GreivousKhan — Roleplayer Guild

Of Crownless Kings: Chapter One of Act One

Ceveut, the 5th of Gerna 1200 AU - 05/03/1200

“Ye ol city of Splendors, gleaming towers of white gold,
kissed by the sun as it smiles upon ye from skies above,
sit here the childern of the phoenix, adorned in silks of silver,
look now beyond your walls and know, all that you see you rule,
from east to west, south and north united are the children of the skies.
Gathered under wings on high, shall they and all their kin live and prosper under the sun.”
-Verse 123 of 'The Book of Holies'

   The sun gleamed down upon the marble white walls and high buildings, washing them in its blessed light. The rays of Kammeth seemed to glisten upon the City of The Phoenix in such a way as to cause it to appear as if molded from pearl gold. High spires of snow white had cast long shadows under the risen sun though no structure was so majestic as the Great High Tower of the Phoenix, built from the Palace of the same name. That great structure of stunning beauty could be seen clearly even from miles beyond the cities walls. So that even ships arriving from sea traveling through the Golden Gulf would see them long before docking. Banners of all golden hue with the most spectacular designs adorned these great and lofty structures, rising high into the heavens as if to touch the gods who the people of this great city worshiped reverently. The mighty battlements and guard towers were as much a work of art as the rest of the city, revealing the tilrinics love for architecture given a poet's touch. They stood sentinel against the world, as if in open challenge to all, daring them to assault its formidable defenses. Three such rings of fortifications did circle inward toward the seat of power. Only once had the first wall ever been breached since the cities construction. And that had been all the way back in The Great Drathii War.

   Still the houses within surely did not disappoint, as much sculptures of artwork as they were structures of necessity. Statues lined many streets, the rare fountain strategically placed with gardens of roses and other sweet smelling flowers. Flags lined the streets as long steamers, the streets themselves meticulously clean cobblestones, continuously tended to by dung farmers. In the heart of a square near the cities north entrance stood the proud sculpture of Valorin Tallurian, the Vael of the Blood and one of the great heroes of the Battle of Blood Tears. The success of which had been the decisive victory in that terrible war. 

    In the high spire of the Phoenix Tower Shamgar Valarien sat back in his polished oak wood chair behind his equally well made desk. He sighed, the tobacco pipe in his left hand still burning as he took this moment to relax. He had been swamped with official edicts and paperwork ever since his brother had passed away one week ago. Throwing the realm into temporary chaos. He did not see it becoming stable any time in the near future until someone sat upon the gilded throne once more. He had already sent ravens to every Arch Elector four days prior to attend the election to come. Soon every High House would be arriving from every corner of the Empire. Steps had already been taken for the preparations, even the Imperial Navy had been stepped up to ensure safe passage across the seas.      

   Shamgar shifted in his seat as he stooped forward to reread a letter recently sent from the Fifth Regiment stationed in the north. Another request for reinforcements- he had guessed that before even opening it. It was a wonder they had managed to hold something resembling stability given their diminished resources. Shamgar wished his brother had not neglected the north provinces so long, spending the Imperial coffers largely on new ships to venture out to new uncharted lands. Shamgar used his free right hand to rub the temple of his forehead as another headache had begun to set in. 

A knock on the door broke him from his reverie, “come in.” he responded in a tired but stern voice.

   The door to the small packed office was opened and in stepped Nirlowyn Puronus, one of his aides or a scribe when the need arose. The young man was a fresh faced youth who often stumbled over his words. He knew his letters well at least. He bowed his head in apology before saying, “Milord, s-sorry for disturbing you, b-but the ex-execution will be starting soon.”

Shamgar tapped his pipe into the ashtray on his desk, “I see, thank you for the reminder,”

Nirlowyn nodded, then hesitated for a moment, “Y-you’re not going?”

   Shamgar gave a grim half-smile, “An unnecessary distraction, besides, if I know my nephew as much as I think I do. There will be enough Valareins attending as it is…”

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Court Square of Lalrial

“-Here stands accused and damned of desertion, and causation of the deaths of Duke Carles Valarien, his Officer and Son Yarlo Valarien, and the sum lives of ten thousand loyal soldiers!”

