SESSION 37 RECAP

Cuinn, Mara, and Aerona all return home for the winter. Not long after, to their shock, Adair returns from the forest, ravaged, haggard and wounded, but bearing a trophy-- the head of the Grey Wolf's animal companion. After taking a day to rest and recover, he explains that he was not able to slay the Grey Wolf, but managed to kill his animal companion, and the grief caused the enemy ranger to simply give up. He adds he was able to give Syggi a proper burial. Cuinn thanks him for his bravery and service.

Mara catches a glimpse of a golden moth, and realizes that the caermebhaigl, which she'd thought destroyed, must be replenishing itself. Despite Cuinn's reluctance to return to the Aelvinnwode where twenty Wilders met their end at the hands of the Bladesingers, Mara convinces her to join her in seeking out the source of the caermebhaigl, promising it will make her a match for the Dragon. 

Mara, Cuinn, and Aerona leave for the Aelvinnwode. The trip is mercifully uneventful, though Cuinn is deeply shaken as they pass by the site of both Cathal and Mara's battle against the Bladesingers, and her own. 

Eventually they locate the source of Wilder's Gorge, deep in the ancient and twisted Aelvinnwode-- a beautiful, unearthly golden lake, warm and surrounded by blooming flowers despite winter's onset. A strange, humanlike apparition rises from its waters and addresses Mara by name, thanking her for freeing it from service to man and elf. It is the caermebhaigl somehow made incarnate. Mara entreats it for its aid, stating that she needs its assistance in the wars that will tear the realm asunder. It replies it cares nothing for the petty struggles of human and elfkind. Reluctantly she moves forward to claim it, not wishing their dangerous journey to have been in vain. It accuses her of being the same as all her Fulcarni ancestors, those that hunted and enslaved it for thousands of years, and it attacks them. Mara and Aerona's spells are of limited effectiveness, ricocheting off the apparition and striking Cuinn instead, but luck favours Cuinn-- several unusually lucky arrows strike the being, and it dissipates into the lake. Mara collects some of its vanishing golden essence, knowing it will bolster her magical powers. They glimpse a Bladesinger at the far end of the lake, looking forlorn as the golden moths dissipate, but it soon vanishes.

They ride home. At the Keep, heralds announce the arrival of Count Tychon and Count Ukko for the first meeting of the coalition of an independent Taeghas, and the Fulcairns ride out to greet them. 

The Northron Skein - Part 3

After Fulgrim’s revelation, the Jarls of Hogunmark are speechless. Thorjak immediately performs the transference ritual, passing Freila’s investiture from Fulgrim to Cathal. The Jarls disperse, some in anger, and the Yngvi clan return to Þeothanheall to feast and celebrate Cathal’s quest.

The mood in the hall is dour, but Cathal and Fulgrim encourage the Yngvi to cheer, and soon the place is loud with song and laughter. Cathal leaps up onto a table and leads the warriors in a song, stomping on the table to start a beat.

O Blast my eyes and take my hands

Pour my treasures into the sea

O burn my hall and steal my lands

But leave me with my song and mead

The gods are cruel so many wail

When they are left with nought but need

But no, not I, I never fail

As long as I have song and mead

O honey sweet and voices high

Raised up, raised up though we may bleed

Though mortal fate is that we die

Take heart my friends in song and mead

Dolan catches the eye of an imposing warrioress named Ysgerda and spends some time fretting over her to Cathal. Fulgrim seems happy that some joy has returned to his home, but still retires early. Cathal worries his blood brother may be wearing himself thin with the stress of leadership. He and Dolan accompany Fulgrim to his chamber to have a brief discussion.

Cathal and Fulgrim have a brief discussion about what has transpired. Fulgrim apologizes for springing such a huge responsibility on his blood brother. Cathal voices concern that Fulgrim is alienating his vassals, but Fulgrim assures him that he has everything under control. Cathal leaves to seek out Njorna in order to find a lead on the queen while Dolan returns to the feast.

Cathal finds Njorna sitting apart from the feast, surrounded by a small cadre of young girls in robes. Cathal engages her in conversation, trying to gauge just who the seer is. He is struck not only by her youth; she is younger still than he, but also by her honesty and composure. She speaks to him of Freila’s final days in Veikanger and speaks of how the queen had asked specifically for Cathal. She offers to perform a divination to discover where he should start his search. Cathal agrees.

Njorna’s servants disperse and start to arrange artifacts on a clear space of the floor in a strange pattern. One of them calls to the musicians, who stop their playing mid-song, and upon seeing what Njorna prepares for, begin to play a slow, steady beat. The entire hall has stopped to watch the seer. Njorna kneels upon the floor and begins to mutter in a low, droning voice; the same timbre of ancient Rjuven Cathal heard upon the sea when the Kraken struck, though that voice was not Njorna’s. After a few minutes of chanting, Njorna’s voice changes and she looks to Cathal.

“Seek you, in the east, where at the root of the mountain, the bear meets the thunder. There you will search for a stone. The stone with the eagle and the wolf.”

The message bears some meaning for Cathal. The bear and thunder. A chieftain of the Trygvaar, those vicious clansmen who serve the White Witch, Thorbjorn Thrumrsson, who takes a bear as his sigil, holds lands just east of the Hogun province of Valkenheim. His land abutts the Steps of Kirken, where the thunder god is once said to have fought giants. The stone though, is a mystery. Njorna continues:

“Cathal of the Fulcarni! We will grant you a single question. Ask now, quickly, and we will answer.”

Cathal struggles briefly to find the right thing to ask, but in the end blurts

“How can I save Rjurik and Anuire?”

The voice immediately responds

“You must embrace your family.”

And with that last, cryptic answer, Njorna relents, and slumps to the floor. Cathal moves to aid her. He thanks her for what she has done and lifts her to her feet, bearing her slight frame easily. She asks help to her chamber so she can rest. Cathal obliges, then returns to the hall until the feast winds down.

The next day, Cathal and Dolan ride out from Veikanger with Egil and 50 of Fulgrim’s Huscarls. They make a quick pace, led by the Anuirean horsemen, to the hills of Valkenheim. They pass, uneasy, into the western fringes of the White Witch’s lands, passing ruined huts and abandoned villages, until they follow the old wagon path into a dark wood.

The wood thins into a broad clearing, marked with a tall stake of wood festooned with a stack of human skulls and hung with a huge bearskin. At the center of the clearing is a fortress of wooden palisades, a hall standing above the wall on a stout hill, dirty and plain. Cathal orders the Yngvi to hold their position and rides forward, just out of bow-shot, and shouts

“THORBJORN THRUMRSSON. BEAR LORD, SKULL TAKER! I AM CATHAL FULCAIRN, THE BLACK HOUND OF THE SOUTH. I WOULD TREAT WITH YOU.”

After a moment, a huge and weathered Rjurik warrior appears atop the palisade. Thorbjorn asks Cathal what his business is and after hearing it, allows the Anuirean inside with a token retinue as bodyguard. Cathal agrees and enters the raider’s hall.

Cathal is honest with the Trygvaar, and they speak of Queen Freila. Thorbjorn is surprisingly respectful when he speaks of her; it seems she made a great impression upon him. He says she did in fact travel to Kirken’s Steps. When Cathal mentions the stone, Thorbjorn claims to have it in his possession. He had sent warriors to follow the queen, and they retrieved the artifact after she had found it and left.

