Acamen sat in his parent's tavern, taking a break from the process of brewing. It was a harsh, but rewarding process. Sweat dripped from his brow, but it was always worthwhile to help his elderly parents around their house. With the extra business caused by the cold, they needed it desperately. The brewer's son had offered many times to buy them a castle and some servants, but the couple always wanted to live the modest life. Initially Hopsfield couldn't comprehend their want of moderation, but over the course of many years he had grown to understand his parents.

Still, the white mage wasn't sure where he would be if he hadn't headed out on his first quest at the tender age of fourteen, or leaving permanently at sixteen. What if he had stopped when he had gotten married? Acamen's thoughts slowly drifted back to his years of adventure, along with all the fun and all the suffering. The suffering ...

The hole of those lost never truly healed, but over time others covered the wounds. Hopsfield looked up, noticing his daughter running towards him along with a messenger boy. Acamen looked at the poor kid, raising his hand to stop him. "I'm retired. Tell your lord to find someone else to save him from whatever is bothering him." The kid wheezed, almost collapsing on the ground. Ezekala steadied the messenger, and despite his reluctance to speak to the child Hopsfield restored his endurance instantly with a flick of the wrist and a small spell.

The messenger blinked, surprised at his sudden recovery, and immediately handed the letter to Acamen. The light mage browsed through the contents, then looked back at the child. "I'll be at my tower. Send the others there. I have some things that may be useful for our trip."

The messenger smiled, glad his trip turned out well. "You won't regret this Exemplar! I knew we could count on you!"

Acamen glared back at the child, giving off his best and most intimidating smile. "You're wrong. I already have."

Two weeks Later
As Acamen returned to his tower in the north, he realized that none of the letter's contents had been false. While the village had been unusually cold for it's location, the rest of the world had snow. Acamen's calendar stated it was July, but he wasn't sure. For the most part, he avoided cities and therefore avoided the worst of the suffering.

He returned to the mountain that marked his home. It was a small but steep mountain, the black inclines at a large enough angle to prevent the grip of snow. On top of it rested the Tower of Gold, which was really more of a fortress. The walls were made of what appeared to be marble, and the roofs of the various towers along the edge had golden caps placed upon them. In the center stood a keep grand enough to be the envy of kings.

The only way to reach to top conventionally was to take a drawbridge that lowered onto a nearby hill, and to travel through a short underground ramp until one reached the plateu that the mountain stood on.

The drawbridge lowered as he approached, and the white mage entered the warmth of the keep as quickly as possible. The others should arrive sometime during the next day, and then they would be off. For the most part, the keep should have ample previsions for their journey.

Villa von Sturmkirk, Schattenwald

The snow had ceased to fall, but the skies remained an unbroken slate grey. Even the sun could not penetrate such thick clouds, casting a muted light over the land below. Volkimir Sturmkirk looked out upon the gardens of his ancestral home, barren of branch and cloaked in white. Wind whipped through his ghostly hair as it blew past him; such a chill would cut through a lesser man like grim death, but this was no ordinary man. The balcony he stood upon had been equally covered by the recent snowfall, each booted footfall loudly packed more fresh snow underfoot. Volkimir's golden eyes peered out over the wintry lands with steely resolution, his brow furrowed in thought. His hands, for now merely a sickly pale coloration, gripped the balcony railing tightly as he continued this somber meditation.

His solitude was broken by an older voice from behind him. "Out here again, boy? I thought you would have given up by now." Wulfgang Sturmkirk slowly tread through the snow on slippered feet, casually approaching the other vampire. While his face was older, and his body bent by age the strong features of the Sturmkirk bloodline were clear as day on Wulfgang. As were the golden eyes of their cursed lineage. "There's no sense in pondering this any longer. This is the Fimbulwinter, just as in the old legends."

Volkimir did not seem particularly receptive to the "elder" vampire's suggestions. "I am more wondering why I bothered allowing you grounds privileges, if you merely utilize them to pester me."

Wulfgang laughed. "My apologies, milord." He stressed the term of address to emphasize his contempt. "I suppose I'll just return inside and play the part of the well-behaved noble captive." Wulfgang took a sip from the glass of bloodwine he held, and laughed again.

Volkimir was not in the mood to jest. He turned on his heel, the fur robes cloaking him flaring like flower petals from his forceful movement, and strode back inside. As he stormed past the other vampire, Wulfgang feigned having been shoved, only to laugh again at Volkimir and follow him indoors. Whereas the younger vampire did not bother to shake the snow from his boots, Wulfgang took the time to change from garden slippers back to house slippers, and followed after his captor.

"We'll survive this, though." Wulfgang continued, as though he had never been interrupted. "We've survived worse. That is the reason for our curse. We will endure. Carry on the old ways, even as they are forgotten. It will take more than the end of the world to end us."

Volkimir stopped and looked back at the aged vampire. There was anger in his eyes, but also something else: a certain weariness, wrought with impatience and worry. "Enough with your folktales, old man. The world is ending no more than you are finally dying, as loathe I am to admit it." Wulfgang scoffed at this, and again sipped his wine. "I will find the cause for this, and I will end this unnatural season." Volkimir turned to continue to stalk the halls of the ancient manor, and once more Wulfgang bemusedly followed him.

"If that's the case, I don't understand what upsets you so. Winter is the season of dead things, and we, my boy, are they. It's been ages since I've been able to enjoy strolls through the garden after breakfast. If you forget, surviving famine happens to be our forte."

"If you forget," Volkimir spat, no longer stopping to speak with the other vampire, "Humans do not keep well in the cold. Pray tell, what do you think will happen if they starve to death?"

Wulfgang's brow furrowed, and he rolled his woolen-robed shoulders. "From where does this sudden interest in humans spring? Perhaps my memory is not what it once was, but I do recall you partaking in breakfast just this morning. What was her name? Victoria?"

"Quiet, you old fool! I wouldn't trust you to remember my father's name." Volkimir snapped at him. That struck a nerve. Truly no one knew how to get under his skin better than his family. "Too much dust has settled in your brain, but I would be happy to beat it out of you." Once again, Wulfgang merely laughed and sipped his wine. Volkimir shook his head in frustration. Were truly none of the others capable of seeing the greater good that laid beyond their own endless hunger?

"Master!" A greasy, gurgling voice sounded from a hall away. Volkimir stopped as the voice approached. "Master! The scouts have returned!" Running down the hall as fast as its misshapen legs would carry it was Oglor, a spectacle of ill-fated science left unchecked. A haemonculus crafted by a Schattenwalder alchemist, Oglor was a petulant lump of sweaty flesh, carried about by its undersized limbs. "Master, reports from the scouts have arrived." Oglor said, waddling up to Volkimir to hand him a stack of papers. Volkimir accepted them, and Oglor waited nearby, its single, glassy eye staring on expectantly.

The reports were much of what he expected; this endless winter was much the case for the surrounding lands, which fared no better. If anything the hardly smallfolk of Schattenwald were better prepared for this eventuality. They were a curious and determined folk to continue to work their ancestral fields despite the land's curse, and even a supposed portent of the end of the world did little to deter them. However, two letters attached to the documents piqued his interest. One was essentially a threat; a triad of would-be conquerers held the world at ransom with winter unending. The other called for heroes of the land to meet at a particular location to pool efforts to rid the world of this threat. At last, Volkimir found reason to smile.

"Ah, what's this, then?" Wulfgang asked, and Volkimir passed him both letters. Adjusting his spectacles, Wulfgang read over the letters. "These are both addressed to Sir Guffrey. Doesn't he live in the keep beyond the Estwald? I suppose we were below notice. More's the pity."

"Bring my scribes, Oglor. And send word to the stablemasters; I will be leaving within the fortnight." Volkimir began barking orders to the creature as he began to account for the supplies needed for this expedition.

"You're answering this summons, Vova?" The elder vampire asked. "After so much effort in taking this land back from me, from the rest of your kind, you're just going to abandon it?" He seemed incredulous, yet also guarded.

Now Volkimir scoffed. "The land will still be here when I return. I haven't left you enough allies to take it back. And even should you manage to regain some paltry political control, upon my return I shall be the triumphant hero, heralded by angels and followed by spring. You will still be a tyrant. Who will the people of Schattenwald side with once more?"

Wulfgang laughed. "Well said. I nearly regret having raised you to be so clever. You are a formidable enemy, my grandson."

---

A blizzard roared, and the land became a ceaseless ocean of white. Even so, black shapes on the horizon stood out as strongly as ravens on an overcast sky. Numbering no more than a dozen, they raced ahead on a buried road, the blinding snow scarcely a hindrance. As they came closer to their destination, it was clear that these were riders on ebon steeds. Black cloaks and black horses, their breakneck gallop continued toward the tower of white and gold, their mounts sure-footed in the mounting snowdrift. As they neared the moat of the tower, they pulled back on the horses' reins, causing the mounts to rear up and shriek in unearthly tones.