	A crier hawked, his dim, beady eyes reading off of a rolled parchment. The sun beat down on his bald head as he motioned to a ragged man who stood with a thick rope around his neck and the splintering platform of a gallows underneath his calloused feet and blackened toes.

	A crowd had grown around the spectacle of the public execution, many angry faces scowled at the man in hatred and anger. Five years the many people of the Ethica Empire had waited for something to be done about the great defeat that cryptically took place in the mysterious webbed woods of the north, just outside of imperial providence. 

	Some faces were soft, those who hadn’t lost a brother, or father, uncle or son in the costly battle. They looked at the man who was given such a traitorous title as he stood hunched and broken under the arm of the gnoose with compassion, how could such a single and destroyed figure be the monster to hold the mantle of the cause of the destruction?

	Once the skin of the accused may had been very well the porcelain fabric of youth, eager to fight for his banner, but now it was cracked, tanned, dirty and scarred with the pains of failure. What could have been beautiful coal colored hair was a nest of twigs and muck, tangled and covering all but his cheeks and eyes, so colorless and empty. He was no longer an Imperial soldier, and now with his crimes, he was no longer even an Imperial in the eyes of his kin and country.

	With a deft nod from the hooded executioner who stood by the wooden lever that held the fate of the deserter, the crier turned to his prey, his entertainment for the aggressive crowd, “Son of no country, deserter of all that is good, do you have any final words?”

	The broken man who stood under the beating sun barely turned his grizzled chin to the fanciful crier, an audible hot snort breaking from wide nostrils. The crier reeled back a step, as if caught off guard by a sudden stench, he then turned to the executioner and waved his hand for the hooded statesman to pull the crank.

	“PARDON!” A sudden masculine voice broke from the crowd, and the executioner stayed his hand, everyone knew that voice.

	The crier frantically waved his arms to shoo the executioner away from the lever as the crowd parted. A breeze of grumbles and rumors from the crowd rumbled softly as Grevis Valarien, son of Carles, younger brother and shadow of Yarlo Valarien, quickly hopped up the platform and beside the crier.

	Grevis wore the silk of nobility and the scowl of a dead man’s brother. Quickly behind him, a young woman a few years younger than the young man scrambled to stand behind him, fighting a cumbersome dress. Isa Valarien, cousin to the widowed family straightened herself, patting down chestnut hair and sharpening her bright eyes on the crier. 

	The duo caused a hush to fall over the crowd as the pair of imperial family members, ranked the highest in terms of nobility, talked quietly with the crier. Razor sharp words spilled quietly from Grevis’ mouth and the crier receded backwards with each punctuation. Eventually, Isa had gained control of the conversation, while the crowd watched confused. 

	With a slow turn, the crier approached the edge of the platform, conducting the audience’s view with a small flourish. 

	“Lord Grevis Valarien wishes to conduct questioning on the deserter, for the greater good of the Imperial way and to close his rights to knowing the demise of his family, we will reconvene in two hours,” The crier bowed lowly.

	A great utterance erupted from the crowd, some disappointed, some frustrated, some secretly glad they didn’t witness the execution. As the audience dispersed, Grevis waved off their remarks with an idle hand, his dark eyes stuck on the ragged man who stood still before him.

	“Should we take him inside and bath him before you ask him questions?” Isa asked meekly, attempting to avoid the blind wrath that was brewing inside her cousin.

	“He is filthy inside and out, no bath will change his choice,” Grevis snapped, avoiding the purpose of Isa’s question. Isa pursed her lips and crossed thin arms over her chest. 

	“What do you know?” Grevis directed his voice to the roped man. 

	“That I’m thirsty,” Croaked the dusty man, dirt pouring from his beard as his chin bobbled. 

	“Bastard!” Grevis shouted, forcing Isa to jump and grab ahold of his wrist.

	“You’re being hot headed.”

	“Shut up -- Tell me what happened!” Grevis yanked, years of depression boiling into anger.

