, a waster clutched cross-body in his right hand. Corrac watched the boy as he closed on a straw effigy and lashed out, backhanded, the wooden blade forcing a blast of hay into the thin air.

“Ho! Cathal!” Corrac cried, clapping his big hands together. “A mighty blow!” The proud grin his little brother flashed in his direction melted his heart. Cathal was, in truth, the best of them, Corrac thought. Corrac, the heir apparent, knew the people loved him. Knew his father favoured him best. Cathal was not as clever, nor as wise, nor would ever be the horseman or huntsman Corrac was. But, deep within his soul, Corrac knew he was harder, less forgiving than Cathal. A darkness, speck of a mote though it may be, lived within him that he had never seen within his younger brother. And, though he was destined to be the Baron Fulcairn, he thought: It should be Cathal.

His little brother reined up to the fence around the riding arena and dismounted, leaping from the saddle and over the fence’s heavy timbers to lock Corrac in as strong an embrace as his pre-adolescent arms could manage. Cathal, since he could lift his arms, had always been a hugger. Corrac laughed, delightedly.

“Did you see, Corrac! I KILLED him!” Cathal said, between heavy breaths.

A tinge of guilt and sorrow sliced through Corrac as he held his little brother in his arms. That the world was such a place as boys of ten had to learn to strike down their fellows. Someday, Corrac vowed, he would do all he could to change that.

“I saw, Cathal. You rode well!” Corrac set his brother down and lay a hand on his head. “I have some news, for you,” he called to the master at arms, “Sir Hargil, I must speak with my brother. Perhaps you could carry on later?”

The steel-bearded old knight, who leaned against the fence on the other side of the arena nodded. “As you wish, master Corrac.”

***

Cathal sat on the inner edge of the keep’s north wall, munching on a jumble of frostberries he held in an already stained fist. frostberries were not his favourite, but he liked them plenty all the same, and there were not many others to choose from in the cold, Wilder winter. His brother Corrac sat beside him, his bulky frame warm and assuring. Corrac picked a berry from Cathal’s palm and popped it into his mouth.

“Hey!” Cathal cried, in mock anger, then laughed.

Corrac smiled back at him and raised his eyebrows. The heir to Fulcairn was, to Cathal, the perfect specimen of a young lord. Tall, strong, kind but stern, wise beyond his years. All that Cathal wished to be lived in his brother.

“What’s your news, Corrac? Is mother feeling better?” Cathal asked, hopeful.

Corrac’s face darkened slightly and a thin tension showed in his cheeks. He placed a large hand, already rough from fighting on Cathal’s shoulder and Cathal was pulled into a gentle half-hug. “You know of the Yngvi, brother?” Corrac said, his voice graver than his expression.

“Aye! Our friends in Rjurik from all the way back to Deismaar! They’re a great house in the north!” Cathal’s voice was full of learned pride.

“Then you know of our pact with them.” Corrac replied.

“… I think, yes,” Cathal said, “every two generations we send a Fulcairn north to live with them, or they send an Yngvi south to stay with us, depending on whose turn it is. I don’t know why. I’m not sure I’d want to go, if it were me.”

Corrac’s grip tightened somewhat at the last. Cathal looked up at him to see a single tear rolling down his mighty brother’s cheek, dusted with a youth’s fresh growth of fair whiskers. “It’s been two generations Cathal,” tension started to form in Cathal’s chest, as though his heart had been gripped and whoever did so had slowly begun to twist, “Father wanted to tell you himself, but I asked him that it come from me. It’s our turn, and as the second son, it falls to you to go north. I’m sorry, Cathal.”

A wave of anxiety washed through the boy’s small frame so quickly he shivered. Tears threatened to form, but he beat them down and set his small jaw. He looked out over the yard, the people. Daffyd, the Houndmaster was coursing two young cairnhounds about the yard, calling after them authoritatively. He was a stout man with long, thick arms, and black, thinning hair. As the Houndmaster neared his usual resting spot; a bench propped up against the keep’s outer wall, directly below the two of them. Cathal casually reached out into the empty air and loosened his fingers, dropping the fistful of berries directly on to Daffyd's bald spot and causing them to spatter blue juice all through his hair.

“HAHA!” Cathal laughed as Daffyd cursed.

Corrac stood, somewhat perplexed. “I… I…” he stammered.

“I’m sorry Master Daffyd!” Cathal said, standing as well, and still laughing. Daffyd ceased cursing and stared up at him, “I’m being sent to foster in Hogunmark. With the Yngvi! I couldn’t pass up such a last opportunity!”

“Good riddance you little brat!” Daffyd boomed and stomped away.

When Cathal turned back to Corrac, he could not tell if his big brother meant to clout him or give him a hug. Perhaps both.

“It’ll be alright, Corrac! It’s an adventure! I’ll learn to sail a longship and swing one of those big swords they use! I might see a druid! Can you imagine? A real druid!”

Corrac knelt, a sad smile crossing his perfect face and took Cathal into a tight bearhug. “I’ll miss you, little brother. Even if you are a bit of a pain in the backside.”

Cathal smiled and buried his face in Corrac’s big shoulder. He was scared, and sad, but he would not let Corrac see. He did not want Corrac to be sad, or to worry after him. He would miss his family. His mother, still sick; he would have to tell her he loved her before he left.

“I’ll miss you too, Corrac. And don’t worry. No matter what happens, I will do my duty. I promise.”

On Loss (by the Khinasi poet, Tashairah)

On Loss
by the Khinasi poet, Tashairah

As a traveler tosses certain things into his rucksack--
a waterskin, a blanket, a heel of twice-baked bread--
before a long journey

So too did you take certain things--
the wings of cranes heralding spring above the dunes
the scent of spices and the sound of laughter drifting from the bazaar
the stars
and my heart, split open and glistening like red pomegranate's flesh--
when you left me

Tell me, what could fill the canyon
your absence has carved in my soul?

Shall I invite the sea to fill it,
drown the aching void in its waters?

Shall I invite the darkness to fill it,
draw its black curtain over the light of your memory,
your silhouette still shining in my mind?

Nay, I think instead I'll sit at its precipice
And listen to the wind howl
And the dust gather
And each aimless, purposeless breath I draw
Echo into its emptiness

Session 5 Sketches Recap

Golden Hair

Everything was going to hell.

Ever since entering the Imperial Villa, it was as if the gods had cursed them. Magda was left behind. Orien and Telfirth never made it back. House Fulcairn had spent all its gold trying to salvage relics, and in the process had lost everything, including Finn. The man that had brought Dolan in, and given him a home.

And it was not over. Merrec, that cornerstone of House Fulcairn, collapsed in the great hall and cursed the house with his dying breath. Medwyn, the young scribe had abandoned them.

Everything was going to hell.

Around midnight after Merrec's burial, Dolan got on a horse and rode. He rode all night, trying to clear his mind and make sense of what had happened in the past month. It was well into the morning, and he had ridden across the Cradle. Well into harvest season, the Wilders were hard at work preparing for the oncoming winter. How would the lands survive if the winter was a harsh one?