A lead rider deployed a banner, a black eagle on a red field, and sounded a horn to gain the attention of whatever gatesman manned the drawbridge. The horses stamped impatiently, grinding their fangs together. Red eyes and midnight-black coats, no mist erupted from the nostrils of these steeds, as they did not breathe at all. Knights in ebony armor surrounded a central figure, robed in heavy furs of black, golden eyes shining out from the shadows of its hood.

Roused from his slumber by the sound of a crash filling his home, Argus grumbled to himself as he swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up. A low, constant stream of complaints over being awake so early rolled from his mouth as he pulled on a set of clothing and grabbing his weapon, in case of burglary of course, and barged out of his bedroom. "Oi, what in the Father's name are ye doin so ear-." Argus was cut off mid sentence when he found, sitting in his living room, the whole troop of apprentices he'd taken under his wing. Lying on the ground was Griffin (Grif for short), thrown to the ground by Simmins, while Dohnut sat in a chair chatting with Moira. In a corner was Lohpez, commenting in that strange language that nobody spoke. A low grumble came from Argus while Moira smiled, saying "Argus dear, the boys came by to visit! Isn't that wonderful?" In that moment, Argus knew that he'd, well and truly, been defeated. Moira had sided with the enemy, and no amount of axe play or armor could overcome his wife. Setting the axe down next to the specialized armor rack that held the Allfather's armor, Argus released a low grumble that vaguely resembled the word "Yes" as he plopped himself down in his arm-chair.

The soft chair's leather supported Argus's bulk well as Sugra came running in, clambering up onto his father's lap as he cheered "Dad's awake! Dad's awake! Dad, mister Simmins said I could watch the training today, is that okay?" A throaty laugh came from Argus's throat as he nodded, his beard tickling his son's head at the lowest point of the nod, and he said "Ah've course lad, yer always welcome to watch your dad teach the lads a thing or two." Looking over to his wife, Argus asked "Ah, Moira, today's the big day fer Tucker cross the street right? He's off on his rite, eh?" Moira nodded and Argus proclaimed with a loud laugh "Ah, good fer him! Hope he brings back some food other than bloody fukkin snow potatoes. We may live on 'em, but eatin's real borin without the other stuff from the kingdoms below." At that, with another boisterous laugh, he led the men outside.

One by one, Argus individually trained each of his apprentices. For Grif, it was heavy physical training while Argus liberally smacked him around with a stick. Grif was unforgivably lazy, which never failed to infuriate Argus, especially since Grif had real potential if he'd only make use of it. Next was Simmins, who sparred with Argus while receiving advice on form and technique. Simmins was smart, learned quickly and applied himself, even if he did kiss arse. Simmins would be a great warrior one day, so long as he remained diligent in his study of the art of war. Half of training Dohnut was getting him to stop talking about the newest fashions in the kingdom and getting him to actually fight, but once he did get serious he was pretty good, the best fighter Argus was currently training. Dohnut had wanted to be a tailor, but was banished from his homeland before he could pursue this dream, and so was now walking the path of the warrior, no matter how reluctantly. Lohpez was, rather understandably, not trained as Argus couldn't find anything to teach the great golem, so his "training" was Argus complaining about the faults in the other apprentices while Lohpez listened, or at least everyone assumed that he was listening.

In the aftermath of training, the time came for the great send-off ceremony, honestly the worst part of the entire Rite if you asked Argus. He watched Tucker being bestowed a suit of light blue armor, which made Argus scowl and grumble angrily about how bad of a color it was for armor, or indeed anything. Afterwards, a matching light blue sword was bestowed, once more making Argus loudly grumble in protest, though by now the villagers ignored Argus's grumbling about anything that was the color blue. To this day, nobody knew why he hated the color blue and its derivatives so much, only that he did. It was very likely that was a secret that would die with Argus and his legend. As young Tucker set off, leaving behind his home village for the first time, Argus shouted out "Be safe ya damn blue! Come back home with a legend!" At that, his boisterous laughter filled the air of the assembly, and the gathered villagers cheered. Whenever Argus saw it fit to yell at a youth as they left home, it was counted as good tidings for the youth, as every single one Argus yelled at had returned with at least a half-suitable legacy. However, Tucker soon faded into the raging snow storm that covered the path, and those of the village slowly dispersed to go back to their everyday lives. Truthfully, Argus took to this everyday life better than most who returned from their trials. He'd done what he'd set out to do, and now he was glad for the gentle peace of his life.

"Argus, you've got some kind of letter, it's from the King!" Grumbling, Argus made his way over and snatched the letter up, reading over it briefly with a raised eyebrow. This infernal winter's source was now known and located, was it? That was good, it promised safety and recovery for the land if they could only stop it. Reading further, of course, it seemed that was why he was being summoned. A coalition of heroes was being brought together to trek to the lair of these madmen and put them down for good. As inclined as Argus had been to heroics, he was enjoying a gentle retirement training apprentices, and truthfully wasn't so sure about once more donning the Stone Armor and proceeding out into the world. "Ah c'mon Argus, what in Sam Hill will they do without you? You're the best warrior this land's ever seen, no way they can handle those guys without your help! Besides, what kind of hero wouldja be if you don't go to help out the whole world when it's in need? Man up, you're still young, got hundreds of years in front of you to sit around, so go be a man!" His self pep-talk given, he sighed and walked back into the house, saying "Ah've gotta go darlin. The people need me to help save the world." His son looked up at him then and asked "You're gonna go save the world Dad?" Argus nodded, saying with a grin "That's right son. It's not fair if I only protect you, is it? Ah've gotta protect everybody." His son nodded with the certainty only a young child can possess and said "Okay dad! I'll see you when you get back!" At that, he walked off to go play, while Argus paced the living room for only a brief moment before getting to work.

Carefully stepping up to the armor rack, Argus watched the stones of the armor slide aside to allow the armor's owner to step in. Gingerly placing himself within the stone, it once more closed around his body when he had stepped inside, encasing him in the granite forged by the Allfather to protect his mortals. Grasping the helmet, he placed it on his head as his apprentices swarmed around him, eager for adventure, with the exception of Grif, who seemed somewhat more reluctant. Argus didn't even bother trying to dissuade them, when they really wanted something they were incorrigible, thankfully they didn't get that way much. His apprentices went out into the village, gathering supplies for the expedition while Argus removed the helmet once more to lean in and kiss his wife goodbye, saying "Ah'll come home safe dear, I promise." Leaving no time for tears, Argus put his helmet back on and left his humble home behind, knowing that he may not return for many months. He watched Simmins, Lohpez and Dohnut walk about gathering supplies, while Grif was already asleep by the town's entrance, no doubt already dreading the great journey ahead of them. That was all and well, Argus supposed, as an hour later they were setting off, lent speed by a caravan that happened to be travelling that way, since the market for Snow Potatoes had flourished massively in the outside world, Clan Steelforge had become much more of a trader.

---------

Stepping from the cart that had borne him, and only him, Argus yawned loudly as he looked over the assembly. To the right, a host of dark armored warriors waited, with the center position belonging to a pale figure in a black cloak. Argus rolled his eyes at the flashy display, whispering with a chuckle"Look at that guy Simmins, too scared to come without a buncha soldiers" Simmins chuckled as well, replying "Indeed sir, nowhere near as manly as you! You came with just us, a bunch of apprentices!" Argus chuckled, a low rumbling sound that could still easily fill the air around Argus. As he looked to his left however, he was surprised to see a pair of elves, riding...bears.

Argus's eyes went wide behind his helmet and he mumbled under his breath "Reminds me of Brownie, right good war bear he was. Poor Brownie, died too young in that forest, damn killin tree." His miniature traumatic flashback aside, Argus shook his head and returned to normal, saying "Ah, the elf came with 'er and the boy, now that's better. Ridin bears too, real cavalry mounts those are, not like horses!" This aside, Argus and his troop walked up beside the elves as the drawbridge waited to be lowered. Argus, sensing an opportunity to get to know a potential ally, marched his own stone up besides the woman of the group. He recognized her of course, Fyldren's name was as well known as his own name, though he'd never met her in person before. Even with his own reputation to precede him, he had to admit it never stopped being a little intimidating to meet someone you've only heard of in drunken tales at the tavern. Nevertheless, he introduced himself "Good day miss, I'm Argus, Argus Steelforge, pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Acamen sat in his study, being sure to gather as much information about the Witch and the Armor as possible. Hopsfield knew he had a good understanding of how to defeat dragon gods, knowing that this would be his forth one assuming he succeeded. Hibernas wouldn't be too much of an issue if everything went right. The legend that he defeated each of them without a single spell was true, but it left out enough detail that the stories could be considered completely false.