	“Very well,” The scratchy voice ribbited, “here is what I saw, but it won’t comfort you.”

	“I want closure, the truth!”

	“I don’t know about closure, but here is the truth.” 
	Sullen eyes met Grevis’ raging orbs and quickly the roped deserter was suddenly eager, yet pained to confess the sins of the Battle of Webwood forest. The words were quick to tell of the eager march, the happy songs of the soldiers, and how auspicious the whole event started out. It wasn’t until the actual description of the battle did the faint smirk of nostalgia suddenly fade away from the deserters chapped lips that had formed sometime during the story. 

	“We were marching, quietly, on guard. All of us felt invincible really, I mean, we had the two greatest military leaders of the time, one in the front, one in the middle. I myself was right behind Old Duke himself, or well… a few rows behind I should say. The nobles rode their horses in the woods, but not Duke or Yarlo, they were smart. Horses are a bad idea in the woods, especially the webbed one. 

	Either way it was not a bad march, uneasy, but we felt safe. We had the manpower, and we had the brains, and the best damn officers around. The woods smelled funny, though. Instead of the honey and sap that was so thick around the entrance to this damned place, it smelt of sulfur, of brimstone. It spooked the noble horses now and again when a winding guts broke through the sickly, twisted trees.

	It was hard to hear over the marching metal, you see, but the sound was not mistakable. Berserkers of the north came out of nowhere, screaming wildly, but not without tact. They cut our line in half… I remember the flames that broke me off from the Duke’s company, they were so high… I couldn’t jump them.”

	The deserter paused, and Grevis shook the man’s shoulder roughly, but the deserter only hung his head.

	“More!”

	“Grevis please, look at him-”

	“Isa! Be quiet!”

	“Leave the lady alone,” the grizzled man croaked, “there is more.”

	Grevis leaned in close as the man continued to weave his story into the pairs minds. 

	“Immediately the shouting began, metal rang, and my entire body vibrated with adrenaline. Ever been in combat? Real combat? You can feel everyone’s collective heartbeat, like some sick drum in your head and soul. You can feel it when a heartbeat stops, it’s like your own quitting on you. Metal still shrieks in your head afterwards, and the blood curdling screams of the man you cheered with days before never leaves your mind. 

One voice though, one voice rang above all the others. I could hear it despite the turmoil of the battle. I could almost see him through the flames. DON’T BACK DOWN… STAND… HOLD! HOLD! Yarlo was as calm as ever, and his orders were like a father’s hand on a fevered head. I could hear the soldiers standing firm on the other side of the flames, as if Yarlo’s presence added strength to their defense. Carles had fallen though, I could feel it, it was in Yarlo’s voice.

 Carles column collapsed soon after, but I heard Yarlo still fighting. They were getting pushed into the forest, away from the divide. My leaderless column scattered after some harassment. I was struck many times, but my mail never gave out. My blade was flat and dull with the tip clean off by time I got out of there. I had to run, we all did. If we stood together like Yarlo at the beginning, maybe we wouldn’t have too, but we didn’t.

I knew why we had to stay together, they were trying to break us up and put us into the woods, where we would be easily slaughtered. That’s just what they did with my column. A man by the name of Peter Marshal managed to stick with me, but he too eventually disappeared into the woods in his own direction. I was considered lucky I suppose, because I found myself lost in the woods with my head still attached, but I considered it unlucky.

I spent a countless time surviving there, and even longer trying to find home. Alas, I gave up the idea of home as soon as I didn’t die by my fallen comrades, there is no home for a man like me. There is no peace for anyone who’s tasted the blood that mists through the air in the crudest of battles. I don’t know what country is, I don’t know what calm is… it never ends.”

“What of Yarlo?” Grevis persisted anxiously.

“I don’t know… I was forced in the opposite direction from his column,” the roped man quietly responded. 

Grevis’ face twisted as he tried to hold back his disappointment. Years of wondering, of questioning, and still no relief, “Wha.. You- Bastard! Rope him! Hang him!”

“Cousin please!” Isa snapped.