They then negotiate for the stone. The Trygvaar either demands an extortionate bounty in trade goods and forty of Cathal’s companions as hostages, or twenty-five of Fulgrim’s best to swell his ranks for a season. Loathe to leave so many of his brother’s warriors in the dubious care of the Trygvaar, Cathal negotiates him down to ten hostages by offering him a chance at the empty seat upon the Jarlsmoot. The Hogunr with Cathal are noticeably troubled by the offer, but Thorbjorn agrees to that, or the bounty of gold and supplies should Cathal fail to convince Prince Fulgrim. Cathal agrees and is given the stone.

Cathal, Dolan, and the Yngvi return to Veikanger. Fulgrim balks at the price demanded by Thorbjorn, but when Cathal tells him the alternatives and reminds him of what could hang in the balance, he relents. He will not have Thrumrsson on the seat, but parts reluctantly with the demanded treasure, nearly a quarter of what remains in the treasury.

The stone, bearing a carved likeness of a winged wolf and covered all over with ancient markings, is inspected and divined by Njorna, who tells Cathal the meaning of the marks, and eventually reveals that the Queen will have been guided south, to the wartorn lands of Rjuvik.

Cathal and Dolan steel themselves once again, and prepare to journey south, across Rjurik. To the storied Taelshore, and the lands of the rumoured Reaver-Queen.

Godkillers

*Ancient Rjuven words combined with runes of old, carved on an ancient stone slab, approximately 1m in height. Most are unintelligible, but some are still whole. A creature with the head of a wolf and the body of an eagle is at the top.*

…it was then that the Godkillers came together… controlling the Northlands from coast to coast…

…hunting down both man and awnshegh, should the blood of the Old Ones course through their veins, to take it for their own… 

…lords they cared not to be, but terror they inspired and they were appeased with kingship…

…they were opposed, but their strength was too great for them to be destroyed…

they journeyed long and hard, to make their mark on unconquered lands…

...continue their reign of fear, and let none escape the reach of the Godkillers.

A Wolf Can Act But Like A Wolf

"Don't move. Just... just stay there for a moment. I want to remember you like this. I want to hold this moment in my heart forever."

Tashairah peered up at Landen, sitting upright in bed, gazing down at her with his heart laid fully bare in his eyes. She supposed she probably did look fetching at this particular moment-- raven waves of hair strewn upon on the pillows, coffee-coloured limbs intertwined with the white wolfskins adorning the bed-- but there was something in his expression that gave her pause. This was not the look of a man who considered her visits to Boeruine a delightful distraction from time to time. No, this had turned into something more, for him.

Fuck, she thought.

She'd glimpsed Lord Landen Tielen on one of her first visits to the Archduke's court. All powerful men and women drew hangers-on, snakes, weasels who spoke charming words, but would sink a dagger between each other's ribs if they thought it would garner them the slightest inkling of their patron's favour. Tashairah had known them all, seen them all, from Basarj to Rjurik to Brechtur, and they were all the same. They could be manipulated and outmaneuvered with a bare minimum of effort. But above that, they were boring. Their schemes and plotting and endless jockeying for power and status bored her.

But those who seek to provide for others, not merely themselves... those rich enough in spirit that they seek to enrich others... aye, those are the interesting ones. Those are the worthwhile ones.

Landen was the second son of House Tielen, one of the most powerful houses in Boeruine. He'd joined the military and achieved some renown as a skilled commander. He'd appeared at the Archduke's court not to kiss any perfumed backsides, but to lobby the Archduke for legal protection for the commoners among his troops. He demanded his unit promote officers on the basis of merit, not noble birth, and the move had proven unpopular with some of the other nobles. Landen wanted the Archduke's guarantee that his talented commoners would be free from the reprisal of the jealous lordlings they advanced past. Oh, the sincerity in his words, tempered with the caution and canniness of a life spent at court. The calm, measured strength in his address to the court.

His looks didn't hurt either, obviously; he cut a fine figure in the Boeruinese colours, his hair sandy-golden, just beginning to silver at the temples, his beard well-kept, and the hilt of his greatsword riding effortlessly astride his broad shoulders.

Landen had watched her sing "The Lay of The Blue Baroness" at a fete for the Archduke's youngest cousin's birthday, and come to think of it, she should have known then and there. Tashairah knew all the ways a man can gaze upon a woman-- as a thing to be coveted, or adored, or possessed, cherished, worshiped, or used-- and she should have known where this would lead. But he had courted her with a gallantry so rare among these northern barbarians, even though she'd, ahem, indicated that such things were not necessary, in the name of expediency. Even the daughter of an emir had appetites that needed urgent slaking, at times.

And now here they were, in his well-appointed tent in a military encampment somewhere near the southern border, and he had to go and make this delightfully unconventional evening-- the bedclothes showed a third groove, where his second lieutenant, a strapping Brechtur axeman, had recently departed-- all serious.

And what will wound this fine man less? If I tell him, quick and clean, that our intentions no longer align? Or if I let him go on believing that they do?

She cupped his chiseled cheek with a bejeweled hand. "Landen," she said, gently, "why so somber?"

"We've been called away. We break camp tomorrow morning. We were marching for the battle at Stormpoint, but new orders came this evening. Some at the Capital fear Baroness Fulcairn's victory in Bayside has emboldened her, and she may turn her eyes to Portage next. Just a precaution, they said."

Tashairah tried not to smirk with glee at this. Landen's gaze was deadly serious, apprehensive even; she tried to don an appropriate visage to match.

"I've heard things about her, Tash, about the Wilders. Disturbing things. Everyone knows the Witch of Wilder's Gorge serves her, the one who can hurl fire. But they say the Baroness commanded the trees of Wilder's Gorge itself to kill Boeruine soldiers. They say she tore the limbs from their corpses with her bare hands and tossed them into the forest to appease its hungry spirits."

Tashairah couldn't help but chuckle at that. "Oh come now, darling, the Wilders are delightful. They breed the dearest puppies you've ever seen in your life. And Mara is a dear friend-- did you know she conjured me a flower last time I saw her? I adore Cathal; I was hoping to see him on my way south, in fact, but I hear he has since left. As for Baroness Cuinn, well, I'm fairly certain she doesn't care for me, but I doubt she's as bad as all that--"

"You know them?"

Aye, she did indeed. She'd done her best to help them reach the Archduke, though in her heart she'd known that to be an ill-brokered match; the freedom-loving Wilders would love servitude to the Archduke no more than servitude to Avan. She truly had been hoping to pass through on her way south, but with Cathal gone and Cuinn alone in charge, she had a feeling she would be less than welcome, and Tashairah al-Muhtadim did not a tarry a moment longer than necessary in a place she was not wanted.

"Aye, I performed at the great tourney Cathal held to celebrate his ascension to the head of the House. They were fine hosts, and good folk."