Securing his horse nearby, he breathed in the autumn air. He needed the solitude. Gods be damned, he needed some time alone. 'I'll just wash my face, fill up my waterskin and be on my merry w-'

"Milord?"

A very young woman, with fair colors and holding a basket of apples was standing almost a stone throw away. She was a comely lass, with a long braid of golden hair. She was dressed humbly, but her clothes were washed, taken care of and she seemed happy. Her freckles especially almost laughed with joy.

"You startled me girl. No, no, you have nothing to fear. I'm with the Fulcairns. What do you have there? Mind if I have one?"

"Of course milord. Here." And as she took up an apple, he saw a young boy, probably around 3 years old. Same colors as the girl, but with even more round eyes looking up to him; his mouth slightly ajar.

"Don't mind Cedric milord. My boy is shy, but very sweet." the girl said with love and affection, reaching down to reassure the boy with a big smile.

"You don't have to call me lord, I am definitely not one. Hello there son! How are you?" Dolan asked, and his hand ruffled the boy's golden hair.

No reply. Oh well. He is an adorable small pumpkin isn't he?

"If I can beg your leave milord. We have to be off. We are going back to grandmother Arwen! And she has made your favorite food!" At this, the boy squealed with delight and took off, his small legs taking him through the fields towards a cozy looking farmhouse.

"Arwen? Is that her name...?"

"Yes milord. She has made him venison stew with herbs and spices that are imported from the north! A recipe that she says she learned from her aunt, gods bless her soul. My father can eat the entire stew in one sitting! Even when times were very hard, my father never left her." Curtsying, she went after her young son, with the breeze carrying their laughter back to Dolan. Dolan, whose face had lost all his color.

Dolan, who years ago had to sell his sword in order to pay family debts. Who made the hard decision to leave his beautiful comely wife with golden hair so he could provide for her. A wife who had been expecting his child, and during bad weather had caught a fever. A wife that made for him a delicious stew with herbs and spices, passed down from her aunt. A wife that had no one to take care of her, and neither her, nor her unborn baby had survived the fever.

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry.

Session 3 Sketches Recap [Part4]

"Go ahead, do it!"

"I love you, Sister"

A Sunny Morning, in Happier Times

He was naked, and perfect.

He stood at the window, so tall his head brushed the top of the sill, shoulders so broad they spanned the shutters on either side. The light of a spring morning spilled in to silhouette his perfect form and gleam on his sandy golden hair-- long on the top, currently tousled from sleep, shorn close on the sides, as was the northern Taeghan fashion. Wordlessly, Reynhild watched the play of muscles beneath his skin, watched the light caress the curves and planes of his back and the long limbs corded with muscle. She'd seen those powerful arms hew the head off a bandit as effortlessly as a child might flick the top off a dandelion. She'd also seen them cradle a cairnhound pup whose mother had rejected it, and wean it himself using a rag and some ewe's milk.

He stood at the window every morning. Before attending to the business of the day or concerning himself with the process of taking over his aging father's lordship, he would simply stand at the window and gaze out over Wilder's Gorge, admiring, adoring, reminding himself of his responsibilities and the sacred trust he would one day assume over it.

Aye, which suits me just fine, as it offers me just as breathtaking a view, she thought with a smirk.

Her gaze fell on a red-violet ugly swollen welt on his upper arm. "Corrac?" she said, sitting up in bed. "Love? What happened to your arm?" Cuts and bruises were hardly an uncommon occurrence on either of them, but this was a particularly painful-looking one, and he hadn't been engaged in anything particularly dangerous of late, merely overseeing the training of a few new recruits.

Corrac turned, and he smiled at her, and she felt the way she did whenever she saw that smile-- that all the joy that had been denied her during her first twenty-four years was being repaid in full all at once. For all his fierceness in battle, his smile was still a guileless little boy's, open, trusting, giving and receiving love so easily. She had watched that smile make so many people-- from angry farmers with grievances to settle in his court, to foreign dignitaries-- fall half in love with him.

"Oh, this? Never you mind, my star. I got it because I was a trifle too cocky while sparring with one of our new recruits. Gods, was she a prize find. Just a farm girl from Three Corners, a farrier's daughter, but give her a few years and she'll be one of the finest swords in Wilder's Gorge!"

"Oh? What's her name? I've a mind to speak to the new blood myself later, see if any of them can hit the side of the stables with an arrow."

"Magda, she said. You'll love her, Reyn. Gods, we NEED more men and women like her. We spoke at length after drills yesterday. She's not like the ones who sign up to serve because they want a steady flow of silver and a drier roof over their heads than they're accustomed to, though gods know I can't fault them either. She told me she has dreamed all her life of serving Wilder's Gorge with her sword arm, protecting the people, and serving the Fulcairns who've always been good to the people. She said it was the happiest day of her life when we accepted her." Aye, thought Reynhild, that definitely doesn't sound like currying favour when said by a farmgirl to the next Baron. But she would never voice her cynicism, not to Corrac, not when his happy smile blazed the life-giving warmth of the summer solstice.

"She sounds delightful," she returned, "and I shall go introduce myself later and show her around the grounds. But first..." She flung back the covers and reached for him. "Come here, my love. I've a mind to put you through some drills of my own."

--------------------------------------------------

"Magda?"

The young woman standing at Merrec's desk glanced back, saw her, and immediately dropped into an awkward gesture somewhere between a bow and a curtsy. "L... Lady Fulcairn!"

Reynhild held up a gauntleted hand. "Call me Reynhild, please. I've searched the whole keep for you. I scoured the training grounds and the barracks high and low, and here you are in Merrec's office!"

"Oh, milady, please don't think I was shirking my training. I'd never!" And immediately Reynhild knew that Corrac's judgment of Magda's character had been correct, as it usually was. The girl shone with sincerity, honesty, eagerness to please... almost as much as Corrac. People like them are like great warm bonfires that cold black souls like myself warm our hands at. "It's just that Merrec told me about something he had heard of in Stormpoint that he could help me with. A promise-- A permit--"

Merrec smiled gently. "A promissory note. Good morning, Lady Reynhild! Our new recruit has requested a promissory note. The Great Bank of Stormpoint is issuing promissory notes that, once sealed with the sigil of a Great House, can be exchanged for currency or goods. Young Magda here has requested that four-fifths of her pay be in the form of promissory notes, that I then send by raven to her family at Three Corners."

"Oh, Lady Reynhild, I'm so grateful you've hired me onto the guard! It'll be such a help to my family! You see, my father is a farrier, and he was gravely wounded in an accident and can't work, and my mother's taken ill, and I'm the oldest and my siblings are just babes still, and--"

A loving family who sacrifice for each other in the lean times. Reynhild felt a pang of... jealousy? Aye, that's something I've never known. But I have it now. 

 "We will be happy to accommodate you in this regard, Magda. My husband speaks quite highly of your sword arm. The Gorge has need of skilled warriors, and we're most pleased to have you. "

The girl's face turned redder than beetroot soup. "I... I don't deserve the honour... I..."

"Once you're done with your promissory note, why don't you join me at the archery range and we'll see how your bow arm is?"

----------------

Reynhild turned her back and ran, ran with all of her considerable speed, for the flickering and rapidly closing portal at the entrance to the ensorceled villa.