A low ranking paladin ran into the study, kneeling upon entering the Exemplar's presence. His blond hair was covered in snow, implying that the warrior of light had been on lookout duty. "Exemplar, a party of black horses has appeared at the base of the fortress. They announced their presence and seem to be requesting entry. How do you wish to respond?"

Hopsfield stood from his chair, brushing off his clothes. Acamen set down his book, focusing his eyes on the Paladin. "I'll show them in myself. Make preparations in the grand dining room. Cook the meat just enough to singe it, but keep it very rare. It still needs blood within it. Thanks for telling me this quickly." The paladin's eyes widened, but he did not question the Exemplar. Hopsfield had to resist the urge to roll his eyes as the Paladin left. Exemplar wasn't even an official title, it was given to him by some poet with a fancy tongue.

Acamen had managed to get halfway down the castle hallway before another messenger arrived. Hopsfield raised an eyebrow this time, curious if the dark prince had made a move to come in faster. Once again, the Paladin took to his knee before the Exemplar. "Exemplar, another party has arrived. It appears to be a small group of Dwarves. They are ignoring the party in black, who appears to be-"

Hopsfield guessed that was Steelforge. Acamen interrupted his apprentice, understanding what was going on. "Stop. Just be sure to bring enough ale to send god into a coma. Place it in the main hall. You are dismissed. The Paladin was stunned at the lack of formality, but set off to complete his tasks.

Acamen had broken out into a full run, leaving the second messenger behind and passing up the first one. It was a well known tradition on Corthan that every gathering of heroes arrived at the same location within thirty minutes of each-other, trying to get the leader's attention. This normally went along with everyone trying to one up eachother, which in this case would lead to the destruction of the castle. It was considered a bad omen. While it might be mere superstition, the Brilliant Gold would do everything in his power to stop it. He ran down the steps at speed.

A third Paladin stared at Acamen as he flew by, then he started to follow the Exmplar, sprinting after White Mage. Apparently there was a third messenger. "Sir! Our scouts spotted a third party! The second party found them and-" The warrior continued to give his message, and Acamen simply glared at the Paladin while running. The Paladin's face appeared crestfallen, confused at what he had done wrong.

Finally Acamen arrived at the gate, glad he was in good shape and not wheezing from the exertion. "Lower the drawbridge! Now!" The senior Paladin on the gate barked his orders, and the drawbridge was lowered quickly. The older man understood Acamen's fears.

The drawbridge was soon lowered, with Acamen heading out onto it midway. The trumpets sounded, signaling the parties of Acamen's presence. The Black Prince and the White Mage met first, the other parties appeared to be mid conversation.

Acamen didn't know what to say. The Prince towered over Acamen on while on horseback, and still stood taller even when on level ground. Hopsfield felt some odd combination of sorrow, hatred, camaraderie, disgust, and regret as he looked into the vampire's unnatural eyes. The Brilliant Gold's first words were rather meek. "Sorry." The Exemplar had joined the Prince in his conflict many years back. They knew eachother, and while calling them friends would be an overstatement, there appeared to be a mutual respect for one another. If either felt like slaying the other, they would succeed quickly. Ultimately both of their survivals was founded on trust that the other wouldn't attack first. Upon the death of his wife however, Acamen abandoned his ally without a word. That would be unforgivable in the eyes of many. There was an uncomfortable pause after his first word, and the white mage decided to go ahead with a normal greeting once he recovered. "Just make yourself comfortable inside. My chefs are preparing rare meat for you."

It wasn't a good start, but he thought he didn't have any history with the other two parties. That would at least mean a clean slate to work from.

Blood-Mane

Ceaseless snow continued to pelt the kingdom of Death's Peak. The long lasting winter season had taken an especially brutal toll on the mountaintop kingdom, where high elevation and far northern geography already frequented harsh, snowy seasons. Giant icicles draped from the front gates, which was shrouded halfway to the top with massive snow drifts. A dark, hooded figure, cloaked by the torrential snowstorm, trudged into the kingdom. As he entered, a small crowed of familiar friends quickly welcomed the figure into the warmth of the local tavern. Inside, they all crowded around a letter their friend had brought.

“That explains this awful weather,” stammered one of the members, after a brief pause to scan the page, “but who is Sulan Mudiye and why...”

The letter carrier began to speak.

Another interrupted “The king is forming an outfit of heroes?” followed by another “Mudiye was that old adventurer from the lower kingdoms, right?”

The letter carrier raised his voice over the flood of comments. “Dead is what he is. He reached his old age a few months back.”

“Then why is the king searching for him, and why bring the letter to our kingdom?” the first continued to ask.

The letter carrier answered, “Word of Mudiye's death has not spread quickly enough. Had it, and I would not have had to make that pointless trip to the kingdoms at the bottom of this mountain. The letter has no recipient now, so here it lies. Wasted effort.”

The band of close friends spent the night catching up with their traveling companion, drinking mead in the fanciful “Hall of Blood-Mane”. The giant statue depicting the legendary troll stood silently at the back, seeming to quietly watch the youth as they ate and drank.

“So no heroes from this section of the land, it seems,” one of the companions finally let out as he perused the snow-drenched letter again.

“Old Blood-Mane could stop those nasty villains,” mused another, looking distantly in the direction of the noble statue, “if he were still here.”

“Or if he even existed,” another corrected.

Conversation meandered to the well-known tales of the legendary beast, and argument over trivial details of the kingdom's history had somehow lured the group into the town library. Dusty books perched on old shelves, glazed in a thin layer of ice. The group sat huddled around a decrepit book, its title engraved in gold leaf “The History of The Kingdom of Death's Peak”.

“...not more than a creature of stories and legend.” the letter carrier read,” But it is believed by most of those who dwell in Death's Peak, that Blood-Mane, upon seeing the prosperity of the kingdom, took it upon himself to retire into the desolate mountains of the north.”
“So he may truly exist?” another of the friends pondered, distantly.

Several days later, be it weariness of the dreaded winter, or simply youthful curiosity, a handful of the young friends decided to adventure north, in search of their kingdom’s legend. Packed with a handful of provisions and some warm clothes, the enthusiastic adventurer's began their journey. Several days of hiking and interrogating local villages eventually guided them to a small town on the foothills of the far northern mountain range. The cold and weary team entered into the shopkeeper's quarters, invited in for a warm tea. There, the old man told them many stories, none containing trolls, before hearing their tale. Intrigued by their courage and fiery spirit, he offered them passage deep into the mountains along side his son and his companions, who would journey into the mountain range occasionally for merchandise, apparently crafted by a hermit or something.

After another several days trek, the cold wind biting ravenously at the crew, they prepared themselves for the trip back to their kingdom. Having wandered much of the mountain range with neither sighting nor rumor of a giant troll, the group decided to examine one more mystery before heading home. Atop one of the higher peaks sat a rather large cave, similar to the one outside their own village. After climbing the rather steep mountain, the group hesitantly entered the cave, planning to spend the night there to sleep before rejoining the shopkeeper's caravan and heading to the foothills.

Immediately after entering, they were met with two giant, hairy feet. A monstrous figure, larger even than the statue in the mead hall, leaned down, his head larger than the tallest of the adventurers. His unusual face, with large ears and a giant nose, began to be illuminated by the light from the mouth of the cave. His mouth opened slightly, revealing large, sharp teeth.

“We...” on of the small humans finally stammered ”We have come to summon you for … a quest … I guess?”

The troll stared at the group, breathing out, and releasing a cloud of cold breath from his giant nostrils.

“We're from Death's Peak,” another added, ”and we need your assistance once again. Great Blood-Mane ... you are Blood-Mane correct?”

The troll continued to stare and breath.

“The winter is, well, we, umm...we got this letter, summoning a, umm, a great hero.”

The group then proceeded to read the letter aloud, unsure if the old troll, staring motionless, was even listening. As they read, they cleverly substituted the name Sulan Mudiye with Blood-Mane, as if it had been originally written that way. After finishing they stood silent for a moment, staring into the giant troll's black eyes.

Another of the group eventually broke the silence, “So … will you help our kingdom?”

The giant beast finally began to stand up, his long, matted fur brushing against the side of the cave. The group stared in wonder as the ancient monster began to slowly trudge down the mountain. The ground thundered as the figure slowly walked into the distance.

As the old monster disappeared into the thick blizzard, one of the group finally broke the silence.

“Why are there so many baskets in this cave?”

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

A small band of dwarfs walked up to a group of elves on bears. Snow fell over a dark, ominous army. On the horizon, through the relentless snowfall, a careful eye could just barely make out the outline of a large beast on one of the distant mountain peaks, motionless, watching the troops gather.