The deserter seemed to hang his head in acceptance, perhaps welcoming the penalty as the cousins started to argue. Grevis snapped back at Isa harshly, his angered voice not making any real words to be deciphered. Isa huffed in offense and promptly slapped Grevis across the face with a whack that caused the roped man’s head to shoot back to attention.  

The red hand print glowed on Grevis’ fuming face, and as quick as lightening his trained and worked arm swung in retaliation. Isa spun slightly on her heel as her cousin’s palm connected loudly against her cheek, knocking her off her balance. The calloused hand of the deserter attempted to catch her as she fell by him, but the rope kept him close to the stalk of the gallow and she fell hard onto the rough platform. 
The grains of the wood splintered and scratched her face from the force of the fall, and she whimpered softly from the surprising amount of pain on her right arm, which she had fallen on. Grevis’ face sank slightly in shock of his own strength, and from the judging stare from the sullen criminal on the rope. As sudden as his own attack however, a thick fist suddenly hooked from out of sight and landed squarely on the tip of Grevis’ nose, popping it into a burst of blood and knocking him onto his butt.

In front of him stood the tan skinned Gowa Valarien, her dark pretty face angry, her stance protective, and her grey Valarien eyes sparkling with innate righteousness that she so often practiced in the art of fighting. She wore her training clothes, which clung tight to her slim yet athletic figure, damp with sweat, and a blade dangled from her hip threateningly.

“You touch one of our cousin’s again, and that’ll be my blade splitting your stubborn nose,” Gowa hissed.

“Scamper away, lizard,” Gowa waved her hands, and Grevis didn’t wait long to listen to her command, as he scurried away from his mighty cousin, daughter of his uncle Shamgar.

Gowa kneeled, her high leather boots crunching from the strain as she patted Isa’s messy hair, “do you need help getting home?” She whispered in a sweet contrast to her earlier tone.

Isa turned onto her back and looked up at Gowa, “I’m fine, I just sprained my arm.” the young woman gave a beaming smile of courage.

Gowa smiled back, “well get it tended to quickly, we can’t be losing our brave kin to bad arms, or we will be stuck with relying on Grevis.”

“Gowa,” Isa sat up, “could we pardon this man?” Her good arm quickly fingered out the obvious dirty man standing watch over the pair.

Gowa turned her head and brushed a long jet black hair from her face to better observe the mess of soldier and earth.

“I heard the news of your damnation,” Gowa said calmly to the man, “what is your name soldier?”

A cracking croak responded softly, “Furnos… Furnos Lamillur.”

“You are free, Furnos Lamillur,” Gowa smiled.

“Are you sure?” Furnos asked pessimistically as Gowa loosened his gnoose. 

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Gowa asked politely as she slipped the rope off of his muscled neck.
“Because there are more things than ropes and cages that can bind a man down,” Furnos turned to his savior and a small curve that was almost a smile appeared behind his beard, “but thank you, my Lady.”

“Cryptic, yet grateful,” Gowa nodded, “at least, you are not Grevis.”

“He just wants his brother back, he loved him so much,” Isa defended.

“He should honor the memory, rather than beat on smaller foes,” Gowa looked over to Furnos, expecting support, but the man remained silent.

“No opinion?” Gowa asked suddenly.

“As a man who just had a rope on his neck, I’d prefer not to provoke a fresh one from you, or any one of your family members.”

A sweet, song bird like laugh chirped from Gowa’s throat and she shook her head, “come, Furnos, let’s freshen up both you and your hero. You two must be starving, I know I am.”

Isa happily walked beside Gowa as the taller woman began to lead the limping Furnos towards a civil place to eat and freshen up. Her mouth moved with questions, and each Furnos answered quickly, with slightly interruptions at times from a curious Isa.

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Sibling Rivalry
Location: Imperial Capital

     Ralltene carefully buttoned up his clean cotton shirt as he mentally shook the hooks of sleep from his mind. Looking back at his reflection in the mirror as he did he noted the hints of dark lines under his eyes and sighed. He had stayed up far later than he normally would have liked. Still the company had been more than pleasant. In the bed behind him, a feminine figure stirred. Noticing this Ralltene could not hide a smile that crept to his lips as his thoughts fell toward the previous night. No, he would not regret burning the night oil for so long. 