Oh gods, I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, Corrac.
I'm sorry, Magda. 

The Brothers' Game

“You’re Ruobhe!”

“No YOU’RE Ruobhe!”

Two high voices carried their argument on the Spring breeze. The timbers of the Aelvinnwode’s southern fringe creaked above and around them.

“Am not!”

“Are too! I was Ruobhe last time!”

“Well I’m older so YOU’RE Ruobhe!”

“Aww, this game’s dumb! You never play fair, Brinden!” whined the younger and smaller of the two, a sandy-haired boy with eyes the colour of a deep lake on a clear day.

“C’mon Cathal, you’re way better at doing Ruobhe’s voice than me anyway!” the other boy, Brinden pleaded. He was older, much broader, and darker haired, with pale grey eyes. The younger boy was dressed in a fine orange tunic bearing the crest of his house, a silver falcon in each of the top left and right quarters of an orange field, with a rampant black hound on a silver division per chevron in the lower half. The older boy was dressed in undyed but well-made wool and a brown leather jerkin.

“Ugh, FINE,” Cathal rolled his eyes. He climbed onto a nearby hill and slipped his foot into the loop of a knotted rope suspended from a large, stout tree that grew below. A moment later, he had twisted his face into a caricature of evil, and held clawed hands up to either side. “Be afraid, Edgar Khorien,” the boy said in a snarling, nasal voice, “Ruobhe Manslayer hunts for you!”

The older boy struck a heroic pose, holding a hand in the air as though to brandish a blade.

“A true Taeghean is never afraid, Awnsheghlien! Hunt me if you dare!” and with that, Brinden charged toward the large tree. Cathal watched him run and clenched his brow in concentration. He judged the angle and turned to face ahead of his half-brother’s path. A second later he lunged from the hill top and swung out toward Brinden, reaching with one hand. The wind rushed passed him, flowing through the mop of his hair and he screamed with excitement. As he soared closer and closer to Brinden, he tried to judge the moment to tag him. Brinden was not looking at him, intent as he was on the tree.

NOW!

Cathal reached out to touch his half brother, but Brinden wasn’t there. The dark haired boy had stopped in his path, raised on his tip-toes with the effort, and Cathal’s hand passed through empty air less than a foot from Brinden’s face. Brinden took to running again, and Cathal leapt from his rope swing, taking to the chase on foot.

It was futile, though. Brinden’s stride was nearly twice as broad, and Cathal could never catch him. Within seconds, Brinden had reached the trunk of the mighty tree, and placed his palm on a round spot of bare wood, where the bark had been stripped away.

“Haha! Victory for Taeghas!” Brinden shouted. He stood triumphant next to the tree, his hands on his hips, chest puffed out with pride. He was taken completely by surprise when Cathal didn’t stop running.

“Manslayer!” the younger boy shouted and barrelled into his half brother with as much force as his tiny frame could generate. Brinden, caught off guard, tumbled into the dirt, laughing hysterically. They rolled around in a cloud of dust and dried out needles for a few seconds until Brinden handily pinned his younger half-brother.

“You cheated, you little sneak!” he said, collapsing onto his back beside little Cathal and laughing breathlessly.

Cathal, grinning from his own back, said “Ruobhe cheats! That’s why he wins all the time.”

“Haha, well he lost today!” Brinden stood, helping his little brother to his feet. “But nice try!”

Cathal beamed at Brinden. “Mother probably thinks the elf has got us for sure. We should get back to the cottage.”

“Ha! I’ll race you!” Brinden said, and gave Cathal a gentle shove backward before sprinting off to the south.

“Ugh! No Fair!” Cathal shouted, and ran after his elder brother.

Their laughter soared through the empty trees, through day and night and summer and winter. Through years, a decade and more, and finally into a damp, cavernous hallway of old mortared stone. It was lined on either side with the stone-wrought faces of ancient lords, their visages cold and stern and questioning.

A large, rectangular table stood at the front end of the hall, a broad slab of dark stone. The corse upon it was lit by dim torchlight. Long of limb, broad of shoulder, a tumble of once thick, dark hair falling from the side of the skull that hadn’t been ruined. What teeth remained showed through torn and mangled lips. The nose and one ear were missing, and where once were eyes the shade of a morning mist, now gaped black, empty sockets.

Next to the table, a young man sat in an old wooden chair, his sandy-haired head clasped in scarred and calloused hands. The night was still, save for the strangled sobs of one living voice that echoed across the stone faces of the dead.

Special: Cathal, The Snuggle Lord of Fulcairn

Mara

Dolan

Elena

Reynhild

SESSION FOUR

The party returns to Fulcairn Keep without further incident. Cathal is still reeling from the taint of Eldric the Fair's cursed god-blood; his sleep is plagued by nightmares and he suffers a concussion that resists the healer's efforts. Reynhild's preternatural alertness and protectiveness of the House seems to be verging on paranoia; she too stays awake late nights endlessly poring over books from the library, trying to hone her martial and woodland skills. They both awkwardly avoid each other, unsure of their feelings after their kiss at the Battle of the Plateau.

Bracers of the Firehawk

On the urging of their councilors, the House decides to host a small celebration of their victory at the Plateau. Reynhild (uncharacteristically wearing her Rjurik green gown and flowers in her hair, mostly to placate her ever-doting handmaiden, Elena) presents Mara with a gift-- a pair of exquisite bracers crafted by the House's famed leatherworkers, set with the rare amber the Wilders call the Heart of the Forest, and tooled with the shapes of cairnhounds and twin fiery hawks, as the townsfolk have taken to calling Mara the Firehawk of Wilder's Gorge. She thanks Mara for her service to the house and states she considers her as good as family.



Later that night, a rider approaches the keep. It is Adair, Reynhild's most trusted ranger, bearing the body of Brindon, Cathal's half-brother. He tells Cathal that as best he could tell, Brindon was slain not by the rival house Duenes, but by a pack of brigands. He leaves to search the area further. They lay him to rest in the catacombs and Adair leaves to tell Reynhild of the news. Reynhild and Cathal stand in silent mourning over Brindon-- their third lost family member-- then Reynhild reminds Cathal of the Rjurik tale of Culloch, the warrior who the gods promised immortality if he had the strength to walk through hell. She then tells him that perhaps House Fulcairn is currently walking through hell, but that even so, she would walk through hell with him. They embrace and kiss with heated passion, but she tears herself away and flees.

After discussing their next course of action in the struggle to reestablish the House and secure the lands, the party decides to venture to Firstcairn, a town in the south in an area rife with border disputes with the neighbouring barony of Seamist. Reynhild sees Adair's horse in the inn, and finds him drinking with Garon, a ranger from the lands of House Duene. She questions them both and finds out nothing further-- Brindon seems to have been slain by brigands, whose leader Garon and Adair are in pursuit of. Seeing an opportunity, she attempts to recruit Garon as a spy, but her offer is rejected.

To assert control on the town, Cathal parleys with the magistrate, and implements a new policy-- public humiliation and flogging for lawbreakers, particularly the itinerant ne'er do wells from Seamist who have been plaguing the town. A brawl breaks out at the inn, and soon enough they are able to enforce these new laws. Cathal himself flogs several miscreants, and the townsfolk cheer and are relieved.