Pale moonlight filtered through expertly carved latticework of the covered walk, throwing intricate patterns of silvery light and bluish shadows over the ground, broken only by the powdery snow that danced across pale stones.
Steady, clipped footsteps broke through the howl of the wind as a slender figure emerged from the darkness, sweeping through the airy structure and up to the great black door of the first Spire.
A blast of icy wind and snow coursed through the foyer, leaving a bitter chill in the air as Malaena shoved the great door shut before turning to study the pathetic being that had blown in on her heels. She did not recognize him to be a resident of the city that sprawled beneath the shadow of the mountains, but that was hardly surprising. While she kept a close enough eye on the city and its population, she was not necessarily on such intimate terms as to know the name or face of every single soul to dwell within the walls of Heshaar.

Judging by the crust of ice that crackled and shattered into jagged pieces as he pulled himself to an unsteady stance, he had been hunkered down on the doorstep for quite some time, left to be beaten by the elements. His young face was raw from the cold and wind, eyes puffy and red as he squinted into the darkness, attempting to focus on anything other than the burning pain in his limbs.
Questioning him in his current state was obviously going to go nowhere, and Malaena heaved what could have been perceived as a long suffering sigh, stepping closer to catch his wandering attention.

"Come along then, since I've let you in you might as well stay and dry off before I send you back out." Gesturing briefly with a languid movement of her hand she swept up a flight of marble steps, disappearing around the first curve in a matter of seconds. The lad gazed after her with a vacant look, his frost numbed brain failing to keep up with simple things, such as interpreting verbal directions and movement. Eventually, however, he managed to stir himself into a painful shuffle, stumbling up the steps in a dazed sort of stupor.

The library was dark and silent, not a single torch or lamp having been left burning during her absence, leaving the vaulted room to be lit by what natural light could seep through the tall, narrow windows. Upon entering Malaena did not even glance up, weaving through the maze of columns with a practiced ease, snatching bits and pieces of parchment, quill, and ink from various shelves before settling behind the desk that sat in the middle of the room. Light seemed to be somewhat of an afterthought, a small flick of her fingers sending a faint ripple through the air, great iron chandeliers instantly flooding the room with a warm golden glow.
After all, she supposed she would have to properly thaw her visitor before he would be able to make much sense of anything.

"So tell me, what were you seeking on my doorstep in the middle of the night?" Malaena lifted her eyes from the worn pages of an ancient text to fasten the youth with a level gaze. It had been hours since he had finally drug himself into the room, bits of slush and and ice trailing up to hearth where he had collapsed. In that time his appearance had improved slightly, awareness creeping back into bloodshot eyes, a faint cloud of steam hanging about him as his damp clothing continued to dry.

"I was sent . . .m'lady, bearing a dispatch of an urgent nature. I t'was instructed to deliver it straight to your hands." A fit of sneezing prevented further explanation, and once it had passed he had forgotten whatever it was he was to have said next, instead setting to rummaging about the pockets of his cloak until he drew forth a crumpled, soggy piece of dirty parchment.

"Good heavens, they sent you all the way up the mountain for this?" Her tone was faintly amused as she accepted the dispatch, seemingly unaffected by the poor boy's fit of chills and running nose.

Parts of the letter were so blurred and distorted it was beyond ability to decipher what had once been written, but even so there yet remained enough legible lines to piece together most of what it had said.
A call for assistance was not a new experience for the woman, indeed, it was something that had gotten quite tiring in times long passed. This, however, was the first 'official' acknowledgment of her existence since returning to the Spires.

Several Days Later

Volatile winds screamed in anger as the form of a giant bird surged through snow laden skies, dipping and spinning in an effort to use the unpredictable air currents.
While any recognizable landmark had long since melted into the landscape the black mountain had been easy to spot, standing out harshly against the swirling mass of blinding snow. Slightly less obvious were the faint smudges of dark shadows creeping across the ground, all appearing to be heading in the same direction.

Joining those on the ground was a viable option, but it was not the most appealing idea ever, considering there was a good chance that personalities were going to begin to clash even before entrance to the Tower of Gold had been given. There would be enough time for that later.

Shifting directions the bird soared upward, ghosting over the top of the walled fortress and coming to land in a flurry of feathers and black shadows. Wisps of vapor lifted to reveal a cloaked woman, hands raised in a token, nonthreatening gesture as a group of guards advanced in her direction.

"Despite my rather unorthodox arrival, I was actually invited."

Eventually, the gate lowered and out strode the man of the hour, Acamen Hopsfield. Volkimir eyed the cleric coolly as he approached, guarding his expression carefully. Hopsfield had lent the Dark Prince his strength in his earliest crusades to retake the Shadowlands from his corrupt noble house. However, once his wife had died, Hopsfield had lost the will to fight and returned to whatever lowborn hovel he called home. Volkimir was not particularly fond of the man, but he respected his strength and his conviction. Neither were in abundance in this day and age. Hopsfield seemed uneasy, almost frightened, and the vampire assumed that the man thought that he held some sort of grudge over some perceived slight or another. While that wasn't really true, Volkimir was not about to dispel that conception, either.

Hopsfield welcomed them into his keep, promising them undercooked meat to sate their appetites. Volkimir had to suppress laughter; for all this man did to fight against the tyranny of vampires, he seemed to know very little about them. Never the less, he answered the offer, "Good. My horses are hungry." His voice was dark and dry, forceful in tone and harsh on the ears. A hint of a Schattenwalder accent, which refused to be stomped out by Volkimir's ages of travel, tinted some of his consonants with ethnicity.

He directed his procession of knights across the draw bridge, and into the palisades. Once indoors, thankfully free of the blighted snow, he and his men dismounted their horses. Volkimir shook the snow from his winter furs, and handed them to one of his men, thus wearing only his usual adventuring attire. His knights seemed unperturbed by the snow, and so stood by in silence, their cloaks hanging wetly against their slick armor. A few of Hopsfield's attendents attempted to reign in the horses, which responded by shrieking at them and snapping with fanged mouths.

"Let them be," Volkimir offered the knights of the keep, "Or better yet, bring some of that meat we were promised. My entourage will arrive in some hours, and they will be stabled at my encampment." The Dark Prince's tone was sharp and to the point, but not unkind. Though he did not seem to be speaking out of charity, as much as trying to avoid a point of difficulty.

Upon approach Fyldren and her apprentice dismounted, Argus could note the difference between the two almost instantly. The woman was calm, assured, and gave only the bow politeness necessitated. She introduced herself as simply as he had, and then proceeded to introduce her apprentice, Leonis, who was most assuredly not so calm. The man bowed low deferentially, and Argus couldn't help but let that trademark chuckle slip from his lips. Behind him though, he became increasingly aware of Dohnut edging closer, and for a moment Argus wasn't sure why, but then he remembered "Ah right, I'd forgotten, I'm toting around a fan too. Dohnut must be pissin 'imself at the sight of Fyldren. Always was one for strong female adventurers he was." For now, Argus casually patted Leonis on the shoulder and said "Ah, no need to be so deferential lad! I'm just like any other dwarf except with a longer accomplishment list." He then gestured back to Dohnut, whose quiet squeals of excitement were becoming markedly less quiet by the moment, saying "This is me own apprentice, Dohnut, he's quite the fan of yours as well Ms. Briarheart."

Argus had to admit, it was a little strange seeing people impressed with him again. Since he hadn't left the village in so long, he'd grown rather used to being, as he called it, a 'passive legend'. Sure, people still treated him with absurd amounts of respect and all that, but the bowing stage had long passed. After all, familiarity quickly overtook the legends that they'd heard, and they came to know him for what he was, a man with a liver of steel and a penchant for axes. In a way it felt good to be out where his name was fresh again, but in another way it was uncomfortable. A man you've never met bowing before you may be incredibly flattering, but it can also be unsettling when you are shooting specifically for a normal social interaction. Though, Dohnut seemed to be doing worse, staring at her and basically shaking in excitement, so maybe the kid's showing was better than his own lads.

His armor clunked as he laughed again, the humor of the situation catching up with himself as he said to the boy "Fascinated with dragons, are ye? Aye, yer right to be curious, right fearsome beasts they are, ole Ahmen gave me no small amount of trouble, broke me old axe at that. Right shame too, it was a good axe, not as good as the one he 'gave' me in reply though." Argus's laugh once more boomed out, filling the air with good humor as was his intent. Slowly drawing the axe with one hand, trying to make it rather clear he meant no harm, he offered it to the boy saying "If ye want, feel the weight, the heft of her. This is just forged from the leg bone of the monster, the Father only knows what I'll do with the rest of it." At that, however, he glanced over to see the drawbridge was beginning to lower down to allow them all entry to the castle. He waited a few moments longer to allow the elf to consider his axe, hold it and feel it, if he so chose before reclaiming it and slinging it. He began to amble along towards the castle when Fyldren observed that popular lore was the he'd retired, and once more he laughed heartily, saying "I could say the same for yerself! They say The Protector of Balance has settled down to live a normal life! Ah, but look at me gettin ahead of meself, ramblin on without even addressin yer own comment. Aye, I did retire, got a wife and two perfect little kiddies back home. Ah, but what kinda dad would I be if I didn't go save the world so the kids can eat their meat and greens with their potatoes? This was worth comin out of retirement for, at least for a little while, after all I promised to protect the people of the kingdom, and till I can't heft me axe anymore, that's a vow I intend to make good on." As he glanced over at the black assembly making its way into the castle, he added "Ah don't like that, not at all, makes me bones ache and me axe shake. Were the times different, they'd be foe not friend. Course, suppose the Protector knows more about that than me, given nature prefers ye to me." At that another laugh issued forth, to show he meant no offense or anything at all by the remark.