"Truly? Even the Baroness? Tash, they say she is a killer, that she--"

She held up a hand; the Ariyan star-ruby upon it glittered in the lantern light. "Cuinn Fulcairn is a dangerous woman, of that I have no doubt. But I believe she is only dangerous in defense of herself or her own. I do not think her a wanton killer, nor one who takes pleasure in the kill. I am certain that if a foe draws her ire, it is because they provoked it. Perhaps even the Archduke best take note of that." He opened his mouth to defend his liege, and she continued unabated. "Regardless. If I didn't know better, I'd say the fearless Lord Tielen is speaking with dread of some minor noble from an unremarkable wooded armpit of the Empire! Why don't we instead turn our attentions to more pleasant matters." And she ran her hand down the taut muscles of his belly.

Landen caught her wrist, and she stopped cold. "Tashairah, I'm serious. I have an ill feeling about this. So... I have to ask you something." And his gaze was deadly earnest, and she knew what was coming next, and the urge to grab her katar and slash her way out of the tent's canvas wall was near-unbearable.

He pressed something heavy and cold into her palm-- it was his house's signet ring, adorned with the ram of House Tielen. "I... I don't know how this is done by the customs of your people. But... when I return from Taeghas... I would ask for your hand."

The look in Landen's grey eyes rent her heart. Love, fear, a hope that scarcely allowed itself to exist. And for a damnable, Avani-forsaken moment... Tashairah found herself considering it. What if she said yes? What if she gave up her years of glorious, carefree gallivanting across the realms, going wherever and whenever it suit her? What if she committed herself not to adventure and song, but to a man, their life, their family? And what better man could there be? Landen would fill her days with laughter and her nights with passion; he would give her anything he craved, he would treat her as an equal in the running of his household. As a second son, the politics of Boeruine would surely only intrude into their lives as much as she allowed them. And somewhere in her heart, she felt... a great fatigue. It had been so long since she had called anywhere home, truly. Basarj was home no longer. Maybe... what if this man became her home? What if the life they made together became her home?

And to her shock, she who thought human nature no longer held any surprises for, she found herself lost in a reverie of this life, consumed by it, all laid out in glorious crystalline detail, as they say one's life flashes before one's eyes in the seconds before one's death. Dining across from him in their great hall, laughing over the political quibbles of the day. Their children's first steps. Grey hair and wrinkles. Hand in hand, together, through the long walk into the twilight of life.

But even as it swelled into glorious life in her mind's eye, so she felt the arcs of their two separate destinies, pulling them inexorably in two different directions. Gently, but firmly, she tucked the signet back into his hand.

"Landen. My darling. They say men on the eve of battle are known to make hasty promises they live to regret. Go to Portage. Do what must be done. Then return to Boeruine, and we will discuss this further, I promise. Alright?"

He said nothing, and for a moment his handsome face turned unreadable. "I'm sorry, Tash. I... I didn't mean to force the issue, nor to pressure you unduly with the timing of this. You're right, of course. We'll talk more when I return."

She could sense the mood had shifted precipitously. Perhaps a different strategy should be employed now. She curled up against his back, her bare skin against his, and ran her fingertips through his hair. He leaned into her touch, relaxed a bit. She hummed a tune softly-- a Basarji lullaby-- and let the subtle sorceries of her voice infuse it. Soon his breathing came deep and regular.

I'm sorry, Landen, she thought, a pang of genuine regret spearing her heart as she dressed quickly and made a hasty exit as his gentle snores filled the tent. As my people say, a wolf can act but like a wolf.

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

On the smoldering remains of the battlefield, something moves, something that used to be a man. Its limbs twitch a little. A few breaths rasp through its ruined airways.

A clubbed, burned appendage twitches-- a ghastly lobster-claw of flesh where once there had been fingers. It had instinctively reached up to shield itself with this hand when the lightning struck. It had been at the very epicenter of the divine tempest. Moments after that, the storm of thunder had been replaced with a storm of ice.

Something glints on the twisted claw of burned meat. It had been gold at one point, but now it is burned, fused into the flesh.

A liquid leaks from the thing's ruined face. It could be tears, or any number of other effluvium.

The thing's tortured breaths wheeze and rasp for a while yet, then are still.

Trez's Mini Art Dump

Because they look like garbage on Instagram.

Adair and Asha try and find the Boeruinese invasion force

The Keep

The Battle of Bayside

Cuinn and Varyan

In the Beginning

“Oh blow it out your arse, Nieve. You’re not Mother.”
Donele sighs in exasperation. Her eldest - clench-fisted, shaking with controlled rage - takes several deep breaths before she responds.

“I’m glad I’m not, by Haelyn’s mercy. ”

Donele tuts.

“If I were your mother, you would be doing something useful with your time. You’re old enough to be doing your share rather than playing royal court, swanning about in fancy dress.” 

Nieve's criticism is punctuated with the jabs of her index finger. 

“Now Nieve,” Donele intercedes as her youngest sputters, “be kind to your sister. Just because Aerona takes her elocution and dance lessons more seriously than mathematics does not mean she wastes her time. Marrying well could bolster our family greatly.”

“With Da and Daene away... I just want to see all my siblings fulfill their potential. My duty has always been to serve the Fulcairns as they see fit. I would not see my siblings neglected, or their lives half-lived because virtue of birth has handed this right to me. ”

Donele softens, but Aerona - a trembling mass of tangerine curls in pink silk - makes a well-heeled turn and storms out of the hall, each step a billowing wave of fabric. Ribbons snap as she bodily throws open the door.

“Aerona - wait!”

“Oh Haelyn help me! Don’t chase her Mother, it will only…”

The rest is lost. Aerona’s face is hot and she’s shaking but she keeps moving, head down, each stomp down the hill toward the Little Bowstring a reproach. She smooths her hands over wet cheeks, kicks off her mules (stopping of course to retain them in her little silk bag), and marches north along the river.

It’s summer in Wilders Gorge and the heavy hum of the dragonflies and the gentle slosh of the river sing merrily - juxtaposing her dark mood. The air is thick with humidity, and the grass beneath her feet is verdant and dewy. A castigated rose, she walks on.

The breeze catches the layers of her gown’s full skirt as she descends into the Cradle much later. Her face is raw. It’s been hours out in the sun without a hat to protect pale skin. Along the southern edge of farmland a kindly matron beckons to Aerona from her doorway and treats the girl’s scorched forehead, nose and cheeks with a cooling balm. The matron, Paeghan is bemused by Aerona’s self-inflicted condition, and welcomes the folly of youth into her home. Her own husband is gone away, and the youngest is not yet out of nappies, so the passionate chatter of her guest brings an air of festivity to the austere kitchen.

“What was so urgent you left home so ill-prepared, my darling?”

The salve is thick and pungent; Aerona winces.

“I’m just heading to the Northern Woods to meet my brother - I need his advice urgently.”

“Oh? What troubles you? Perhaps I may offer council. I’ve always had a practical word for any who would hear it.”

“I’m sorry but I cannot - it’s too important. Only my brother knows me well enough to understand how to answer. It is rather personal in nature.”

“Well if you’re going on, take my hat - I’ve just given it new ribbon.”

“Oh I couldn’t possibly - you’ve already been far too kind.”

Paeghan only smiles, shakes her head, and sees the young maid off again. The isolated puff of blush silk slowly diminishes among the flowering orchards, and she watches it with the other women until it disappears over the hill.

Adair will be in the Aelvinnwode today; another season hence he may join the others beneath the banner of the Khoriens but for now he secures the border of the Gorge. It’s early afternoon by the time Aerona crosses the Bowstring and heads north toward the Cradlewood. The salve has helped, but she is leery of staying out in the sun - she keeps to the shade of the trees instead of walking in the open.