Their business at First Cairn fulfilled, the party leaves to pursue another, more mysterious goal-- a rumoured long-lost Imperial villa in the orog-haunted mountains, that would no doubt provide much riches and prestige to whoever secured it. They leave with a minimal party-- only the faithful armsmen Dolan and Magda in tow-- and head for the mountains. Reynhild, most at home in the woods, takes point, and manages to guide them through with little incident. They discover something unexpected-- a lost shrine to Haelyn in the mountain, occupied by orogs.

They engage the orogs in battle. Dolan and Magda are both wounded, but the Fulcairns are victorious, partly due to a well-timed sleep spell from Mara. They take rubbings of the temple markings and press onward.

Reynhild's tracking skills finally lead them to the lost Imperial villa... but a stranger surprise yet awaits them. What they find is an untouched, perfect Imperial estate, there in the middle of the orog-stalked wilderness, replete with flower gardens, tapestries and banners blowing in the wind. Reynhild immediately urges everyone to back away, extremely distrustful of the scenario, but Cathal and Mara's curiosity and wonder get the better of them, and they walk in.

The Fulcairn

Dolan’s shoulders felt like they were made of wood. Every day, three times a day for two hours at a time, ever since he had left the warm death of his sick-bed, The Fulcairn had been battering him across the practice yard with sword or lance or pollaxe or even his empty hands. Cathal had told him he was getting better, but he would be damned if he could tell. Despite their astounding victory, the young lord had taken his fall at the hands of the Awnsheglien as a personal loss. Dolan understood how he felt, but not the reasoning. Eldric the fair had been a big bastard, with a fuck-off big sword. Lord Cathal was no withering daisy himself, but Eldric had been more than human. The fact that the mad bastard had escaped with his skin mostly intact was a miracle as far as Dolan was concerned. Had it not been for the pretty wizard, they would all have been worm food.

FUCK

Cathal had feinted a blow from the tiller guard, as he had called it, then voided Dolan’s counter and domed the ex-sellsword with a twisting, overhead cut Dolan had never seen before. He could not be fully sure he had even seen it then. He had blinked and found himself with wet dirt leaking through the air-holes in his visor. Third rain this month. Autumn was certainly on its way.

“I think that’s well enough for today, m’lord.” Dolan grunted as he rolled onto his back and opened his visor, letting the rain spatter against his face and into his open mouth. Always been something about sweating in the rain that made him uncomfortable. Should have gone to Khinasi, he thought to himself, found some dusky merchant’s daughter to make fat little brown babies with.

“Aye,” came his lord’s cold reply, tinny and hollow under his own helm, “dawn tomorrow then.”

Dolan groaned.

***

Light from a dozen candles flickered and danced among the shadows on the walls of the council chamber, fighting with the light from the hearth. Castle Fulcairn slept, but her lord leaned over a broad table scattered with ledgers and maps. Abandoned mines in the Seamists. Elves murdering Wilders in the Aelvinnwode. The Duenes trying to snake the Dodge from under his nose in the south. A dozen other things, small and large, threatening the tenuous welfare of his family’s realm. Threats from without and from within and barely a drop of silver in their coffers. Cathal recalled a tale the Houndsjaw had once told him, of a fisherman named Olaf whose boat would spring two new leaks for each one he plugged. Olaf, so the story goes, was still there, on the bottom of the ocean, trying uselessly to plug his boat for all eternity. Cathal expected there was some lesson to be learned in the tale, about trying to fix something one could not fix, but he refused to believe that about Wilder’s Gorge. There was a path forward, he just had to find the right one.

The door creaked open and the Baron Fulcairn barely looked up to see Mara Bersk, apprentice to Harald Khorien and one of two reasons his heart still beat in his chest, glided smoothly into the room. The way she moved, as though she had no physical presence or weight, troubled him, when he had time to ponder it. In point of fact, it was not long ago that there was nothing about her that did not trouble him. But, she had fought literally shoulder to shoulder with him and helped him avenge the poor farmers whom that blackguard, Eldric, and his band of cutthroats had slain. She was not far gone from family now, as far as he had any say about it. And his word carried quite far, as things stood. He would not get used to that, he expected, until the day Haelyn claimed him. He was Baron now, when all he had ever wanted to be was a knight, valiant and true.

“Cathal, you need to sleep.”

No “my lord” or “Baron”, never with Mara. It had ceased to bother him, and even when it had it was more about keeping the confidence of his people than any kind of hubris. If it would make no difference, folk could call him a stoat’s ballsack for all he cared. But, it did matter, especially with the house on the dark precipice it had been.

“Those words and numbers won’t change or move just by your will.”

“I’m aware of that Lady Bersk,” he said struggling less now to keep the edge out of his voice, “I’ll be done shortly."

Mara narrowed her eyes at him, skeptically.

“I’ll be back in half an hour,” she replied, “and if you’re still here I’m going burn all of your lances.”

And then she was gone.

Lances. He needed those. He’d been riding at both quintain and his men at arms at least two hours a day since he had recovered. The Rjurik were fine fighters, but when it came to chivalry, they left a fair amount to be desired. He was catching back on very quickly. It struck him that it might be prudent to hire a new master at arms. He would never be as good a rider as his brother had been, and neither of them could have hoped to match Lady Reynhild, but when he lowered his lance, it struck like Cuiraecen’s clenched fist.

Lady Reynhild. He grumbled mild frustration as he collected what few small things he desired to return to his chambers with. It seemed an inevitable thing now, that his thoughts would eventually lead back to her, no matter what he tried to distract them with. Cathal shook his head clear and collected a map of Goshawk pass and an ancient slab of a book filled with very old, exceedingly dull trade tariff ledgers. He picked up a small lamp and exited the council chambers into the cool night beyond.

The rhythmic song of crickets broke the stillness of the night beyond the walls of the keep, and the milk-silver beams of the moon weeped through open windows to splash on the walls behind. Flames flickered from sconces every twenty or so paces. Cathal came upon no guards as he walked the hall; it seemed that other than Lady Mara he was the lone waking figure in the Castle. There would be armsmen and militia patrolling the walls and bailey, but he could see none. He reached the spiral stair that ran the height of the keep and began to ascend. He passed the chapel and servants quarters on the fourth floor and then came to fifth floor, in which both Lady Reynhild and Merrec, the Seneschal, kept their quarters. There was candle light flickering out under Reynhild’s door. He almost started toward it, but halted himself. They had been distant since the Battle, he believed each for the same reason. His brother’s bones rested beneath the keep. Whenever he thought of her he could swear he could hear them rattling, but again his mind was filled with her…

… hair shining like embers in the dawn, her soft lips pressed to his, a perfect moment of freedom from thought or strain or pain or longing. His heart so full of warmth and light it threatened to burst from his chest. The feel of hers, beating, through his mail and gambeson. Looking upon her of a time, he had thought her cold and distant, but when she had embraced him she had been so warm…

His feet had carried him almost to her door when he clenched his fist around the spine of the trade volume he held in his right arm. What could he say? What could he do? She was his brother’s widow. What had passed between them had simply been the fire of the battlefield, no more. He had to marry and marry very well in order to preserve the future of his house; something he wanted about as much he wanted an ague. He turned on his heel and quietly returned to the spiral stair, climbing the remainder of the floors quickly so he could not have time to convince himself to go back. His rooms were on the seventh floor of the keep, and boasted a small balcony in addition to the four post bed, armour and sword racks, and large writing desk.