      He took a moment to regard the man looking back at him from within the mirror. His dark hair now combed and proper, clean-shaven save for a carefully trimmed mustache. His tan skin and fine features were clearly tilrin. But his dark silver eyes clearly revealed his Valarien blood. 

      He returned his attention to his morning preparations. He had recently arrived back within the walls of the imperial capital of Lalrial. Having recently returned from his stay in Violette a messenger had quickly found him when he had come to check on his holding within the city itself. The note had been a missive from Allianna Valarien, his older sister, inviting him to a casual visit. No doubt it would revolve around their father's death and the vacant throne. Ralltene personally still hoped the coming election would not sully their own personal relationships. 

       Kammeth’s breath that would likely be too much to ask for given the history of past elections. He had always been on rather a good standing with his older sister. Despite having seen little of each other for some years now. Still they had gotten along well enough, which was more than he could say for his brother Jakinius who had never taken much interest in the dealings of his younger brother. Even as children Jakinius was often too busy with his trainers. 

       After each of them had moved on to their own goals Ralltene had been the only one to keep in contact with their father. His death had likely hit him the hardest. He had taken up with his bad habit of drinking upon hearing the news that fateful day. Ralltene had always been closest to his old man. He imagined it was because both shared that lust for wonder. To see all this world had to offer before they passed from it. They had merely went about those goals in very different ways.  

        A few minutes later Ralltene exited the Highdawn inn. One of the many such establishments he owned personally. He had developed a habit of staying under their roofs rather than within the palace proper long ago. At least, no one would find it strange he would be leaving one this early in the day. His marriage to Duchess Victoria Gracieux had not been his choice, but he had lived in the empire and dealt with its internal politics long enough to know that personal desire came second to that of the realm or one's family. Both had much to gain from the marriage of houses. He also did not fool enough to think Victoria would not suspect his extramarital affair.  

         However, the simple policy of ignorance gave both parties a chance to to save face. As he walked through the cobbled streets even now growing busy from foot traffic his mind went to the Duchess; currently staying within the palace proper. He had left after revealing plans to Victoria of meeting with some of his old merchant contacts to prepare for the election. Which had at least been half true. 

         He soon arrived at the palace's gates, the pearl white iron criss-crossing into intricate designs. After revealing who he was to the imperial guards stationed there, he made his way into the palace itself. A few flight of stairs later he arrived at a small dining chamber for an important guest of the emperor. The room was unsurprisingly well furnished, possessing a few paintings, one of which depicted King Cevest Seval during The Battle of Kawachian Straits waters against the dreaded Black Fleet of the west. The far wall being flanked by glass windows that allowed the late morning sunlight to filter through. 

	In one velvet cushioned chair sat Allianna. Her red dress sparkled in the sunlight that speared through agape purple curtains, catching the gold that was embroidered into her fine gown. Accustom to the latest fashion, it tightened around her waist, and loosened around her feminine shoulders and hips, flaring at her elbows to give way for her porcelain arms to cross across her lap. A look of boredom lingered on her scarlet lips, and her eyelids drooped impatiently over silvery eyes.

	At the sound of Ralltene’s step, her look of discontent sank behind a sudden glow, and an alluring smile as she rose to her feet, and quickly made her way over to her little brother. Quickly she clasped her slim hands around his and pulled him in gently for a quick hug.

	“Ralltene, it is unlike you to keep me waiting for so long, I almost started to worry!” She leaned back to look at her brother’s face and her smile dimmed to a parsed line.

	“Perhaps, I wasn’t waiting too long, it’s been hard lately. You know,” her voice lost its cheer.

          Returning the hug with genuine compassion Ralltene gave a grim nod of understanding, “Recent days have been hard on us all I’m sure. I’m glad to see you in good health - has word been sent to Jakinius in the north?” 

