Hnitborg

The noise of conversation and drink rose into the rafters within the hall. Fire lit to keep the warmth spread smoke that slithered through and found freedom in the night air. It smelled of meat burning on a spit and even carried with it the laughter of the men who found humor in their fellow falling out of his chair. It was a clear night, the first true night of the summer and yet still chilled. Crops would find good purchase in the warmer months and rain had fallen but the day before reassuring those who had sown them a good yield. Spirits were in good form for the Taingaardians and their ale. There were promises made over honeyed mead, shared secrets in corners between wenches and the men who kept them from serving others, and the rasping voice of stories told by the great fire.

Alfrich, a beggar on days when it was required, now sat seated on a low stool his lap covered in blues and purples of a stitched quilt given to him by the sorceress who saw fit to keep him warm. He had admired the colors then, thanked her for her generosity, and spoke of how he had naught but the words upon his lips to give thanks for her kindness. She required none, wished for none, but bade him spread word of her coming around the fire. Spread word of a seer who knew of the darkness in others and the blood that they had spilled upon ground and stone and blades of grass. He agreed wholeheartedly speaking of her kindness. Of the talents of one who could see the bones revealing that which had been done so long ago and that which had yet to be.

That very night he sat in his place, admonishing to children a tale of the giants in their own mountains. Yarns coming from his mouth sounded so grand that one merely needed to close their eyes in order to see the very sights that he described. He shooed them back to their mothers when it came time for them to retire and struck a conversation with whoever would listen.

Strangers were not strangers in this hall, for they were welcomed to sit and feast, to share tales of their journeys, and should they catch the eye of Alfrich himself he would beg they come near and he would tell them kindly of a woman of fire who reigned over the very substance of men. Who could draw upon their hearts by manipulating the blood that remained within it and who had eyes as crimson as if it had been freshly spilled upon the ground.

Keph was lifted above a group of gambeson clad-Taaingaard men. They roared with laughter and Keph laughed with them in unison. He held tankard of mead in hand, drops of the precious honey brew being spilled onto the group below with every step they took. While alcohol had kept them all warm for most of the day, the night was getting cold, and no alcohol in the world would be enough to stave off the cold of night. They planned to retire to Hnitborg, as late as it might be, it never got too late for another drink!

"Eagle eye! Eagle eye!" They chanted.

The door to the Hall slammed open, alerting everyone within to their presence. The mouth-watering scent of the roasted meat slip out into the dark outdoors and drew an even larger smile upon Keph’s mouth. The young man was soon released and quickly found himself huddled around a table with his newly made friend - yet another mug of mead.

What a day. He had gotten quite an interesting set of stories from these warriors and somehow, after managing to - from an impressive distance - nail three successive bullseyes with his bow, quickly endeared himself to the drunken warband.

He took another sip from his mug. Wait. Who were these?

Keph glanced about in a drunken stupor. He was now sitting with some odd man apparently itching to tell a tale and some purple freak. He couldn’t recall how he had gotten there, but it mattered not. The young man slid his sleeve along his mouth, wiping off some of the sweet alcohol. He was never one to turn down a good tale.

"It is said that the blood moon itself heeds her call," all three would catch this part of his tale as he described the woman. Interestingly enough with them being close they could see cataracts forming over his eyes, blocking some of the vision he once possessed, "When much blood is spilled it possessed her and the skies reigning in the glory of battle of our lands and lands not of our own. She feels it, fuels off of it, her power only strengthened by the loss of others. Her eyes glow as if it had been spilled within them as it reflects the loss of their very life her hair as crimson as a pool of it gathering beneath the beheaded."

Pausing for effect he'd been leaned back, settled against the edge of his low chair the quilt still spread about his legs. Now he leaned forward as if there were a secret upon his lips as he spoke in all but a whisper, "It is said that Tain Haldar holds her by drinking her blood in celebration of his victories."

Drawing back once again the firelight flashed upon his face illuminating him fully. There were lines raised around the edges of his eyes, his skin being oddly pearlescent one could see the lines were blue, coiled like ropes roaming the edges of his face, down his neck, and to his arms. They slithered and moved with his muscles as he did crawling across the top wavering an inch in either direction. With his hands revealed as he raised one to adjust his quilt they could be seen on the back there. Veins, they were, but unusually colored and too close to the surface the chill not driving them downward. Perhaps it was why he was so covered. 

With newcomers his eyes roved over each one, unsettling as they focused, or rather didn’t, the general direction correct but nothing indicating he found their face. 

“You’re touched boy,” he paused on Bria, “You have a path that is not your own even if you believe it to be. You will find the truth but the cost will be great and others will suffer with you.” 

Rather pointedly turning his head to Keph and Whir alike the cataracts slipping inward to a sharp point but barely a millimeter in width the iris beginning to resemble the very color of the moon he so praised. 