Cathal tossed the book and rolled up map onto his desk and strolled out on to the balcony, left open in the waning heat of the summer. The moon was even brighter here, and washed him in light. He leaned on the balcony railing and looked up at the stars, wondering if, thousands of leagues northward, his blood-brother Fulgrim saw the same sky, the same stars. Fulgrim would know what to do about… well everything. Cathal felt every day as though he were a man juggling knives, and that one of these times a blade would fall and cut him. He just hoped the wound wasn’t too bad, or that it wounded anyone else. Above all else aside perhaps from the longing in his heart, he tired of sending good folk to their doom.

He looked out over Fulcairn under the waxing moon, its tendrils of light illuminating the thatch roofs of the castle town. It was a few hours to dawn, and another day of training and of ledgers and petitioners, but right now there was peace. Peace he had not had within waking memory.

A Sellsword's Ramblings

I can't sleep. I've ran out of drink. My ribs hurt. And what am I doing now? I'm writing my thoughts on a bloody piece of paper like that good for nothing scribe, Medwyn. I swear that woman never speaks, doesn't utter a single word. Doesn't even show a bit of flesh! I swear, life in this keep goes from dog-piss to horse-shit every day.

It would be an understatement to say it has been an eventful year. I joined House Fulcairn last autumn, thanks to Finn. I grew tired of the mercenary life, too much wandering around, senseless skirmishes left and right; and all that for a jug of wine and a pair of tits - alright, maybe it wasn't all that bad. But I did want to take a break, and I had heard good things about this House and the Wilders. Before I discovered it's in the god-forsaken corner of Taeghas.

Then, the oldest son falls ill. Everyone here starts to lose their mind. A handsome man, I'll admit it. With a gorgeous Rjurik wife that can probably smother you in your sleep without batting an eyelash. By the gods, I'm sure she is a firecracker, but I want my bits in one piece - thank you very much.

When the time came to ride to Stormpoint and fetch the young lord... well. That was a good break. Note to self: Lora owes me one silver. I had to buckle up and scramble to the docks, his esteemed lordship Cathal Fulcairn arrived earlier than expected.

Apparently he was sent up to the Rjurik barbarians as a lad, and now he is back. The man is a cheerful, carefree, dangerous armed idiot. I liked him from the moment I met him.

And then the Lord of the House dies. More mourning, death, despair. By the gods, I joined the House to relax and calm down. But no; off we go to parley with Eldric the Fair. Instead of running him down with our horses and those beasts the Wilders call puppies here. Guess how that went. That's yet another jug of wine offered to the gods.

Did I mention the wizard? She might be able to see this letter somehow. Can she? Yes, I can read and write. No, I like my flesh as it is, not cooked like a steak please. She is very smart that one. And shy. Interesting. I wonder...

I'll say this though. Life is never dull here. And the people are kind, honest and humble. If this House goes down, well, it will have to go through me first.

What time is it? Gods, it's dawn already. And that madman will want to train. AGAIN.

Somewhere in Southern Taeghas, Fifteen Years Ago

Eight-Fingered Edvick stumbled toward the whore's tent, already drunk as a Aerele midshipman on feastday. His purse was bulging with the spoils of the company's latest skirmish, and the half-chub in his breeches was as much from the fierce thrill of victory-- Haelyn, it had felt good to hew a few heads from that ragtag band of Brosengae insurgents-- as anticipation of Sally's meager charms. Aye, she'd been pretty enough when she'd first showed up, but the Sons of Iron Mountain were as rough on their camp followers as their foes, and she was beginning to look a little worse for wear. Still, she charged a third less than Taren, and Edvick needed to set aside enough to get his brigandine repaired; a canny pikeman had punched a hole right through it two weeks earlier.

He swept aside the tent flap and had his belt half unbuckled before he noticed the tent was empty. Or, rather, empty save for Sally's brat. The scrawny little thing, all knobby knees, dressed in a shapeless sackcloth bag more stains and patches than cloth, crouched in the corner, watching him.

"Oi, where's Sally?" Edvick was irritated, the fog of cheap ale making him more impatient than usual. He needed a quick tumble and didn't fancy paying Taren's Avanil tavern-girl prices.

"She's gone to town." The voice gave him pause. Preternaturally calm, cool, a full octave deeper than he was expecting. "She'll be back within the hour." And so too were the huge eyes in that grimy little face, that watched him from beneath a thicket-tangle of dark red hair. Not afraid, not curious, not looking down or aside... just staring right at him, burrowing into his soul. It made him uncomfortable, angry. He wanted her to either fawn and giggle or avert her gaze and scuttle away like the other camp-following flotsam.

Of course, there was an opportunity here. He crossed the tent in one stride. She tried to dart away-- she was fast, fast as a cornered animal-- but he collared her and pinned her down on Sally's filthy cot. "Quit struggling, brat," he grunted as he attempted to get his breeches down with one hand and keep her still with the other. "You'll be joining mummy in the family trade soon enough. About time we had some new meat around here anyway--"

And then he realized she wasn't struggling, but rather, her free arm was wrapped around him, and a small soft hand was touching the small of his back, groping, where he always kept his--

The word "knife" flicked into his mind right before the glint of steel flashed and his last thought was fast, how is she so gods-damned fast...
 -------------------------------------

The girl looked down at the corpse in its widening pool of blood, and piss as death emptied its ale-filled bladder, and felt... nothing.

The knife came free in a gush of blood and tissue and clear humours. The strike had been true, at an upward angle through the back of the eye socket where the bones were thin. Her friend the surgeon had explained this to her, as he used tongs to extract the splinter of a shattered halberd shaft from a dead man's eye. She remembered everything he had taught her.

It was easy.

But what to do now? Her mother would beat her terribly if she returned to find a dead customer in her tent, and the mercenaries would do far worse to her mother. The girl hadn't the strength to drag the large man to the woods.

The girl wiped down the knife and tucked it into the frayed rope she wore as a belt. The grip felt good in her hand. She unbuckled the dead man's purse, and her eyes widened. It bulged with silver. There was more here than her mother would earn in three months. Killing men, it seemed, was a quicker way to earn silver than laying with them. Maybe easier, too.

He also had a flask of cheap spirits. She winced at the eye-watering smell. But it gave her an idea.  She carefully stuffed the purse with rags to muffle its conspicuous jingle and bound it to her belt. Then she emptied the flask of spirits, half onto the dead mercenary, and half onto the tent walls. There was a small cookfire just outside, where a few branches were still smoldering.

She watched the blaze for a few moments from the periphery of the forest, then vanished within its shadows.

Reynhild, Back At Home

"Milady Reynhild, I've brought you some breakf-- Oh, merciful Haelyn, milady! You haven't gone to bed yet, have you? This is the second night in a row! You'll make yourself sick, you will!"