	“Yes,” Allianna bit her lip, “but I’m also afraid he might be late, being so far north.”

	Allianna took a step back from Ralltene and a genuine look of worry crossed her face, crinkling her brow. 

	“I’m afraid, Rally. Growing up we heard the terrible stories of these elections in the past. Our own father’s was one of pure luck, in that no sibling were killed. I’m afraid we might be at each other's throats at some point if we don’t approach this correctly and thoughtfully. We need to talk before things get out of hand.”

          A grim almost resigned look came over Ralltene, “Yes I have had those exact fears as well.” he paused a moment as he ran the side of his thumb through his mustache. “When brother comes, I want us all to vow we will not let this throne divide us or turn us against each other. Regardless of who wins. To sit on the throne having alienated either one of you would make any victory to bitter to drink.”  

	“I agree,” Allianna nodded quickly, taking her brother’s hand, “I’m worried though. Our brother, he was always a little distant from us, having trained in the foreign lands. You and I always saw eye to eye, but he was always out being the hero while we culminated our lands, and wealth as it were.”

	“You wouldn’t hate me if I tried to win the mantle of Empress, would you?” Allianna asked suddenly. 
       “Hate you? Heavens no,” Ralltene shook his head at that notion. “It is your right after all. I would not hate you for trying any more than I could hate a bird for trying to learn to fly.” 

      “That said,” he paused for a moment in thought, “I want you to know I will be placing forth my name for candidacy. I know father would not wish us at our throats. But I must do what I believe is right in my heart.”  

	“That’s fine,” Allianna smiled brightly, her eyes crinkling. She suddenly added thoughtfully, “Although that seems like a waste of your natural talent.”

        Ralltene raised an eyebrow at that, “really? How so?” 

       Allianna’s smile wavered for a second, as if not expecting to answer that question, “well, Rally, of course, you know that you are an amazing man of coin and commerce. The Emperor is usually so bogged down so many many other tasks, such a skill is hardly flexed and put to the treasurer. I just.. you know… Felt like you were too great to bury such an attribute for others to do it for you. I don’t know, does this make sense?”

          "I understand," Ralltene began, "But...I have learned a great deal more than you might guess in my time traveling the empire. I've traveled to nearly every part of this great empire. I’ve seen its hardships and troubles first hand. You say my talents would be wasted upon the throne. No sister I truly believe I have seen enough of this land know what needs to be done." 

         “This is what I was worried about,” Allianna folded her hands away from Ralltene meekly. Allianna looked at him questionably, “all three of us are going to be running, and it’s just… gah.”

         Seemingly defeated, Allianna lets her knees buckle as she plopped into a nearby chair. She let her elbows fall between her knees as she huffed sadly, “it’s going to cause problems, and I mean… not even including what our cousins might do!”

        “I understand your fears, dear sister,” Ralltene then added as he took a seat across from his Allianna, “but we must at times play the hand fate has dealt us. Trust me when I say I wish it could be different.”

          He sighed, “what have you heard from our cousins on the matter? I have been overlong from the capital and my ears would be glad for any news.” 

	“Grevis is still on his witch hunt, Shamgar’s children are getting brave in the courts, I was hoping my siblings and I would unify before we were undermined by fate. I’ve been the only one in the courts representing our father, the only one, for years! I don’t despise his trips, but it gave me a lot of experience in matters of the intrigue of the courts. So you can imagine how happy I was hearing of your return, and you can understand my sudden heartbreak at the news that I’ll be left alone again to keep things in order.”

           Ralltene sat back in his chair, “In truth I had hoped you would aid me in the election,” he balancing his fingers together. “I more than anyone knows of your work here in the Capital. However, few of the Arch Electors are nearly as savvy to that knowledge or appreciate it - I’ve met with nearly all of them at one point. They know me and I dare say gathering support would not be a difficult task. You are absolutely correct we would stand a better chance together than apart. The Arch Electors want a face they recognize and someone they know will stand for their interest. I could be that face Allianna and with your help we could avoid a dozen family members squabbling after father's throne!”          