Gusts of wind traveled violently over the tall mountain peaks, screaming in shrill pitches as it carried snow through the half-buried trees. The cold wind whispered through the matted fur of the giant beast that sat quietly atop the peak, his eyes staring inquisitively at the scene unfurling below. Despite the thick curtain of snow, the mountaintop provided a rather clear view of the mesa on which the castle sat. Gusts of powder carried from snowdrifts seemed to pelt the castle like waves crashing against the shore, and at times would wash over the party that gathered around the stone fortress. The troll leaned in, observing every motion of these small creatures that had traveled through this ferocious weather.

Blood-Mane didn't care much to join the crowd of humans that gathered, assuming that they might begin doing something irritating like shouting or throwing little pointy sticks at him. Aside from the collection of humans he used to protect at his old home, most tended to fear him as a monster, and would respond to his presence by running or attacking...or fainting. It was understandable. They were little creatures.

Blood-Mane knew that they were not all actually human, but all the little human-like creatures looked about the same from his viewpoint. He usually just considered them all to be humans. The ones that gathered in the distance, however, were an interesting collection, appearing similar to the brave ones that used to challenge his strength in the past. There were creepy looking ones, wearing black robes, riding on the backs of horses. A group of really short ones gathered nearby, talking to another group on...bears? It had honestly been many years since Blood-Mane had seen so many humans gathered in one place.

A large bird-like shadow glided over the tops, landing and disappearing into the castle. That looked more like the type of creature Blood-Mane expected to be aiding in this type of quest.

The troll turned his gaze to the castle. It was well built, but small, about the size of the rock that Blood-Mane used as a chair in his current dwelling. Needless to say, there was no way he would fit through that small door at the front.

The castle looked warmer than the outdoors, and Blood-Mane remembered that this type of weather was usually uncomfortable for humans. They looked cold, and it remained a mystery why they simply didn't enter the castle. As for himself, Blood-Mane was perfectly comfortable in this weather, protected from the winds by his thick layer of fur. The troll would have considered turning back, returning to his cave and enjoying the eternal winter season, were it not for the requests of his old kingdom and the descendants of the humans he had vowed to protect.

He noticed some of the humans moving into the castle, the crowds of interesting little creatures scurrying out of his view. Blood-Mane resolved that he would need to get closer if he were to figure out their plans, and decided it necessary to travel down the mountain.

Snow-laden winds continued to rush noisily around the peaks of the mountaintops. The ground rumbled as the beast steadily stood up, and began his decent closer to the castle beyond.

The beast was unsure whether his steps could be felt as far away as the castle, and hoped his movement would not alarm the humans within.

The black smokey fur of the werewolf shook as the muscles underneath twitched with fury at the growling and chomping. Teeth mashed flesh and tore through sinew as the powerful jaws rent the fresh meat from bone. Blood crawled down the lycanthropes beard as his head turned up toward the pale sunshine. With a glimmer in his eyes the wolf’s form deteriorated and gave way to pink skin and tussled black hair. Thanks to Gerald’s amulet, gifted to him by some duke or another, he retained his clothes during the transformation and could do it at almost any time; so long as the amulet remains on his body, of course.

He dragged the small elk by it’s broken neck across the barren snow, leaving a trail of blood and gore behind him.

Moments Later

Sarel sat with his legs crossed in front of him on the straw-padded stone floor. He shivered a little as the hatch to the shelter opened only feet behind him. Gerald entered, blood smattered on his face and hands.

“Got lunch.” He said.

Several Days Earlier

The snowy road stretched on for a while, stone houses and buildings lining both sides to create an open-top hallway. The twinkling stars were already high overhead as the fur padded boots of the messenger crunched on the fresh snow. Piled up along the sidewalks were essentially barricades of snow, dirty with the coming and going of pedestrians. The messenger walked down the center of the road in order to avoid the discomfort of having to traverse the impeding terrain. The count of Rush’s Keep, the city proper, had commissioned extra maintenance of the roads in order to keep them open for traffic. Buggies came around every few hours to collect snow and move it into the surrounding wilderness. The messenger came to the building he imagined was the one he was looking for, from out of the nearby alleyway came another man. This man was veiled by the fresh snow which had begun to fall, this is true, but he also seemed to carry with him an emanating cloak of darkness. His eyes were a sharp black in sunken sockets, beset atop a frequently fractured nose which even now housed a freshly placed bandage. He carried with him a covered crate which jingled and chimed as he walked, and that alone projected his arrival to the messenger who had approached the entrance of the dimly lit building entrance. To be fair, any light would be dimmed in the snow laden wind which had kicked up even as the shadowed man appeared.

“You got something for the Doctor?” He asked gruffly, his accent that of the eastern valley cities, conspicuously devoid of some consonants. He produced a brass key from one of his pockets as he balanced the crate in one hand.

“Yessir. Is ‘e ‘ere?” The messenger responded.

The tough looking man gave an affirmative response something in the way of a cough and opened the heavy wooden door. The smell of burnt flowers and braised wood wafted from the inside and the man shouldered the door inward as he brought the small crate inside. “Come in” was all he said.

The messenger brought himself inside, kicking the snow from his feet at the entrance. As he came in he brought out the fresh parchment he had neatly rolled away in his bag. He held onto it dutifully as he looked around. There were all sorts of things to look around at. To the right of the foyer was what seemed to be a lab of some sort, though it held in it the comfort and familiarity of a kitchen. On the giant center table were vials, and beakers, and buckets, and percolators, all filled with some substance or another. Two smart looking half Elvish women worked at the percolators and vials with books nearby as they chatted quietly. They spoke amongst themselves as the messenger stood amazed in the foyer. He looked at all the bobbles and books along the walls of the lab, then looked at the interesting portraits and art pieces along the center hallway, then found himself peering at the dusty study to the left which held a huge globe behind a cluttered desk, models of machines hanging from the ceiling, and precise diagrams of the physiology and anatomy of every civilized sentient race. Small sketches of plants and fungi adorned the walls, along with various certificates and letters of import. Along the back wall was an encased bookshelf, almost entirely taken up by an encyclopedia. As the messenger saw more of the room, considered the two chairs set up in front of the desk, he realized this was more of a consultation room than anything else. The man placed the crate he carried atop one of the chairs in the foyer and hung his coat atop a hanger. Beneath his fur lined leather coat was even more leather, buckled and padded all the way down, two daggers competed for a position on his right hip in specially made holsters.

One of the women, who was more girl in honest, giggled as she looked over the messenger with expectant eyes. He blushed even more than he already was as the cold left his body. He wondered if he should smile back. As he did the other man began walking, beckoned him with a shrug and grumble. Before he could walk one of the girls called out to him.

“Are you here to collect Doc Sarel?” she asked.

The messenger smiled awkwardly, “No, jus’ to deliver. ‘e may have been called away, but it won’t be me doing the calling.”

“Ova’ here, boy.” The man called out from the far end of the hallway. He looked smaller now so far away at the end of the patterned carpet, set between the bent, wooden door frames. The man disappeared into an alcove and the messenger walked ahead toward the end. His attention was rapt as he walked through the hall, however, passing a set of stairs upward. Glass lamps illuminated the paintings, and beast heads, and diagrams along the finely molded wall. It took him a while to get through the hall, though he couldn’t recall how long. As he approached the dark alcove the man came back up.

“Were you waitin’ for an invitation?” He asked sarcastically as he returned the way he came. The alcove turned into a curving hall and then into a natural cavern structure as it descended. The wood gave way to stone, the bricks gave way to granite; and suddenly the dark gave way to light.

The duo came out into a natural cavernous room alight with the ominous orange glow from a lava stream. As it coalesced into a puddle it gave way to more lava and flowed down into a second hole in the wall which seemed to lead to darkness. On the opposite end of the room was where the lab was located. Several tables were lined up in a row with a multitude of equipment and specimen. At one of the tables stood an incredibly dark skinned man with ashen hair. He wore a simple blouse and leather breeches. His bare feet seemed to blend with the half obsidian floor. He was currently blowing a glass vial with an incredibly intricate device which seemed to connect to the table with a tube. The Dark Elf padded on the peddle used to power the device for several moments after the two entered, achieving a nicely shaped vessel. He stopped easily and placed the contraption aside. Clapping his hands together to get off the dust and particles of glass. He came to a wash bowl to clean his hands and face, as he did so he finally addressed his mate. “Is this the messenger you mentioned, Mr. Newcastile?”