Reynhild didn't even turn as Elena clattered into the doorway, struggling with a tray piled high with fresh buttered bread, pears, cold sliced venison, a wedge of good cheese, and an earthenware mug of herb tea. Callum, on the other hand, who was dozing at her feet, woke up long enough to wag his tail at the approaching maidservant. "Oh, sod off, Elena," she muttered, but there was no venom in it. In truth, she was tired. The bank of candles she'd lit to read by had long guttered down and snuffed themselves in pools of spent wax, but she hadn't even noticed, as dawn gradually crept through the narrow window. Tomes and scrolls were piled high on her bureau, most from the castle's library, a few from traveling merchants.

Elena, undeterred, directed a barrage of fuss at Reynhild. "Oh, by all the gods, look at you. You've circles so dark under your eyes they look like bruises. And your hair-- you haven't let me tend to it in days. Ever since you and Lord Cathal and Lady Mara and the men got back from the mountains, you've barely slept, barely ate! All you do is ride and shoot the straw butts full of arrows and read these dusty old books! What on Cerilia are you reading about, anyway?" She waved a plump hand at the stacks of tomes. Elena, like most of the servants, couldn't read; the pastime of staring at dusty parchment inscribed with black squiggles must have seemed a manner of sorcery unto itself to her, Reynhild mused.

"Oh, nothing interesting," she replied.

Well, perhaps that's not entirely true, she thought. A few of the books were stuffed with slices of scrap leather marking interesting passages, and she had filled up a half-dozen parchment scraps taking notes from her two favourites. One was a beautifully illuminated codex called On The Art and Science of Physick, by the Khinasi physician Samad. Reynhild had always had a knack for stitching wounds. She'd learned from skilled hands, after all; the mercenary company her mother had serviced for a time boasted a surgeon of rare skill, and he had seemed not to mind as a grimy red-headed whelp of a girl had watched him work, even occasionally explained what he was doing and why. But these Khinasi were something else entirely-- Samad insisted that applying distilled spirits to your needles and blades would ward off infection. It seems like a damned waste of liquor, but I may as well give it a try sometime, she thought with a smirk.

But the prize of her collection was a book called A Treatise on Tracking Prey in Woodlands, by none other than the legendary Ghost in the Pines himself, Lord Caedmon Fulcairn, Cathal's great-grandfather. The Ghost was supposedly a tracker so skilled he could trace the steps of a bobcat over near-naked bedrock. And he was as much a philosopher as a hunter, Reynhild had discovered; the book read as much like a manifesto as a manual. Most folk blunder through life with eyes half-closed, read a particularly stirring passage, unable to see through the veil of their own preconceptions, passions, expectations, emotions. Thus is the world and its abundant truths hidden from them. Set aside these things, set aside yourself, and you may see. If you look, you may see, instead of a swipe and three bright flecks in the snow, the gradually-slowing flight of the stag whose lung your arrow pierced. If you look, you may see, instead of your enemy's slight tendency to favour the right foot, a deadly vulnerability that you may exploit. To learn to live, one must learn to see, and to learn to see, one must learn to look. 

 "Just set it down, Elena, I'll eat it later. And thank you," Reynhild said absently.

Her maidservant was right, she supposed. But how was she to sleep, with the assassin's words-- the House is doomed-- ringing in her ears? She'd always been able to rely on two things that kept her alive: her speed, and her wits. But suddenly they weren't enough anymore, and suddenly there was more at stake than merely the goal of staying alive for one more day.

 It seems I've need of speed and wits enough to keep all of us alive, and if that's the case, this seems like the easiest way to acquire them.

Aye, there were other ways. Her blood-power, stolen from that poor Rjurik lass three years hence, had honed her already sharp reflexes to near-inhuman. But that taste, barely a whisper, of the power of that golden-haired awnsheghlien... she shuddered, remembering the repulsive feel of it. She could feel it, deep down in her soul, like the whiff of a latrine pit too far away to see, but not to smell. It resonated with her own blood-power, trying to shape her inhuman awareness into... something else. Something dark. A hyper-awareness of enemies, enemies everywhere. Shadows lurking, slipping poison into wineglasses, daggers in dark alleyways, crossbow bolts streaking from quiet corners. A paid assassin, an unknown patron. Enemies everywhere. The House is doomed.

Gods, when she thought of how close they had come, her blood turned to ice in her veins. The horrifying sight played itself out a thousand times in her mind, of Cathal crumbling beneath a blow from Eldric's greatsword that would have cleaved any other man in half. Had her arrow not flown true, had the little wizard not been there with her hellfire...

That won't happen next time. Next time, they won't get close enough to us to swing a sword or poison the wine. I will see them coming and my arrows will skewer their hearts. 

 I failed Corrac. And I failed Cullan. I won't fail you, Cathal.

Or Mara, for that matter. Hellfire aside, that tiny slip of a silk-clad city girl had fought with the Fulcairns, bled with the Fulcairns, faced down forty armed men and a gods-cursed giant unflinchingly. That made her family enough for Reynhild.

Any doom that comes for this House will have to tear me apart, flesh and bone, first.

She opened Caedmon Fulcairn's ponderous book to the scrap of leather marking her place. She stifled a yawn.

-------------------------------------------------------

Elena returned to find the full golden light of morning bathing the room. Stepping almost as quietly as her mistress, she gently shuttered the windows, fed a slice of venison from the untouched tray to Callum, then draped the wolfskin from the bed onto the shoulders of Reynhild, who was fast asleep at her desk, face down in a dusty old book and a tangle of auburn braids.


 
 

Great and Unfortunate Things

End of winter, 1499. Stormpoint, Taeghas.

"More brandy, your Royal Highness?"

"That will be all, Malcolm. Thank you. You may retire to your chambers."

The aging servant bowed deeply. He was grateful that he lived a life of luxury; but most of all, he was proud to serve his Royal Highness, Darien Avan. He always accompanied the Prince in his journeys abroad. His family had served the Avans for generations as bodyguards, castellans and stewards. The servant felt that he played a tiny part in the grand tapestry of Anuirean history, even if that meant serving his liege brandy.

Inside an old library, the fireplace crackled as Harald Khorien fed it more firewood. It would have been a trifling matter for him to snap his fingers and have a roaring fire all night, but the second contender for Taeghas was not a wasteful man. Besides, he took pleasure in doing simple things without the use of magic.

"That was a stirring speech you gave today Khorien. You have rallied the nobles of the Taeghan court."

"I couldn't have done it without your guidance, your Royal Highness. I received a report today that William Nentril and his men will be officially joining our forces."

"Indeed so. I've known Nentril for many years; he's a loyal man and a competent commander. We will have to move quickly Khorien, and put your sorcery to good use. Arlen Innis, Boeruine's magus will attempt to hinder us."

"Have no fear my lord. I can already hear the whispers of the land. The meghail runs strong in both Taeghas and Avanil. My mastery over Astromancy will give our soldiers the edge we need."