	“And what of after the election? Are you going to return to your adventures and leave us with all the work, like father?” Allianna’s face twisted.

        “Of course not sister, I might have shared father's wanderlust at one point but I have plans for the Empire that will make it as great as it was always meant to be. You won’t be left alone with the brunt of the work again.” He sat forward with an almost sad look in his eyes. “Please Ali, I know together we could make this nation great again.”  

	“Fine,” Allianna surrendered, throwing her hands in the air, “or at least maybe… I need to think about this.”

          Ralltene nodded understandably, “Absolutely, think on the matter and know I will accept any decision you make.” He stood straighter. “But if you will excuse me dear sister, I best check on my wife and see how she is settling within the Palace. The last time a servant brought her the wrong desert and she was none to please. ” 

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Nordheim - The Vargs
“Tall and fair and blue-eyed. Theirs are the brother gods Ymir, the storm giant, and Olric The Lord of Winter, and each tribe has its own King. They are wayward and fierce. They fight all day and drink ale and roar their wild songs all night.” - From "A Tale of Lands"

   Frealaf glanced up at the trees again, and almost stumbled as he ran into a snow-covered rock. Regaining his balance he concentrated on running. He took a deep breath with each stride, his long loping steps taking him effortlessly down the mountainside. He heard a keening howl behind him and risked another look over his shoulder. 

   There, just coming out of the trees, he saw his pursuer. It was easily twice as tall as a man, and its thick shaggy fur trailed behind it as it bounded through the snow drifts. It had been steadily gaining on Frealaf for the past hour, and he knew he would not be able to outdistance it. Leaping a few feet into a crevasse, Frealaf changed course and headed west, towards the Frostflood, which cascaded down the valley five hundred paces to his left. Hoping to mask his scent in the fast flowing waters, Frealaf spurred himself to a burst of speed and sprinted for the icy river.  

   Frealaf then saw another Ice Troll closing in from the other side of the river. Almost wild with fear he swerved down hill again and sprawled headlong in the snow as his foot touched a patch of ice. The Ice Troll that he had originally been fleeing from was now only a hundred paces away, and he could see its  rank breath issuing from its mouth in blasts of vapor. The smell of the creature drifted downwind and Fealaf gagged. Fighting nausea he got up and pulled his small hunting spear from its strap on his back. Taking this in  his right hand he stood, feet shoulder width apart, and faced the onrushing creature.  When it crouched for its killing leap ten paces away Frealaf hurled the spear. As if guided by Olric’s hand it flew true, straight into the creature's open mouth. The barbed head protruded from the back of its skull as it crashed to the  ground in front of him. 

   Hearing a bellow Frealaf turned to see the other Ice Troll bearing down on him. He leaped to the fresh corpse and tugged at the spear. It was stuck firm and Frealaf knew he wouldn't be able to free it in time. Whirling around once more he set off running again. There was a small copse of trees, two hundred paces down the valley, and Frealaf headed for this somewhat temporary sanctuary. Reaching the trees Frealaf dived in and grabbed a branch. Swinging himself up with ease, he crouched next to the trunk, waiting for the Ice Troll. It was a few heartbeats and then the ragged beast crashed into the copse and stood below him sniffing the air.  

  Drawing a long hunting knife from his belt, Frealaf stood up on the branch. When the creature turned away from him and bent to sniff the ground he dropped onto its back. Bringing his arm round he plunged his knife into its eye. The Ice Troll threw him to the ground and reared up above him. 

  The creature took a step towards him and then staggered. As its slow nervous system registered the knife sticking from its eye it bellowed with pain and slowed. When it realized how fatal the injury was it tumbled to the snow, almost crushing Frealaf. Sighing with relief Frealaf retrieved his knife and started to skin the body. He would bring it back to his tribe as proof of his success. If Ymir favored him he would be first to return successful and win the right to lead his tribe on their raid to the south-lands. The Long Night, after all, was fast approaching...

Shamgar prepares for the Arrival of the High Houses
A deserter is executed (Credit to Gold the mighty!!!)
Siblings start Bitching early! 
The North prepares...
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