The rain starts just as she reaches the heart of the Cradlewood. Worried for her dress, she shelters beneath the heavy canopy of yew, intent on waiting out the summer storm.

The leaves of the yew susurrus and tremble from the wind which now howls through the valley. The rain drops streak diagonally, and a black stormhead dominates the sky. Aerona begins to panic - she knows that lighting will kill a man if it hits the tree he shelters himself beneath, but is equally likely to strike an object alone upon an open space. She cannot decide whether to stay or run. Hot tears join the raindrops upon her cheeks and she wails in adolescent indecision.

The first crack of thunder drowns out her cries, the lightning blinding her. There is no time to count between strike and peal - Spears of the Storm Lord strike the valley around her, one after another after another. For a breath there is silence and Aerona dares to stand. The instant she is on her feet, the entire world goes white.

She can’t breath - there is a terrible ache within her breast and the air is heavy with char and ozone. She struggles to free herself from the fallen branches which catch her dress and endeavor to pin her to the sodden earth. Motes dance in front of her eyes and her hearing seems to be returning - although with a consistent low buzz she hopes will pass. Before her, a sight like none other

A great old pine - wider and taller and nobler than its neighbours - has been split neatly in twain, its exposed flesh blacked and smoking but still held together by four feet of whole trunk at its base. Wedged perfectly into the cleft of the tree is something which flashes gold and red in the soft light. Receding clouds allow the late sun to break through, and Aerona gasps to see a bronze sword - pitted and in some places melted - yet whole, its hilt set with a perfect round ruby.

Hidden by the dense pine needles, Aerona wondered for how long this treasure had slept within the tree, and who had left it so embedded. Without thinking, Aerona stepped forward and took the proferred hilt into her hand. It was searing to the touch but she found she could not drop it. The rain had slowed to a misting, but it hissed at it hit the blade. Aerona clenched her teath, but the pain did not come. Instead she felt what could only be described as divine ecstacy.

Face flushed, she felt strong. Aerona felt fierce, she felt wrath,she felt wave upon wave of emotions unknown to her crashing into her body. There was an electric energy which coursed through her now. The rain itself now steamed around her, as if her body temperature had risen to meet that of the sword.

Aerona could taste the copper and iron of blood in her mouth - her heart thrummed a battle song against her ribs. She felt invicible and true - Aerona felt the power of Purpose. She felt the Call. She had been a girl mere moments ago, but in that instant she pledged her life to Cuiraécen. Aerona knew without knowing that the storm had been searching for her. She knelt before the split tree, and she prayed to the God of War for the first time. The words came easily. They had been spoken for centuries, in every manner of way - sometimes voiced only with the heart.

“Storm Lord! I, the ignorant, heed Your call. Greatest of Warriors, You have summoned one who is unworthy - but who shall become Glorious in your sight.”
“This I pledge in your name: My shield will shelter the weak. My sword shall strike down the wicked. I will honor Nesirie and Haelyn. Cuiraécen, I swear myself to your service. My arm is Your arm, my heart Your heart, my life Yours to spend or save.”

__________________

Later, it was Adair who found the tree. He considered the scene carefully, discerning its meaning. Aerona, brash slip of a thing, was easy to track. She had never been gifted with subtlety. He positioned the fallen branches just so, and cleared the signs of her from the undergrowth. He would need a horse or two to hide her tracks outside the Cradle - but he knew where a pair of mules who were born with the hearts of chargers were stabled.

Sadness and pride in equal measure swelled the young ranger’s heart.

“Haelyn, teach Your Son mercy, that He might send my sister home once more.”

Miracle of the Red Stag

The Red Stag was quiet in the early morning hours. It had survived the liberation of Portage with a few exterior scars, but the interior had been starkly improved by the ejection of the Boeruinese.

Cedric, though tired, eagerly bussed what remained of the previous evening’s tankards while Trevard’s lively sweeping made quick work of the floors.

The pair were enjoying some tea when the Shield Sister entered the pub. She was dressed to march with the Wilder troops for home - resplendent in polished plate beneath the quilted tabard of Cuiraécen. Her white plumed helmet was held carelessly beneath her right arm.

“Master Cedric, young Master Trevard, I apologize if I am interrupting - but it was important that I come to see you today.”

The Shield Sister placed her helmet on the table closest to her, and gestured to Trevard, her hands outstretched, palms up.

“ If you would act as my squire a moment, Trevard, I need my arms free.”

The boy rushed to her aid.

“I owe you an apology, Cedric. When first we met it was imperative that the Boeruinese not suspect us. I hope you can forgive my ignoring things so long - it means you have suffered unduly.”

Freed from her gauntlets, vambraces and couters, she thanked her temporary squire, who, taking his role most seriously, laid out her armor pieces in an orderly fashion next to her helm.

Cedric himself had not moved from his chair. He watched the Priestess warily - torn between awe and fear. His eyes widened and a small whimper escaped when she knelt at his feet and rolled up the sleeves of her gambeson.

“Please,” Aerona said, “I wish only to ease the wound inflicted upon you by the occupiers. I will not if you object, but Countess Cuinn cannot speak but a fond word about yourself and young Master Trevard, and I would repay all your kindnesses.”

He nodded.

Aerona revealed from beneath Cuiraécen’s tabard his symbol: a silver bolt and longsword crossed like bones on a silver chain. She placed her hands upon Cedric’s knee and ankle, her grip tight enough for him to yelp.

“Cuiraécen, Learned Son, He who sat at the feet of Nesirie, through Your servant channel Your cleansing might.”

The healing of a Priest of Cuiraécen is not often gentle, save for those young or infirm, for whom he shows mercy. The Storm Lord has little use for subtlety, and when a man needs to throw himself once more into the breach, time is of the essence. Bones snap back into place; tendons, muscles and ligaments are rebuked for having ever been unaligned.

Cedric thrashed and bucked, his teeth clenched hard enough to clack and grind audibly. Aerona’s grip held. His hip, knee, and ankle untwisted - muscles and bone moving unsettlingly beneath his skin. He almost passed out, but euphoria rushed in as the pain ended. He collapsed in the chair, clutching his leg and panting hard. The Priestess continued on.

“Send not your Spear Brother into the fray unarmed, lest he be cut down, for he is Your kin. Cuiraécen, grant Your warrior unwavering courage, so that we might drive back the usurpers of Your name.”

Warmth and something akin to confidence suffused Cedric now - even the memory of his pain was dulled. He rose out of the chair unsteadily, but his first steps were sure. Trevard clapped in delight to see that he no longer limped.

Aerona nodded, content that his leg seemed to have healed neatly. Cedric kept his distance as Trevard refastened all the accoutrements of her harness, but his eyes were filled with tears.

“Never, my Lady, have I ever thought I would see all the wonders these eyes have seen these past weeks. The Countess and Lady Mara and now this - it is almost too much for the old heart to take.”

“Take heart, Cedric. The Wilders march for honor and glory beneath the Shield of Cuiraécen - we war to free Taeghas from her shackles, not to oppress her people. The Spear of the War God is never to be used to upon the meek or defenceless, for to do so would dishonor him, and bring with the it the Judgment of Haelyn.”