"Excellent. That bastard Boeruine was victorious at Ambelside; he hopes to sweep over the land before our forces destroy him. I have heavy infantry ready to outflank him through Wilder's Gorge. The noble of the lands there - Cullan Fulcairn I believe is his name - is supporting Aeric. It will be a simple matter to destroy his keep and cross the Elfwash. As long as that elven abomination does not interfere."

"Your Royal Highness. I would ask you to stay your hand and not go through Wilder's Gorge."

"Why, Khorien?"

"My lord Avan... it is imperative that the Fulcairns remain in power. There is great power in Wilder's Gorge, power that if unlocked will benefit us all. I dare say, even your noble goals in the Imperial City. I would not say this if I wasn't certain of it. If the Fulcairns fall, that power might be lost forever. I have seen in my divination that great and unfortunate things await them."

"Very well Khorien. Wilder's Gorge will be spared the sword. However, they will pay the price for choosing the wrong side."

And Harald Khorien remained silent. For within his sorcery, he had seen the threads of fate tighten around House Fulcairn. He had caught a glimpse of unimaginable power and glorious destiny. But hidden somewhere in that weave, was the promise of something terrible.

Cathal's Journal - Day 12

   I am slowly but surely catching up with the plot of the campaign, but am still about a session behind. Hopefully I can write enough of these fast enough to do so, but in case I can't, I may have to jump forward with a few of them. Thanks for reading! I hope you all enjoy these as much as we enjoy playing this game! - RD

It has been a few days since I have written in these pages. The ache of my father’s death still grips my heart, but is loosened by new opportunity for vengeance, if not justice. We have captured the catspaw whose poison draught laid my noble father low.

After the tragedy at my brother’s wake, I ordered the castle town closed and barred, until we could uncover the culprit. Despite our efforts investigating the serving staff and the origins of the poison, in the end it was lady Reynhild’s keen eye and a tactical error on the part of our assassin that led to his capture. At mid-day today, I ordered the east gate of the town opened, ostensibly so folk could return their daily business.

In truth, it was a ploy to force the assassin into action. We suspected, and I was quite sure, that the blackguard still lurked within the walls of the castle, posing as one of the servants. I closed the castle and the town to add pressure to his deception and hope he would break. To his credit, the assassin remained steady until the very end. When the gates were opened, he attempted to leave with a visiting delegation from the Western Temple of Haelyn. Lady Reynhild spotted the extra member of their party, and called him out. It was then that the assassin’s composure melted away.

The fool fled into the keep; a great blunder. Reynhild raised the hue and cry, and ran in pursuit, her faithful hound Callum close at heel. Try as I might to catch her up, she and the assassin had a wide lead on my soldiers and I, and Lady Reynhild is nearly as swift afoot as she is in the saddle. By the time I managed to reach her, she had engaged the killer, single-handed; Callum had been wounded in the chase. The assassin climbed and climbed, ever up the tower, though he often had to halt to fend off the flurry of Reynhild’s blades. This is what allowed us to close on him. As he reached the top floor of the keep, he attempted to leap from a window and thus escape, whether to his death or to the waters of Eirik's Bowstring, only he can know.

Lady Reynhild, much to our quarry’s chagrin, revealed herself to be an implacable hunter. Just as the assassin’s boots readied to leave the sill, she leapt and hauled him bodily to the floor, a stranglehold around the man’s neck. Unwilling to risk harm to my lady, I dropped my sword and sat my knee upon the blackguard’s chest, then stretched him cold with two sharp blows to the jaw. I checked my lady worriedly for injury as I helped her up, but she spoke only of helping her hound. We rushed to find him a floor below, slumped against a stack of shelves, hardly breathing.

The gifts a blooded scion manifests are as varied in effect and potency as the stars in the night sky. We blooded few of the Fulcairn line have the honour and pride to claim descent from a favored servant of the great and noble Anduiras. It has been put down in our history since before the written word that a Fulcairn stood on the slopes of Deismaar that terrible day on which the old gods died. And, while we have only the word that was passed by generation to generation to support this claim, I have always thought this to be true. In me, the light of Anduiras still shines, and it is due to the virtue imparted by his golden ichor that I bear a small gift in healing, with which I returned the gallant cairnhound to his brave mistress. I am relieved to have been able to prevent yet another wound from staining her ravaged heart.

For now, the assassin awaits his fate in our dungeon. Reynhild, Dolan, and Finn advise that I allow them to put the irons to him, but I detest torture. I have seen such carried out among the Rjurik, and its success has always seemed dubious to me. The wizard, Mara, offers me an alternate route. Should I be unable to drag answers from the knave’s black tongue, I believe I will entreat her to bend his mind with magic. Though I taste ash at the thought of it, I like torture the worse, and I suspect that enchantment, though I know little and less of its working, may be more reliable in gaining the veracity I seek.

My father and brother have both been laid to rest. I am the lord of Wilder’s Gorge. Baron Cathal Fulcairn, fourth of his name, Chief of the Wilders. My responsibility is now to my land and my people, but I will make absolutely certain that those who wish to do my house harm will know that they shall never do so lightly.

Session 3 Sketches Recap [Part3]

SESSION 3 SKETCHES RECAP [PART2]

Reynhild intervenes, trying to calm both Cathal and Mara

Cathal gives Mara and Reynhild free reign to attempt more extreme measures

"You took something I loved from me, what shall I take from you?"

"Take my tongue."

"I have failed our House..."

SESSION THREE [Part Two]

At the village of Goshawk Pass, the ranger Orian arrives bearing news that the Black Talons have burned a farmstead in response to Cathal’s prosecution of them. Cathal, angry that he allowed himself to question his own instincts in warfare, starts to reprimand his councillors once again, but ultimately takes responsibility for his decisions. With no recourse left to them, the defenders of Wilder’s Gorge ride out from Goshawk in attempt to catch Eldric and his company in the open fields where they, as cavalry, will have a decisive advantage in any engagement.

They race south for three days through the rolling foothills of the Seamist Mountains. Reynhild dispatches Orian once again to find and tail the Black Talons. He returns on the third day with news that they have burned even more farmsteads, and have been killing the Wilders who live therein. A wave of fury and determination runs through the Fulcairn ranks and with a fresh burst of speed, they close to within eye-shot of the Black Talons.

The mercenary company has already reached the edge of the mountains and, spotting the Fulcairn cavalry bearing down, takes flight down a narrow hunting trail. Though reluctant to face a larger force in the narrow confines of the pass, Cathal weighs his advantages. First, having trained with them daily since returning from the lands of Rjurik, he knows the rare doughtiness of his warriors. Second, he reasons that the Black Talons, being a band of heavy infantry coming through an extended forced march will be the far more winded when battle is met. Third are Reynhild and her retainer, Orian. Their wilderness skills and familiarity with the land will be a huge boon in choosing where their fight takes place. Fourth, and perhaps most telling, is the mage, Mara Bersk, whose magic might win them the day on its power alone. With the support of his companions, Cathal orders the advance, leaving three soldiers to guard their horses.

Knowing they are outnumbered more than two to one, Lady Reynhild draws upon her considerable skills as a tracker, and her unknown past as a bandit, to close the gap with the larger band. The Fulcairn soldiers, having made most of their journey ahorse and being the lighter equipped of the two forces, make excellent time and are once again at their quarry’s backs within the day. Reynhild manages to guide her band to a narrow plateau, where they cut off the escape of the Black Talons and make ready for battle.