“Yes, Doctor. He has something for you.” Gerald responded in a more eloquent manner than he had in front of the messenger.

“And do you suppose it could be what a portended?” Sarel the Drow asked as he cleaned his neck, a fresh humor in his inquisitive voice. He sounded like a teacher.

“I’ve guessed wrong before.” Gerald said with an air of disappointment, also a hint of apathy.

“It doesn’t mean you’ll guess wrong again.” Sarel said with a slightly strained face as he tied his hair in a bun. “What do you say, boy? Do you think I guessed right? Have you been sent by the regency? Are you one of many messengers to deliver this post?” He asked in just the same voice he’d spoken to Gerald. The messenger felt soothed, compelled to answer.

“Yes, that’s right.” He said.

“Well you’re one of the lucky ones then, eh? No mountains or fierce beasts for you. No worrying if some creature or another will eat you tonight, because you’ll likely be bedding them. Yes, you certainly did draw luckily this time, didn’t you?” Sarel seemed to be saying this without effort, without contemplation.

“Yes, Doctor. I’d say that’s true.” The messenger responded.

“Well of course you would. You have no choice but to acquiesce to reality, or otherwise you’ve truly died.” Sarel mused. “Doesn’t mean we need to be constricted by our realities, does it Mr. Newcastile?”

Gerald shook his head, “We are who we say we are, at least to ourselves.” He seemed to quote that from somewhere, though he spoke it confidently.

“Mr. Newcastile knows more about conforming to one’s own reality than anyone, probably. He learned that reality is often times more flexible than mortals give it credit for. Do you know what I’m saying?” Sarel’s pale eyes seemed to dance in the lava light. It conveyed a secret message somewhere in the tiny dark pupils.

“I think I do,” The messenger responded as if with an epiphany, “Could I stay here for some time?”

“Why yes, of course. Why would I have brought it up in the first place?” Sarel asked with an innocent ignorance of how he might seem to the uninitiated, of which this messenger could no longer identify. Gerald seemed only slightly bewildered as he tried to unravel what might have occurred in the space between the words they spoke and their meanings. The messenger smiled warmly, held back a tear, offered the post. He’d been touched by Sarel as so many others had, and that wouldn’t go away easily. Sarel took the letters and read through them briefly, unperturbed by the contents. “Lola and Etzel will take care of your learning while I’m gone, I’ll continue with you when I return. I’m sure you and Etzel will have quite a bit to share with one another over the course of your stay. I’m glad you’ve decided to stay with us, I didn’t want to send you back out into the cold. Besides, we need someone to help watch the Practice and the Pharmacy while Mr. Newcastile and I are away. When we cure the world of this chill you’ll have more options than you ever dreamed of…” he thought for a moment as he tried to retrieve a title. “What’s your name?”

“Athuras.” The messenger replied.

Sarel grimaced, “I don’t like it.”

---

Athuras was given a cozy room upstairs beside the library, it would be there where his child will be conceived. Sarel thought to himself happily about that as he strode back down the wooden steps.

“Please get my equipment, Mr. Newcastile, and your own. Then meet me in the lab in an hour.” Sarel said listlessly as he made his way back down the darkened alcove and back into the caves.

Sarel’s ashy hands pulled the thin coverings from the crate Gerald had brought him and produced from it several wild samples from across the region. As a part of Gerald’s medical training he needed to learn how to spot and collect samples from the wild. Sarel smiled widely as he saw the meticulousness with which each sample was labeled and encased. The dire tadpole was swimming happily in his small container alongside the silver ore, and thistleweed seeds. Sarel looked over at the spiritual essences he had bottled up on the shelf beside his Alembic. He considered whether he should use the pseudo soul of a succubus, or the magically distilled ectoplasm of a ghost. He frowned when he thought that he might have to bring every spirit he had available to him just in case.

As Gerald came down the steps with a large clasped box, Sarel made the final touches on the apatures and the runes marked on the floor. He’d taken the design from some manual or another in the Arcane Library downtown. The letters he’d received were held aloft by a copper tubing device in the center of the rune circle. Sarel designated the place for the equipment with a flourish as he walked over toward one of the three separate rune circles around the primary circle. Gerald placed the box of equipment on the runed square, then took his place across from Sarel, as directed.

Sarel held a few strings in his hand connected to bottles at the center of the circle.

“This should get us close enough to find a camp and rest for a few days, the transportation will drain us.” Sarel said this slowly and carefully, and Gerald followed behind dutifully. “We’ll need to build a shelter somewhere close, concealed. Understood?”

Gerald nodded, tightened his gloved fists in anticipation. He couldn’t talk with all the nerves going through him. He thought of Lola and hoped she would be okay without him during her pregnancy. She had her sister to help her, and now Athuras, who seemed to be a fine gentleman. As he smiled from the thought of Lola in her nightgown the world around him disappeared. He was strung out into a beam of light and projected through space and time to the icey destination. As the world came back there was warmth around them. Sarel stood across from him in the only patch of snowless ground and they smiled at eachother.

“I can’t believe it.” Sarel said, and he collapsed under his own weight.

Several Days Later

As the duo chewed on the stewed elk meat and bones they peered through the tiny slit built into the shelter. Gerald had done a fantastic job with that. The entirety of it was camouflaged with snow and dead bush twigs; not that it would fool the scouts of the palace, but it would protect them from the elements, and the dangerous animals lurking about as they waited for the party to arrive. This final stew afforded the pair the rest of their energy reserves, and as they ate it they cooed.

“Do you suppose we should head over now, Mr. Newcastile?” Sarel asked with the same tone from so many days ago in the comfortable confines of his home.

Gerald eyed the dwarves which had just ridden up, saw the camaraderie there was to have between the converging groups. “Perhaps after this bowl.” He finally said.

Sarel smiled and nodded, “Yes, I think that’s best.” The gate began to lower just as the two slurped down their broth.

Minutes Later

“See, Gerald, I told you they wouldn’t close the gate.” Sarel said as they came to the fortress entrance, the Doctor holding the pot they used for cooking; the sloshing of baby elk meat making him only a little sick. Gerald only slightly fumbled with the large box as Sarel silently directed him onto the drawbridge. “This certainly is a foreboding place, isn’t it?” Sarel asked rhetorically as he scanned the architecture. He grimaced when he saw the macabre spectacle further in the gates. Referring to the black steeds and their riders Sarel whispered to Gerald, “Not as foreboding as that lot, however.” He instinctually grasped the silver hilt of Jorvith 'Hral as they made their way across the bridge. As he noticed someone who may as well fit the description of the White Mage Sarel waved at him. “Hello there --Exemplar, is it then? My associate and I simply need to get out of the cold for a moment. As you can see we’re not quite prepared for it right now, and my heating potion is running out.” Of course he couldn’t be bothered to stop, so the Doctor simply walked and talked. “We’ll have plenty of time to converse, Mr. Hopsfield, I’m sure!”

And with that he and Gerlad ducked into the closest, warmest place to put their things down and rest.

Acamen sighed out of relief as the Dark Prince entered the castle. But before he could devote any further thought to the matter, the white mage heard some commotion occurring behind him. Hopsfield heard the panic of his guards, followed by a sudden calm. Well that's not usual. But either way, I trust my Paladins can handle it. Besides, if she was flying around my daughter probably noticed. She's normally hovering around this time of day.

After turning around, he waved at a group heading over the bridge. Two people quickly greeted him and sought shelter in his castle with little discussion. They are probably right to get out of this miserable weather. I swear I should recognize them though...

While normally the white mage would have been perfectly content to wait for the elves and the dwarves to finish their discussion, it was freezing on the drawbridge. They'll have plenty of time to talk during our journey north. The dark elf was right about that at least. Wanting to head in soon, the white mage headed towards the party outside of his fortress.

After the short walk, the Brilliant Gold gave a short bow to both the dwarf and elf, hopefully not interrupting their conversation. "Greetings, and..." Suddenly, the ground shook lightly. Hopsfield looked around for a moment, and unable to find a source of the small earthquake, countinued with his greeting. "...welcome to my tower. I'm Acamen Hopsfield, and I'm..." The shaking occurred again, but the source was still too far off for Hopsfield to be able to spot it. "...I'm assuming you are the Mighty Steelforge and Lady Briarheart." The ground shook one more time. "I don't mean to be rude, but do either of you know where is that coming from? Perhaps one of the two had an enchantment that had a strange effect on the ground, maybe meant to destabilize an opponent? Normally he would have examined their equipment and the rest of their company in further detail, but this shaking was bothersome.


The endless white countryside was boring. While it excited the angel for the first few days every year, it eventually became old and monotone. However, Ezekala had continued to fly everyday both to stretch her wings and get away from the castle for a few hours each day.