She nodded as if this was at all comforting. Cedric only cowered before the ginger giantess adorned in plate that towered over him. Helmeted, she easily was a foot taller than the top of the door. Only after she ducked to exit and has disappeared, and the Wilders themselves had long departed, did Cedric relax enough to cherish his miracle.

Trevard, however, could not wait for the Countess and her friends to return to the free city of Portage.

The Northron Skein - Part 2

Dolan and Cathal sail to the shore of Njorldar with the band of Nomads from the Gautrakka clan. The nomads guide them through the tundra and taiga, leading them to the walls of Aaldvika. The nomads depart; Cathal and Dolan find lodgings in the city.

The next morning, the two of them go to the market at the city’s southern gate. There they search for a caravan to join on the road to Veikanger, the greatest city of Hogunmark, and the Yngvi’s seat of power. They have no luck for most of the morning, until an old man named Magnus, travelling with his grandson Wulfhere, offers a spot on his cart for the two of them. Magnus refuses payment, so Cathal vows to protect them in exchange, giving his name as Hakon Hakonsson. He introduces Dolan, much to the man-at-arms’ chagrin, as a mute named Dolf. Dolan, though he is learning the language, still has an atrocious accent, and Cathal believes discretion is best until they reach Veikanger.

On the road through the great northern forest, Magnus and Cathal speak of a number of things. Magnus tells Cathal that Wulfhere’s parents and siblings perished in a hall-fire, and they two are all that remains of the family. They make for a hamlet not far from Veikanger, where a friend of Magnus’ has offered him land to settle an old debt. Cathal asks about the unrest he and Dolan witnessed or heard tell of elsewhere in Rjurik. Magnus is surprised to hear of Jankaping, but says Hogunmark is uneasy as well, if still relatively peaceful. Cathal asks of news out of Veikanger, and Magnus says the city is quiet, and the Lord’s Hall is in mourning, though for what, nobody outside knows.

A day or so outside of Magnus’ hamlet, they find the road blocked by a large, fallen tree. Cathal and Dolan collect their arms. Cathal tells Magnus and Wulfhere to hide among the piles of furs in the cart-bed. Sure enough, a ragged band of outlaws, led by a scarred and weathered man, steps out of the tangled woods. They demand payment for passage. Dolan whispers to Cathal in Anuirean that he has spotted a small number of archers flanking them in the woods. Cathal, though sure he and Dolan could make short work of the bandits, is loath to place Magnus and his grandson in danger. He haggles for a moment with the bandits’ leader, worried that eagerness to comply could be interpreted as an attempt to hide greater wealth. The bandit offers to waive the fee in exchange for the sword Cathal took from the Fulcairn hoard, miraculously retained after the wreck of the Anora. Cathal refuses, and pays the toll in full. The bandits prove reasonable, remove the roadblock, and let them pass with no further issue.

They reach Magnus’ hamlet, and to thank Cathal and Dolan for paying off the bandits and saving he and his grandson, Magnus offers to pay for their lodgings at the local inn before leaving to get his new home in order. He will not take no for an answer, so Cathal and Dolan head to their lodgings, asking Magnus to join them later for supper.

They share a simple but satisfying meal, and Cathal reveals his true identity to Magnus. Magnus had been aware Cathal was lying, and forgives him for it. Cathal explains that he is a close friend to Fulgrim of the Yngvi, and that in return for Magnus’ unfailing decency, he and Wulfhere would be well provided for. They part amicably. Cathal and Dolan rise the next morning and are given a pack of supplies by the barmaid. They leave before mid-morn and make way to Veikanger.

Upon reaching Veikanger, Cathal is nearly overwhelmed with relief from a homesickness he had not realized he felt. The city is rustically beautiful. Where Tariene had been pastoral and decorous, alight with vibrant pennons and banners, Veikanger is a city and a forest both, gold and red with the autumn leaves of birch and maple, green with the needles of spruce and fir. Its wooden houses and buildings are festooned with carvings, each beam a work of art unto itself. It radiates from a high, wooded hill, dotted with waterfalls and lined with fast-flowing streams. Atop the central mound, Þeotanheall,  the cyclopean manse of the Yngvi, rises defiantly out of the canopy and into the clear autumn sky, its central support beam jutting from either end, capped at each with a proud, bronze, wolf’s head.

The city itself is more somber than Cathal remembers, its people quiet and insular. Some sorrow has them in its grasp. He and Dolan climb the spiraling path to Þeotanhall’s gate, whereupon they meet a pair of Yngvi huscarls standing guard. The older one leans sleepily against his spear, while the younger steps sternly forward, demanding their names. Cathal ignores him and calls out, cheerfully and vulgarly, to Fulgrim. “STOP POLISHING YOUR BALLS AND COME TO THE GATE, YOU LAZY OROG’S FART.”

The younger huscarl is somewhat angered by Cathal’s apparent lack of respect, but the other warrior steps in before things escalate. His name is Egil, and he is a long-time friend of both Fulgrim and Cathal. He recognizes the Fulcairn and the two embrace, sharing greetings. Cathal introduces Dolan as a great warrior and friend in his own right, and asks audience with Fulgrim. Egil leads them into the hall and calls for the prince.

When Fulgrim appears, he looks almost a ghost. His eyes sag, his skin is pale, and his muscles are leaner than they were the summer of the Wilder Tourney. Nevertheless, he welcomes Cathal with great warmth, embracing his erstwhile brother and proclaiming joy that the anuirean has come north again. He leads Cathal and Dolan from the great hall to his inner chambers. As they pass through the rooms, they meet a darkly beautiful woman in robes and furs, necklaced with bones, eyes shaded. Cathal offers a jest in greeting, and is troubled when Fulgrim admonishes him for it. The woman is a druid, her name Njorna. Cathal apologizes, but wonders when the queen’s hall became so serious.

When they reach Fulgrim’s rooms, Cathal asks Dolan to remain outside for a time while he and Fulgrim speak. Fulgrim tells Cathal he is relieved to have someone he can be totally honest with, and begins to speak of what befell Queen Freila. A few years past, she had begun to have visions, seemingly prophetic. She took Njorna into her service as a personal seer, and spent much time with the druidess attempting to discern the meaning of her dreams. She spoke of the prophesies of Wjulf, the first Yngvi, and showed great worry. Then, one day, months ago, she suddenly departed, alone, saying only she went on a quest. She had disappeared, and the jarls of Hogunmark called a moot to determine the land's future. Fulgrim asks Dolan to come back in, and tells them their arrival is uncanny, as the moot is scheduled for the following day. The three of them discuss the moot, Cathal imploring Fulgrim not to give up his mother for dead. They disperse, a small feast is held in Cathal’s honour, and they retire for the night.

The next day, the moot gathers. It is held on a broad stone circle, ringed with stone seats, and carved with runes and knots, below Þeotanheall. City-folk and concerned travellers, all Rjuven, gather around to listen while Jarls from every corner of Hogunmark take their places and prepare to speak. Cathal recognizes many; Jarl Heimdjor, his clan long an ally to the Yngvi; Jarl Jarvyll, long their rival; Jarl Gautrakka, whose kinsmen led Cathal and Dolan through Njorldar, and last Jarl Rolulf, whose son once attempted to steal Cathal’s bloodline and now feeds the roots of Valkenheim. The others he had had rare occasion to meet; Otryff, Hjarni, Halskorrik, and Aegilsgaard. A wizened and powerful druid named Thorjak, who Cathal knows and likes well, stands by, overseeing the discussion. A stone seat stands empty for the lost clan of the Trygvaar, who now fight under the banner of the White Witch.