The Fulcairns, under cover of trees atop a wooded hill, don helm, heft bow and blade, and form ranks. Mara, the mighty mage, readies her staff and prepares to rake the villain and his minions with her eldritch powers. In the short, peaceful lull before the charge, young Cathal clutches Reynhild with a gentle hand.

“I love you sister,” he says, a wolf’s grin splitting his face, “I shall see you when it is done.”

With that, he turns to their band and speaks:

“These foreign villains have killed your people, and raped your land. We will suffer such transgressions no longer! Eyes ever on our prey!”

The ancient war-shout of house Fulcairn echoes from 20 mouths into the thin mountain air, rolling over the Black Talons below. Visors clatter shut, bright blades are thrust skyward, and the warriors, Cathal in their midst, charge valiantly down the hill, toward the larger mercenary force. Just moments before the Fulcairns crash into the shields of their foes, the morning is lit and all ears are pierced with the shriek of burning air as Mara hurls a flickering orb of eldritch fire just behind the Talons’ front line. The orb erupts into concussion and conflagration and men are hurled, smoking, from their feet with screams of unbearable pain. Reynhild and her Ranger, hidden in the trees and flanking the Black Talons send deadly shafts to wreak havoc on those still standing. Cathal and his warriors smash into the scattered lines, hacking and battering at whatever mercenary flesh they may see.

The Talons, blackguards though they be, are no strangers to battle, and even shaken by the unnatural force of Mara’s magic, they counter attack with fury. The battle on the plateau pushes forward and back, neither force giving an inch of ground. Reynhild, from her perch above the melee, makes note that the Awnsheglien, Eldric the Fair is nowhere to be seen among the fray. Ever vigilant, she searches the trees and catches sight of the giant bearing down on the wizard’s position, where she is guarded by three men at arms. Reynhild calls out to Mara and to Cathal to warn of the danger, but finds herself similarly engaged, as three of the Talons ascend toward her through the trees. She feathers one of them with practiced grace, then drops her bow and draws forth her long knives. She calls her great Cairnhound, Callum, to her side and makes ready to fight.

Mara, hearing Lady Reynhild’s warning, shifts her focus to Eldric and his cadre of three mercenaries. Her bodyguards round and charge to meet the villain’s attack, catching the measure of his fury on their shields. Eldric gravely wounds one man in the exchange, but the Fulcairn soldier stands strong despite this and blocks his path to Mara. The wizard rushes down the hill some distance to create space, and begins unleashing her magic once again, bright, living fire searing more mercenaries in the melee.

Cathal, judging Mara’s danger the greatest threat to their victory, rushes like a bolt from Cuiraecen’s fist to engage the Awnsheglien. The two of them clash violently, neither gaining ground, as Cathal shouts all of the rage and frustration of the past month into his enemy’s face. In response, the giant lands a ringing blow on the young lord before being twisted away from him by the tide of battle.

Reynhild and Callum face down their two remaining foes together, darting amongst them with blade and fang as though appendages of a single terrible predator. Reynhild bewilders her foes with speed and pragmatic ferocity, finding one’s back and throat with both of her blades. He spins to the ground in a spatter of hot blood, and her cold rage turns to the last man, Callum snarling at her hip.

Mara, her attention split between the fight on the hill and the one on the plateau, almost fails to notice two Talons rushing from the melee to strike at her. She fills the air with deadly magic, tearing the life from one man with arcane gesture and echoing incantation, but the other bears her fury on his shield and closes too quickly upon her. Luck, however, is with the mage, for Cathal, now separated from Eldric the Fair, has seen the attack coming and rushes past Mara to meet the mercenary mid-stride. Their exchange is abrupt, as Cathal’s greatsword, serpent-like in his hands despite its length, easily passes the Talon’s shield and transfixes the man on its razor point. The young lord pauses for a breath to offer Mara encouragement, then rushes to meet Eldric once again.

The second of Reynhild’s foes proves to be more troublesome than the first, and he defends himself skillfully despite being flanked by the deadly Lady and her mighty hound. Reynhild circles and dances, allowing her opponent no purchase herself. They lock in combat for two long minutes before a darting bite from Callum sinks home, causing the Talon to yelp in surprise and offering Reynhild the opening she needs to sink one of her blades to its hilt through a gap in his armour. The mercenary quakes and rattles his last breath as he sinks to the ground to die. The Lady Reynhild cleans and sheathes her blades, then retrieves her bow to help with the fight on the hill.

On the plateau, the warriors of Fulcairn, who are still outnumbered despite the havoc Mara has wreaked, begin to turn the tide on the Black Talons, and press them sorely. They are filled with the strength of cause and principle, their spirits bright, while the Talons’ will has started to fade.

Meanwhile, Eldric and Cathal have met once again. Eldric knocks the wounded Fulcairn soldier to the ground, but in doing so opens himself to an attack from Lord Fulcairn, who staggers the giant with a resounding stroke of his greatsword. Eldric, incensed, focuses all of his size and dark, divine power on the young lord. Despite his remarkable skill, Cathal is outmatched by the larger, more experienced Awnsheglien, and is knocked senseless to the dirt by a mighty backhanded blow from the hammer-head of Eldric’s war-pick. The Awnsheglien, intoxicated by his triumph, lifts the huge bastard blade in his right hand to run the fallen lord through and steal the strength of his divine blood.

Reynhild, seeing Cathal wounded and about to be slain, nocks an arrow and cries out in fury. Her bowstring snaps and her arrow whistles hungrily toward the giant, its bodkin point piercing the mail on his neck and biting deep into the muscle. The force of the shot knocks Eldric off balance and spoils his strike, but while he spins to face whoever spoiled his victory, the sky blackens, the earth rumbles, and the shadow of his doom falls upon him.

Mara, exhausted from the use of so much arcane power, has finally tapped into the golden strands of energy that thread the earth beneath Wilder’s Gorge. Its voice speaks to her, offering itself to her gladly. She is surrounded by a twisting cloud of magical force in the form of fluttering, golden moths. Her mouth and eyes shine and her voice booms like thunder, reverberating as it breaks over the mountains. A jagged spear of incandescent heat forms in her hands and she hurls it forth with the might of the gods. The Awnsheglien is impaled. Screaming inhumanly as he dies, Eldric’s once beautiful form shrivels and melts into wisps of dark smoke.

Reynhild, her heart threatening to burst with worry, rushes to Cathal’s side and removes his battered helm. Beneath it, the Lord is stunned, but alive, blood running from a gash where the hammer struck. Reynhild sighs with relief as Cathal’s eyes flutter open. She helps him to his feet, and clasps his face between her bloodstained hands, staring through tears into his storm-blue eyes.

“I love you too.” Reynhild whispers, and pulls him close to her, pressing her lips to his. Their embrace lasts for what seems an eternity before they part.

“Let us finish this, my lady.” Cathal breathes, only to her.

They turn to face the battle below them and, with new strength in their hearts, charge forth, shouting in unison:

“EYES EVER ON OUR PREY!”