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.