Before proceedings begin, Cathal approaches Jarl Gautrakka to offer thanks for the aid of his kinfolk, particularly praising Alfhilde. Gautrakka is delighted to hear the old woman still lives, and appreciates Cathal’s thanks. The Jarls take their places, and Fulgrim steps forward to talk.

The prince puts on a brave, almost quarrelsome front, threatening retribution for any who attempt to take advantage of his house. He reiterates that Freila was alive when last he saw her, and that he still held leadership of Hogunmark by law.

Jarl Jarvyll stepped up next, explaining that the queen is too long absent, and a new monarch must be chosen, lest Hogunmark tumble into chaos like the rest of Rjurik. He respectfully but strongly condemns Fulgrim for stalling.

Cathal steps forward from the crowd, the right being his as a thegn of the kingdom. He first asserts his right to be among them, allowing that he is not Rjuven by birth but has been made so by honour, blade, and blood. He then offers his experience among the Anuirean court to lend credence to his following council. He asks Jarvyll to leave off the choosing of a new monarch until the spring, warning that the upheaval such a transition could cause might break an already unstable kingdom, at a time when cohesion was most critical, before the long want of winter.

Rolulf spits venom at Cathal, claiming he is not Rjuven, he knows not their ways. He says he is but a boy with no real wisdom to offer the lords of Hogunmark.

Cathal acknowledges the bad blood between Rolulf and he, but names the Jarl his neighbor. He says that when calamity looms, Rolulf is as much his kin as any Hogunr. He then speaks to the battles he has fought in the eastern forests against the beasts of the Blood Skull Barony, of dealing with the emperor and the archduke in Anuire, of contending with monsters and awnsheghlien. He once again implores the moot to wait until spring to choose a new leader. He then declares that he will undertake a quest to find queen Freila, though winter howls near, and he will return her to Veikanger, dead or alive.  Jarvyll challenges him, saying he speaks for Fulgrim because Fulgrim cannot, and that his outbursts mark him an impatient boy. Cathal replies “Do we Rjuven not desire this of our thegns? Boldness of voice and action?” and turns on his heel, putting his back to Jarvyll. He strides off of the platform to take his place behind Fulgrim. The seer, Njorna, stands silent beside him.

Jarl Heimdjor steps forward next. He speaks calmly, with wisdom and strength. He councils patience and prudence, and greatly reminds Cathal of Gaelin Isilvere. He does, however, turn to Fulgrim and demand that a decision of some kind be made, that Hogunmark needs to be ruled.

The prince once again takes the centre of the circle. He stands firm and speaks proudly. He states that he will rule in Freila’s stead until a vote can be held in the spring, and reveals that she divested the whole strength of her bloodline to him before she departed. The moot is struck dumb by this revelation. The passing of blood is unheard of in Rjurikan custom, and many Jarls are angered by Fulgrim’s revelation. Fulgrim raises a hand and speaks further, his voice thunder splitting the gusts of dissension. He proclaims that he will release his mother’s strength into Cathal, merely as a vessel to hold it, so no attempt on his life can claim the power of the Yngvi, and should Cathal be slain the power will simply return to the earth, and cannot be claimed by any bloodthief. Cathal is taken aback, and becomes fraught with anxiety. His past failures give him pause to accept such responsibility, but he steps forward reluctantly.

The druid Thorjak performs the ritual on the spot, before all of those gathered. Cathal’s strength is not augmented, he serves merely as a container for Freila’s power. Fulgrim then puts voice to his decision: Cathal will go forth into the wild, into winter, to seek Queen Freila. Should he not find her, should he return with her corpse, or should he not return at all, come spring, the Crown of Hogunmark will pass to its next monarch, whoever that may be.

SESSION 36 RECAP

The battle for Portage is won, and the Wilders and their Portagean allies are triumphant; the Boeruinese forces retreat. Cuinn seeks out Milena's second-in-command, and a man named Sir Valin steps forward. Cuinn asks what he would have done with Khorien; he shrugs and says the more important matter is to determine who will replace him.

The Fulcairns barely stop to catch their breaths; they gather a handful of soldiers and advance on Portage's keep to apprehend Geoffrey Khorien. They meet little resistance; Khorien is in the throne room. Cuinn entreats him to stand down; he refuses, sipping wine from a decanter, and he sneers at her, stating that the Fulcairns, too, had been allied with Boeruine. At the surprised looks from the Wilders and Portageans, she calmly agrees, stating Boeruine had indeed appealed to them, but in the end they had decided that independence was not worth the price of betraying the other houses of Taeghas, nor of exchanging the Imperial yoke for the Boeruinese, and denied him, proving their allegiance with swords and blood. Cuinn then baits him, referring to his tantrum at the Council of Stormpoint and the rejection of his claim by the noble Houses, combined with his defeat at the hands of the Fulcairns and his own people; goaded, he has another outburst, angrily yelling that the seat was his by right, and that he alone will dictate what happens next. Cuinn realizes what is happening too late-- Khorien has taken his own life by the poison in the wineglass. She urges Aerona to reach him and magically cure the poison. They rush forward, but one of Khorien's bodyguards obeys his master's orders and runs him through before they can reach him.

They begin the search for Khorien's wife and child, and make a sad discovery indeed-- Lady Khorien and the child are also dead, though at whose hand they cannot be certain. Cuinn is horrified and saddened, but Sir Valin is moved to tears. They promise to reconvene on the morrow, and leave him alone with his grief.

Aerona tends to the wounded of both Portage and Wilder's Gorge, and Mara happily reunites with the young mage Dorian, thanking him for his valor.

The next morning, they meet with Sir Valin and remind him of their agreement with Milena-- that they would help the Portageans drive out Boeruine if they, and their newly chosen leader, back the Fulcairns in their quest for the rulership of an independent Taeghas. Sir Valin states that he had many disagreements with Milena, including many concerning her distaste for nobles, and then reveals that he is in fact Sir Valin of the exiled House Ukko, one-time rulers of Portage. He states he would bid for the countship of Portage, if the people and the land itself would have him. Together, the Fulcairns and Sir Valin address the gathered people and soldiers. Aerona tells a parable of Cuiraecen, and bids the people choose their ruler accordingly; Cuinn affirms her support of Valin. Valin puts himself forward, on the grounds that the investiture succeeds and that the people and land accept him. The ceremony is held; according to tradition, a dead branch from a Portagean rosebush is given to him. It blooms, showing that the land itself has chosen him. Ukko moves that their newly forged coalition be a union of equals, and bestows the title Countess on Cuinn. House Fulcairn pledges its support to the newly re-established House Ukko of Portage, Valin reciprocates, and they hail the cheering crowds together.

Cuinn decides to leave for Bayside to attempt to solidify its membership in their newly minted coalition, and possibly give the coalition's backing to one of the two noble Houses who seem most likely to assume leadership. She asks Sir Valin to send a representative for Bayside; he sends his sister, the scholarly Lypilla. Cuinn, Lypilla, and a bodyguard leave for Bayside.