Normally, aside from birds, she would be alone up here, looking down on those forced to walk the earth. The creature of heaven could hardly imagine the inconvenience of walking everywhere, a simple boulder forcing one to alternate their route. She sighed, rolling her eyes at such silliness.

Suddenly a fireball flew past her with incredible speed. It knocked the angel off balance, her wings taking a moment to reestablish stability. Hopsfield looked to see what had gotten her, but the fireball was gone, entering the castle. What WAS that? The angel flew quickly, curious as to what was going on. Dad had told her people would be showing up but he apparently had no idea who they were going to be.

A short while later, Hopsfield landed on the ground, in front of a small gathering of guards and a young woman. She folded her wings while walking into the group, and after looking at the black haired woman realized that the shorter girl's soul was fire ... but not in a way Ezekala had experienced before. It's shape was unusual, but the angel was sure that this was no mere elemental. Either way, she had obviously been the rude fireball.

Judging by the fact that the guards hadn't tried to kill her, she guessed she the other woman was friendly. Additionally, with her sword of light and the fact that she stood at six foot two made her feel at ease in the presence of this short lady. So rather than smiting her the angel chose to let her off with a warning. "Hey, you know you should watch where your flying. You practically ran into me." The angel smiled as she said this, but internally she was a little upset.

Malaena had to give a mental nod of respect to the guards, they were quite well put together despite the start she had given them, settling down quickly and professionally after the initial flurry of surprise. Even now, while still faintly suspicious they seemed to believe her words about having been invited, their rigid stances relaxing ever so slightly as one of them requested to see her invitation.
Handing the ragged piece of parchment over Malaena's interest was piqued by the surroundings.

The Keep appeared to be built to stand the tests of time and the harshest of elements, while still retaining a grand elegance that was often found lacking in many castles these days. The courtyard was no doubt just as grand as the fortress, but that was left to the imagination, as it lay under a thick blanket of snow, the likes of which were quickly becoming mangled with frenzied activity as the entire place was thrown into an uproar at the arrival of so many guests all at once. Shadowy figure rushed about in the midst of the snowfall, someone hastening toward the drawbridge, then shortly after a whole group of dark riders coming into view and dismounting just around the corner. It was all fairly interesting, but Malaena's study of the fortress was interrupted by the sound of fluttering wings as another figure joined the small group of guards.

Despite how they may have been meant to come across, the words and general air of the winged woman did little to intimidate Malaena, a finely curved eyebrow arching at the less than friendly rebuke. The expression on the other woman's face was merely a formality, the type of smile that said 'Killing you would be but the smallest effort, little bug, but since I feel generous you may kiss the ground and thank me for my mercy'.

The guards hadn't even blinked an eye when she joined them, which meant she had either gotten here before everyone else and was given admittance, or she lived here. Either way it was of no consequence, no matter how much it might be expected Malaena wasn't going to cower, nor was she going to offer an apology.
Instead she opted for a route that had the potential of escalating the current scene enormously, garner a fresh enemy, or simply diffuse the situation entirely. There was always a fairly good chance that it would turn out to be the worst option of them all, but it also tended to be worth it, no matter the outcome, for such unpredictable paths lent an unexpected curve to life that kept things from becoming dull and meaningless.

"You poor darling, what ever happened that gave you the complex that you must dress to disappear into the background? You should not think so lowly of yourself as to feel that hiding is the only course of action available. You should be proud to stand out and show how unique you are." Malaena's words dripped with sincerity toward the woman, seemingly not at all ruffled by the accusation that had been directed toward her.
"A few singed edges would help marvelously to lend some much needed contrast to your current wardrobe, but if you are adverse to such a thing I guess I shall simply have to avoid every last glimmer of white next time I'm out for a leisurely glide. Oh wait . . . "

Her timing was perfect, glancing upward just as a fresh wave of swirling snow burst over the top of the fortress walls. Returning her gaze to the woman Malaena shrugged, not bothering to finish the sentence, assuming everyone was bright enough not to need her to spell it out.
She didn't wait to see if there was a rebuttal coming, choosing instead to simply walk away from the little group to see what was happening around the corner.
But, before she dropped the matter entirely, there was one more thing that needed saying and she did just that, words floating over her shoulder as she continued to walk away without so much as a backward glance.

"Oh, and next time you're off on a jaunt, since you are right on top of being entirely aware of your own surroundings, it might be advisable to get out of the way when flaming projectiles are headed in your general direction."

She almost wanted to stay and see the reaction, for the woman did not strike Malaena as being the type to leave things lie that easily, especially if she hadn't been the one to have gotten the last word in, but there were simply too many other things going on to ignore them all in favor of a heated discussion.

The chaos was almost amusing, a confusing tangle of voices and bodies that made it hard to decide what to watch first. There were the black riders ordering around people not under their command, a couple rather eccentric looking men rushing to find shelter indoors, guards attempting to gain the upper hand and sort things out in an orderly manner, or the tangled group of people currently bottle-necked down by the drawbridge.
Yet in the midst of all of that, there was something else even more intriguing.

A faint vibration had begun to roll underfoot, far too evenly spaced and steady to signal a distant avalanche or earthquake of any sort. Tipping her head slightly toward the sky Malaena listened intently, focusing on the vibrations and tuning out the commotion in front of the keep. Before long she was quite certain she could hear a sound to accompany the disturbance. A steady rhythm that very much sounded like footsteps. Very, very large footsteps.

At the suggestion from Fyldren that it was just an avalanche, the dwarf, wizard, and ranger headed inside along with their apprentices. They never realized that there was a giant outside of the castle, or if the ranger did she didn't say anything about it. They trusted the elf's abilities to understand nature, and if she said nothing was strange Acamen wasn't going to argue that something was.

Acamen held a small feast for all the heroes, and aside from some small exchanges of dialogue the dinner was mostly silent. Partially because they would be setting out early the next day, and partially because a bloodthirsty vampire sat at the table, but mostly because they were all hungry after a weary journey through the endless wasteland.

The night passed without any incident, and when morning arrived the party set off. The heroes made with haste northward, knights of darkness and paladins of light guarding the left and right sides of the caravan respectively. In the middle were several carts containing supplies, along with a seemingly massive stock of strong ale. When questioned, Acamen stated that he carried the alcohol with them because 'they would need it later'.

The skies continued to snow endlessly, with two small figures watching from above. The Angel and Phoenix seemed to be at odds with each other still, probably because they were both proud creatures by nature. But no further conflict had occurred, which her father was thankful for.


The adventurers topped the crest of a small hill, but Acamen couldn't see beyond the inside of his wagon. Engrossed in his books, he still sought a way to strike down two of the challengers. He hadn't been lucky so far, and his sources were becoming less and less reliable.

The black flap of the wagon opened, and his daughter stumbled in, collapsing on the floor immediately. The sound of snoring filled the wagon, and Acamen couldn't suppress a small grin. This is probably where I'm supposed to call her an angel, but this is probably the only time she acts like one... Still, he was impressed. Checking his watch, the mage of light noticed that his daughter had been up there for twenty two hours straight.

The Brilliant gold peeked his head outside of the tent, checking on the other flying party member. She's still up there. Do phoenixes really possess such endurance? Maybe I haven't been paying attention, but it's been ... thirty six hours for Malaena? The scholar made sure to jot that down in his notes, wanting to pass down this knowledge to the future. He would be doing the same for the dark prince, but Acamen had already gathered knowledge about them during his fights in the Shadowlands.

Before Acamen could return to his books however, a Paladin strode into the wagon. "Exemplar, the Phoenix says a few thousand people are approaching from the north, probably barbarians based on their appearances. They are about ten to twelve miles ahead of us ... what are your orders? Before responding, Acamen quickly wrote down that the phoenix had unbelievable eyesight, far beyond that of his daughter. The mage wasn't surprised though, as he knew birds of prey normally had superior vision.

Acamen stepped outside, his feet trudging in the cold snow. It wasn't comfortable here like the southern lands, and if it was his choice someone else should have handled this expedition. Still, this was his job. The caravan had already halted, and Acamen shot a signal of light upwards to gather the other champions. These barbarians are probably going to raid lands to the south. That could be my parents. If I can, I'd like to turn them home, at least for now... However, he would like to hear the other's opinions on this issue. Starting internal conflict here could mean surrendering the world, and Acamen knew his selfishness should not go ahead of the needs of Corthan.

The night proceeded mostly uneventfully. A small dinner was held, which Volkimir attended solemnly. Neither he nor his attendants partook in the meal, as none of it was palatable to vampires. Their horses, however, were fed richly on various cuts of raw meat. Volkimir's caravan arrived not long after the quiet, awkward dinner had concluded, and he and his knights spent the rest of the night in their own encampment, rather than in the tower. Though Volkimir didn't really care what any of the other attendees thought of him, he supposed that he didn't want to make them too uncomfortable. Waking up with a dagger in his back or a stake in his heart wasn't something he wanted to risk by alienating his allies.