Wow… that tale… it…

Keph reached for the bottle of ink found on his belt. The bottle was firmly held in place by an elaborate set of knots, its cork had a small hole, kept plugged by the length of a quill. In a single swift motion, the young man drew the quill from its oak “sheathe”. Droplets of ink flew from the quill’s tip, rapidly drying as they fell, and as they dried their descent started to slow down, until they froze, still airborne.

A few nimble strokes later and a full message was left before them all: “Where did he learn to tell stories? Because that was a terrible one.”

The man didn’t look like he had more than a year left in him. No doubt his age was getting to him.

With the back end of the quill - after giving them a few moments to read the message that hovered before them - he collected all the ink. The moment the quill was returned to its place, the ink that blackened its barbs slipped down the shaft, back into the bottle.

Keph’s eyes wandered to the rest of the listeners and ended up focusing on Bria. He didn’t seem to be much of a horror aficionado (if that joke of a story could even be considered such). A child would’ve likely had less of an embarrassing reaction than he did.

Keph was skeptical his announcement made into the air as the younger man showed confusion at his rather vague wording upon his fate. It could apply to any young man but it did not, Alfrich knew better than to believe it was not for his very arrival had been foretold and he had been informed to gain their interest, the three of them, for it would take all to complete the very task that Bria had set before him.

Never answering Bria, never focusing on the ridicule of Keph, which it seemed many ignored. Perhaps because they could not read the text that had appeared out of thin air. A few found it an amusing party trick, one laughed, one snorted, and one child tugged on his sleeve and said, “Alfrich tells the scariest of stories.”

Which to a five year old perhaps they were frightening to hear when he talked of trolls and fairies stealing children in the night right out of their beds. What child would not be scared of the great monsters too that fed on their bones like they were but kindling to a fire. Alfrich smiled at the words of the child but he paid them no true heed because he was asked to give them a true tale. 

“A story first,” he grumbled over the word as if searching a lexicon within his own mind before he settled and the fire next to him began to burn to embers. It was stoked without looking the flames rising upward and sending cinders across his feet.

“Once beneath the ashen line where the forest is parted into a land of sprites and mischief there was a boy. He played among the very scorched earth that symbolized their lands beginning and the danger that lay beyond it. He had heard stories of their sharp teeth and spitting lies but he did not believe that they were true. He walked along it one foot in front of the other never stepping a toe over the wrong side for his mother had warned him of their kind and while he disbelieved the stories he respected her wishes. She had warned him of the very way in which they would strip you of your teeth gnawing them from your gums until there is but blood and jaw left within the very confines of your mouth. He believed the tale frightful but still false and he played along the line hearing whispers from the other side. Sweet nothings telling him to come over and play in the greener grass, frolic through the fields, and take a sip from the stream that bubbled so strong he could hear it in the distance,” he checked to see if the crowd was following, how it was unknown but he seemed to know he had the children’s attention at the very least and some curious adults, “Then one day his mother called to him, asking of him to come inside. Her voice carried so strong and true through the thicket and he rushed home. The very next day he came to the grove again, played along the line, only this time there were no whispers but in the distance his mother called him. He answered back, knowing he heard it come from past the line. She only called again and in his foolishness of being but a boy he decided to follow it. Past the stream and past the sweet soft grass beneath his feet until it turned to hardened stone. He followed it to the ledge of the sheer cliff face as if he was entranced by the voice, lost to it, and as he stood on the edge his eyes raised he reached out asking for her. ‘One more step’ the voice said to him, ‘one more.’ He trusted her, implicitly, and never looking down he took one more step. His neck was snapped and his bones opened and when they found him not but the shell of what had once been his body remained.”

Alfrich leaned back into his seat finished with his tale the young boy who had taken to tugging on Keph’s sleeve was now firmly planted behind it. Alfrich was not quite finished his voice hoarse from his speaking, “The boy was deceived, captured by a fate not his own. As you shall be drawn in by the fate of the one,” he referred to Bria but did not focus upon him, “Sivale knows the fate of those who have passed in these lands, who have shed blood upon the very home of the ancestors of the Tain himself.”

At this point, Keph was considering returning to the table with the local warriors, at least they appeared to appreciate his presence.

The young man smirked at the boys words, then in motions as smooth and swift as the prior, he traced a new message: “The story of how Keph acquired his ink is probably a scarier story than he’d ever manage to tell.”

A quick pat on the boy’s shoulder was given, before his attention returned to the old man that appeared to have more to yammer on.

He rested his elbow on his leg, leaned forward, and planted his chin firmly on his palm, which held it up. He yawned and stared with half-open eyes, making his lack of interest in the lacking tale clear.

His glare shifted between the child and the childish, purple-wearing man. He smiled and placed his hand on the child’s back, reassuring him that all was well. Perhaps, soon, the old man would get to the scary portion.