Mara and Dorian leave for the cave that contains the magical Source of Portage. They carefully edge their way down the cliffside to reach the spectacular seaside formation, and settle in for a long winter's sojourn as Mara reclaims its magic.

Aerona leads the Wilder armies back to Fulcairn Keep; it is a difficult winter journey, but the warriors' spirits are high.

Cuinn and Lypilla arrive in Bayside and meet with Lord Erendus Tychon and Lady Muriella Oswin. Cuinn attempts to assess both of them as potential rulers. Tychon is unequivocally in support of independence, wishing to drive the Avanese out at all costs and send a strong message to both the Empire and Boeruine, whereas Oswin favours a more temperate approach, seeking non-martial solutions if possible. Cuinn, finding much to admire in both claimants, and not wishing to leave the sort of dangerous power vacuum that allowed both Thaliere and Caron Duene to be installed, somewhat hesitantly decides that the coalition will back Tychon's claim. 

On War (by the Khinasi poet Tashairah)

On War
by the Khinasi poet Tashairah


All the great poets sing of war.

They sing of the trumpet's silver-throated clarion, calling men to glory.
They sing of the emir's banner, streaming scarlet and violet in the dawn sky.
They sing of breastplates buffed to a mirror shine, and helms topped with wide horsehair plumes.
They sing of steeds, destriers broad as barges, roan and black and dappled, dauntless and bold.
They sing of the glorious chime of scimitar against longsword, music for the ears of Khirdai.
They sing of gallant knights in a row, tabards a blaze of colour, a stalwart bulwark against the forces of evil.
They sing of driving back the hated invaders, reclaiming our glorious birthright.
They sing of hard-won coffers of spoils, spilling glitter onto dusty tent floors.

I will not sing of these things.

I will sing of the carrion birds circling.
I will sing of a boy, scarce old enough to shave the thin down from his cheeks, crying for his mother
as his lifeblood leaks into the dust.
I will sing of digging tiny graves
just big enough to hold tiny babes.

Wjulf’s Seven Prophecies

From the mouth of Halder Aldisson, skald of the Yngvi:

In the years following the great battle, the Anuirean man Roele sought to build an empire in the south. Roele’s ambition knew no bounds, and soon his eye turned northward. His soft soldiers, dependent on their metal armors, were no match for the Rjurik warriors. But sadly, his soft words conquered many Rjurik minds. Thus it came to pass that the Taelshore domains freely joined the Anuirean Empire a mere quarter-century after winning their independence from the evil of Azrai. Some Rjurik, however, refused to bow to Anuirean domination.

One man rose to the challenge of uniting the twelve disparate clans. Wjulf, jarl of the Yngvi clan, is said to have had the doom of true fate. A hero of Deismaar, he survived both that great battle and the Anuirean War of Empire to lead his clan to the freedom of the frontier lands.

Respecting Wjulf’s renowned military prowess and the honor he had brought to his clan at Deismaar,
they elected him their “king”— with the understanding that each jarl would retain a significant amount of autonomy and rule his own clan. Thus, 34 years after Erik’s ascension (34 HC), Hogunmark was founded. Under King Wjulf’s command, the ancestors drove back the orog threat and forced the elves to retreat.

On his deathbed, King Wjulf experienced many strange dreams. In his final hour, he gathered his kinsmen around him. He told them that Erik had shown him the future and whispered these words in his ear:

The land will choose the man who is not;
Twelve shall become two.
The wolves will fight among themselves
and slay the weakest of the pack.
The land shall multiply;
The river divide.
A bitter foe turns friend.
And one emerges from chaos whose light chases
away the shadows.

These words became known as Wjulf’s Seven Prophecies.

The Red Stag Inn, A Few Days Before the Battle

"Hey, half-wit! Watch your gods-damned elbow. If you spill my ale again, I'll knock the remaining portion of your addled brains out your thick skull."

Trevard didn't completely understand all the words the man in the lion shirt said, but he knew what the tone meant, and he reflexively cringed, dropping his broom's handle and bringing up both his stout forearms to protect his head. The broom clattered to the floor. Cedric saw what was happening and stepped around the bar. His gentle hand fell on Trevard's shoulder. "Easy now, then. Trev here didn't mean any harm. He works hard and he's a good lad. If he spilled any of your ale, I'll be more than happy to refill it." He patted Trevard's arm and bent to pick up the broom, tucking its haft into his hand. "Why don't you go sweep around the back corner, there's a good lad."

Trevard could see in Cedric's eyes and stance that he was not at ease. He hadn't been since the lion-shirt men had come to the town, but it had gotten worse when a group of the lion-shirt men had come to the inn and hit him with their fists and the flats of their swords. Cedric limped now. No one was at ease these days. Lion-shirt men usually didn't come to Cedric's inn. Usually only the rose shirt men, who were mostly nice to him, who spoke to him kindly and laughed with Cedric and clapped him on the back. These ones were tense and mean. Something was going to happen, something bad. Everyone was worried and scared, and they were trying to hide being worried and scared by being mean. Trevard knew all about people like that. Usually Cedric protected him from them. No one had ever been as nice to him as Cedric. He gave him good bread and stew and let him sleep in a warm, dry cubby next to the root cellar, in exchange for sweeping the inn's wooden floor.

He tucked his head down and shuffled to the back, dark corner, busying himself by sweeping up the dirt and grime of the many tramping clomping metal and leather boots, trying to make himself invisible. The back corner of the inn was a good place to be invisible. It caught most of the warmth of the hearth, but the L-shaped corner wall and the posts that held up the roof blocked much of the light. There were barrels and buckets piled high against the back wall. Trevard felt safe here and often came here when the noise and crowds became too much for him.

The lady was also here. She was trying to be invisible too. She had been here for almost a moon's full turn. Cedric let her sleep in the root cellar on a pile of hay, so they were almost bunk mates. But she didn't sleep much. When they passed each other in the inn, she didn't speak, but made room for him if he was carrying something heavy; she never bothered or yelled at him. Sometimes she sat in the back of the inn in the dark, eating bread or stew very slowly. Sometimes at night she climbed out a window, climbed all the way up to the roof of the inn and crouched there, watching. She was very quiet, but Trevard loved the inn more than almost anything, and knew the sound of each creaky floorboard and roof beam. Lots of the other people seemed scared of her, but Trevard wasn't scared of her. She reminded him of Scrappie, the blacksmith's cat. They both were very alone and very quiet and mostly watched the room with greenish unblinking eyes. Neither bothered anyone, except maybe mice, because Scrappie was a good hunter. Maybe the lady was a good hunter too.

But this time, she spoke to him. Her voice was very low and soft and toneless, like the fall wind in the eaves. "Did those men hurt you?"

He shook his head emphatically. He tried to match her volume; he knew she didn't want the lion-shirt men to hear. "No, lady. They are acting really mean right now. But I think they're just scared."

"Aye." She nodded. "Aye, they are. Do you know why they're scared?"

He furrowed his brow, thinking. "Um, I think I heard Cedric say yesterday... Ummm..." His voice pitched up. "Damnable Boeruine whoresons, evidently a whole patrol went missing last night, and now they're all tenser than a hide on the stretching rack, and as like to split in two."