Days Later...

The snow continued, as it always did. Volkimir rode with his caravan, rather than riding ahead of it with his knights as he had done on the journey to the Tower of Gold. His retinue had taken up the Western flank of the overall procession, whereas' Hopsfield's guard had taken up the East. Given how likely the two were to conflict, this was a wise decision on the part of Hopsfield himself. Even so, this did mean that Volkimir's followers were forced to endure the worst of the weather, facing the Western wind. Though the majority of his retinue was undead and cared nothing for the cold, this was still something of a perceived slight by the caravan's more vocal members.

At the crest of a hill, the caravan stopped. Volkimir halted his horse, which stamped impatiently. Though Volkimir did not show it, he too was made impatient by the crawling pace of this burdensome caravan. Mortals always needed to stop to eat or rest their pathetic horses or warm their shivering bodies. Volkimir had contemplated simply riding off on his own, but he felt as though that would create later conflict. Not to mention that he would merely have to wait at their destination for the others to arrive. A flare went up, the golden light clearly visible against the dreary sky. This was Hopsfield's signal that he wanted to meet with the the "peerage," as it were. Volkimir signalled to two of his knights, who moved to flank their master, and the trio rode off to Hopsfield's covered wagon in the center of the caravan.

Snow collected on the heavy, dark furs that Volkimir wore over his usual cloak and armor. This was less for warmth as much as he did not wish for his leathers to go to rot from the moisture. Luckily it was cold enough that the snow simply accumulated, rather than melting. The going would be far more difficult if they had mud and snowmelt to ride through as well as the perpetual blizzard. His knights, in black armor, cared less for the snow, and let it freely gather upon their armor. The accumulation on their helmets and shoulders gave them the image of statues, and their solemn silence contributed to the image. Soon enough, Volkimir and his riders had found Hopsfield, who stood outside his comfortable, insulated cabin.

Volkimir dismounted, trudging through the snow to the cleric, as his knights kept their mounts nearby. "Would this be about whatever my wolves have been fussing over?" Volkimir knew something odd was going on up ahead, as his pack had been restless and unusually aggressive since they had set off in the morning. Volkimir himself could not tell what it was, as it was further than he could sense, especially with the blizzard blocking out his finer intuitions.

Time melted into an endless sea of wind and snow as the party progressed slowly but doggedly over the frozen landscape. Nothing remotely resembled recognizable landscapes any more, everything having been buried under still accumulating layers of thick snow, seemingly intent on rendering the entire world completely flat and frozen in time.

Catching an updraft Malaena took the brief moment to rest her wings, letting the air current bear her higher in a lazy curve. It did not last long, and a moment later she dipped into an opposing current, spinning in a tight arc that dropped her lower once more, leveling off and returning her gaze to the mass of blurry shadows below.
She had taken the last couple of days to study those on the ground, gaining what little knowledge that could be garnered from this distance. There had not been much interaction between the parties during the single meal they had all shared back at Hopsfield's home, and even if there had been she would have remained at a distance, content to keep to herself and observe.

A rush of wind caught Malaena's attention when the angel shot downward, a swirl of snow following her to the ground as she landed and disappeared into one of the wagons near the center of the caravan. Other than the hasty introduction between herself and Hopsfield himself the only other person Malaena had actually exchanged words with had turned out to be the daughter of their host. While the initial tension between the two lingered the pair had apparently come to a silent, mutual agreement of completely ignoring each other. At least, for the time being, who knew what the future would hold.

It was growing rather tiresome, all this endless blowing and snow, and Malaena was half considering joining the caravan for a change of pace, when she spotted something on the horizon. Blurry and faint, but definitely there.
Powerful wings beat against the angry wind as she surged upward until her line of vision was, if not clear, slightly more defined. Moments later the great bird plummeted toward the ground, wings tucked close together as she spun downward at an alarming speed.

Horses shied and pranced away as the phoenix landed in a flurry of feathers and veils of curling smoke. Before their riders had managed to calm the startled mounts Malaena had emerged from the dissipating cloud of smoke and vapor, waving one of the paladins over with a flick of her wrist to inform him of what she had seen.

No doubt there would be a discussion of what course of action to take, and it was for this reason alone she did not immediately return to the sky, instead weaving her way toward the middle of the caravan and taking a moment to examine the surroundings at ground level. After all that effort to change she might as well stay on the ground for awhile and see what moods were circulating amongst all these wagons and shuffling feet.
Many she passed seemed completely miserable, tucked into their furs as tightly as possible, paying no heed to their left or right, simply trudging onward until they were given the command to halt. No doubt a good portion of them would suffer from severe frostbite and many other ailments before this entire thing had come to completion.

Rounding the corner of a sturdy wagon Malaena approached the spot where Hopsfield stood, just in time to overhear Volkimir voice his question, fitful wind snatching away the words as quickly as they left his mouth.

"You are correct in your assumption." Covering the last few feet between them, Malaena nodded her head slightly as she confirmed the Dark Prince's question. Even as she spoke she was studying both men, gauging their body language and expressions. While Volkimir did not offer much, Hopsfield was somewhat easier to read. He seemed distracted, as though dealing with an internal conflict and attempting get a handle on himself before hasty judgments were called.

"We have apparently stumbled upon the very path a fair sized group of northmen seem to be aiming to take. Their numbers are sizeable, but from this distance it is unclear as to what their intention may be."
There were several possible reasons for those of the north to head further south. They could be bent on using this unnatural winter to their advantage, amassing an army and setting out to further expand their territories. Or they could be seeking shelter by abandoning their homes and heading toward what should be milder climates.
In any case it was probable they meant ill-will to those they came across. For barbarians did not simply seek shelter at the mercy of others. They laid claim and conquered.

Blood-Mane trudged diligently through the blizzard covered mountains, the thick snow muffling his footsteps. Down below in the valley he could see the party of humans creating a trail of tiny footprints as they marched ahead. From his view on the mountain they looked kind of like ants traveling in a line, and he assumed they probably looked about the same up close. He was sure that they must be freezing without thick coats of fur like himself. Keeping careful watch, the troll questioned if perhaps they would eventually just stop moving altogether, and he would descend down the mountain to find an army made of solid ice. The thought created a slight grin underneath the beast's giant nose.

His thoughts turned to food, as a rumble that would terrify armies rattled from his stomach. Searching around the mountains in this area proved scarce for snacks, as the local wildlife seemed to be not nearly as well equipped for the cold as the tasty mammoths and frost-tigers that lived near his cave in the north. Another quick scan of the area revealed only the party he was following, and not even a footprint of another animal caught his sight.

Blood-Mane, discouraged, turned back toward the band of humans to see if they had frozen solid yet. However, they continued to move forward at a steady rate. The dark army of humans on dark horses unnerved the troll, though he was not sure why. They were definitely small, though they seemed powerful and creepy somehow. The thought helped encourage the troll to stay at a distance in the mountains and not disturbing the lot of humans.

Blood-Mane's eyes traveled over the rest of the group. The odd group of humans riding bears traveled below. The bears were large and sturdy, and the troll wondered if perhaps they might loan him one bear as a snack. It was unlikely they would part with their rides, though, and Blood-Mane decided it probably wasn't worth making them angry to find out. In the sky above them, the strange, flying creature glided, appearing to the Blood-Mane to be the most powerful of the army, and remained the only one of the creatures below that currently made sense to the troll as someone who might be summoned for this sort of task.

As Blood-Mane continued to affirm his decision to stay at a distance, a small motion caught his eye. Off, not far in the distance, he spotted a deer. It would not be a substantial meal by any means, but would be better than nothing. He walked carefully behind boulders, moving as stealthily as a giant troll could, in the direction of the deer. Despite his efforts, though, his movement succeed in startling the animal, and it took off across the mountain slopes.

Determined and hungry, Blood-Mane pursued his one chance at a decent snack through the jagged rocks and half buried trees dotting the snow-covered landscape. Eventually, he managed to circle around the animal, somewhere lower down the mountain, and crouched for a while behind a boulder. After some time of waiting, the deer began to get closer, traveling slowly down the sides of the mountain slopes. Fortunately, right at that moment, some sort of signal of light shot into the air nearby, startling the deer right down toward the motionless troll, who crouched under a large rock just large enough to cover him.

After a while of waiting, the deer made its way to the rock where the beast waited, and Blood-Mane managed to grab his snack. Biting the deer in half and chewing his tasty meal, Blood-Mane stepped out from his hiding spot, hoping to finish the rest of his meal more comfortably. As he began to take another bite, he heard voices talking about something to do with barbarians.

Blood-Mane looked down, mid-bite, and realized that he had, in his distraction, managed to run right into the humans he had been following.