The lady's eyes widened. "My goodness. That sounded just like him. That's quite a talent." Her face didn't show much of anything, but he could tell she was pleased. "Are you hungry? I have some of Cedric's fine onion-bread, but I haven't much of an appetite."

He eagerly took the golden hunk of bread from her plate and gobbled it; he'd been working since dawn with barely a pause. He watched her carefully as he did. Trevard was very good at figuring out from people's faces and voices if they were mad, or mean, or about to play a trick on him, or if they were nice. He couldn't tell with this lady. He couldn't read her any more than the flat strips of parchment that the nobles covered in strange black marks. But for some reason, he wasn't afraid of her.

"Are you scared, lady? Or sad? Or mad? Or lonely? I can't see. With people I can mostly see, but I can't see, with you."

She smiled, very slightly, and paused for a long while before answering, as though it wasn't a question she had ever thought to be asked. "All four, I think."

"Oh." He chewed the onion bread with great relish. "Why?" he asked with his mouth still full, even though Cedric often told him not to.

The lady didn't seem to mind. Again, she stopped to consider her answer. "I'm scared because bad things are going to happen soon. Very bad things, where a lot of people might be hurt. Some of the bad things happened because of me, because of things I did, or things I didn't do. Some of the people who might be hurt are people who I try to protect. I can't protect all of them, so I'm scared for them.

"I am sad because, for a time, life was easy, and good. Then life got hard, and sad. And it keeps getting harder, and sadder. Some days it is so hard and sad I don't know how to keep going. But I can't quit, because too many people need me now. I will never quit, because of them, no matter how hard and sad it gets. I am sad because I have lost a lot of people I love. Some died because of bad people. Some died because I made mistakes, and I see their faces every day. Some went away from me, because there were things more important to them than me." A hard, cold edge, like the windowpanes in winter, crept into her voice. "And some are lost, and I'm not sure if I will ever see them again. I might, but I don't dare to hope.

"I am mad because I see things in the world that should not be. I am mad that the world is full of people who are greedy, and foolish, and weak, and that the little people like you and I who just try to get by cannot do so because of them. I am mad because I want to make things right, and I don't know how, and sometimes I don't even know what right is.

"And finally I am lonely because I have two friends who I love very much who have gone away for now. I spent my whole life by myself and I thought I liked it, but now I am lonely whenever my two friends are not with me. One is very large and very loud and likes to fight and drink. The other is very small and very quiet and likes to read. I love them and I don't think I could keep going without them."

Trevard smiled so big, couldn't stop smiling. He was pleased she had shared with him. People didn't share such treasures of their secret inner hearts with anyone often, but almost never with him. And he knew instinctively that the lady shared her heart with very few people. Almost without thinking, he moved to her and wrapped his arms around her. She was startled, but after a moment, she returned the embrace. She felt like bones and muscles and armour and many hidden knives.

She moved away and looked at him very seriously. "Very bad things are going to happen in a day or two or three. When you hear loud noises and men shouting, if you hear swords, and especially if you see... an unusual amount of fire, or lightning, promise me you will go to the root cellar and close the door, okay? Take Cedric with you too. He's a good man. Do you promise?"

Trevard nodded solemnly. "I promise. What do you mean, 'an unusual amount of fire, or lightning'?" He mimicked her voice, flat, soft, toneless.

"I mean my two friends are coming back to Portage soon. And we're going to try and make a few things right."

SESSION 35-- RECAP

Milena, commander of the Portagian military, agrees to aid the Wilders in expelling the Boeruine occupation from Portage, on the condition that once Khorien is removed from power, the military choose the next leader. Cuinn responds with terms of her own-- that if they are allowed to do so, they support her in her quest to rule a united Taeghas. Milena agrees, and they shake hands to seal the oath.

They decide Cuinn will remain behind to conduct sabotage and assist the defense where she can, and Mara and Aerona will return to Wilder's Gorge to summon the military. Aerona begins magically shaping a door through the stone of the city wall, but they are interrupted by a patrol. Mara quickly magically puts several to sleep and Cuinn dispatches several with arrows. They slay the Boeruinese soldiers and dispose of their bodies; after Aerona and Mara depart, Cuinn wakes the Portagean soldiers and informs them of the situation; they return to the city, as does Cuinn, knowing that the vanishing of a patrol will make her sabotage efforts considerably more difficult.

Mara and Aerona reach the border of Wilder's Gorge; Aerona magically sends a message to the seneschal Medwyn bidding her to send both units of soldiers and Mara's magical equipment. Aerona then prays to Cuiraecen, asking Him what they need to do to ensure victory at Portage; He sends a vision of a flock of hawks flying westward, straight, true, and united. They rendezvous with the army; Aerona magically tells Cuinn of her vision across the distance, and they march to war.

Cuinn considers Cuiraecen's omen. He seems to be indicating that valor will win the day, rather than subterfuge; she abandons her plans to assassinate either the Haelynite priest or the Boeruine general, or poison the water supply of the keep, and instead waits.

The Wilder armies approach Portage. Aerona delivers a stirring speech, invoking the might of Cuiraecen to bless the troops. The Boeruinese soldiers manning the walls laugh at the seemingly suicidal charge... yet the veterans among them are wary and not laughing. Then the Portageans turn on the Boeruinese within the city. Chaos ensues. The Portageans swarm the gatehouse and begin opening the gates for the Wilders to enter. Mara summons a unit of firehawks; they attack the defending archers atop the walls, providing some distraction as the billmen rush the gates.

Within the city, Cuinn crouches atop a roof, trying to provide cover for the Portageans. A powerful priest of Haelyn appears and divinely compels the Portageans to drop their weapons; Cuinn is fortunate enough to have a clear shot, and she slays him with two spectacularly well-placed arrows. The Wilders force their way into the gates, though they are not fully open and their progress is slowed; Aerona enters the city and calls Haelyn's wrath of thunder and ice storms, devastating the Boeruinese soldiers. Mara's firehawks are soon felled, but in another stupendous feat of magic, she blinds the entire unit of archers atop the walls, and several plummet to their deaths in their panic.

The Boeruinese troops are better armed and trained than the Portageans, and soon Commander Milena falls, wreaking a heavy toll on the Portagean's morale. However, the billmen, boosted by the blessing of Cuiraecen, enter the city en masse and fight fiercely. The tide turns, and soon the Wilders and Portageans force the Boeruinese to being retreating. Cuinn glimpses the Boeruine commander and fires at him, but one of his soldiers bravely hurls him aside, taking both arrows for his leader.

Aerona urges the billmen to press forward. Filled with the bloodlust of Cuiraecen, she charges past them, attacking the mass of the retreating army essentially by herself. A mob of soldiers break off and make to attack her. They attempt to overwhelm and grapple her, trying to knock her down, but at the last moment before she is overwhelmed, she calls upon the spirits of the most valiant warriors through the ages, and they materialize from the ether and attack the Boeruinese soldiers, cutting them down in swaths.

Cuinn and the exhausted billmen finally arrive. Cuinn calls for everyone to stand down, that they might end the conflict without further bloodshed. The Boeruine general agrees, and the Boeruinese soldiers are allowed to leave northward. Cuinn bids them to tell the Archduke to never return to Taeghas.