Episode 59 – Homecoming
| The Assassins | Thorn - Cleric 3rd Level LE (PC) |
| Locale | The high country in the land of the Frost Barbarians |
| Date | 26th Wealsun 582 CY |
| Time | A little before sunset |
Clean, clear and bitterly cold, just the way he liked it. A brief gust of mountain air whipped down between the black knotted trees of the valley. Stopping, he drew it in deeply bringing a frosty sting to his nostrils and lungs. Memories, as if the wind were messenger, they came back to his immediate attention.
| Thorn | Yes, I am close now |
Fumbling in his fur lined gloves he removed his backpack and let it fall to the snow. The sun had long since past out of view over the western crest of the valley wall, but the sky still burned red with the last moments of day. A cloak of crimson covered the upper portion of the eastern rise, filling the valley with an eerie red light.
Collapsing in a snowdrift, he fumbled with his pack until he had freed a rasher of meat from its depths.
| Thorn | (examines the meat) I wonder what beast this is. |
The salty juice, slow in its coming, stung his chapped lips and gums. Over the past seven years he had eaten a countless number of such, yet had never thought to wonder their origin. Training had been relentless and there had been no time to dwell on such trivial matters.
After he finished his meal the tall, well built young man rose to his knees and drew his dagger. With a deep breath he drew the blade across his left palm and then gripped the weapon firmly allowing his blood to flow over the ornately carved hilt and drip into the snow.
| Thorn | Most holy lord of blessed darkness. Grant me the strength to rid myself of my ties to the past and free my future for the growth of your devotion. Bless my vengeance and take these souls as a token of my adoration for that which you have given me. Let my blood seal this offering and let your darkness obscure my path and guide me. |
When he had completed his prayer, he bound his palm and rose to his feet.
The trees, seemingly devoid of life, creaked in the building mountain gusts. The red of the sky began to show its first signs of its fade to purple and with it the valley took on new colour. He knew in a few minutes it would be dark and the winds would bring the sudden night cold common to this region.
The frequent sound of axe upon wood as the villagers collected the last of the available fuel before the full brunt of winter took hold came to an end. The sound had been steadily building during his approach and he knew the village proper to be only a half-mile distant. The wood gathers would be making swift journey back with their load before the snap chill. Everyone would be indoors very soon.
Suddenly a brief hint of cooking boar on the air caught him, making his stomach growl.
| Thorn | (smiles) How nice of them to prepare for me so. |
His journey had been long and the thought of a warm meal made him more aware of the rapidly dropping temperature. The light was almost gone, and a little snow had started to fall. He paused to flex his hands in the night air in front of him, feeling his skin tighten with the cold. The climate of his home and training grounds over the past seven years had not been to his liking, and he savored the chill of his homeland as the last signs of day faded away.
Hafgar Thorin rose from his place by the fire. The coals were full and red and would provide a steady heat for the coming hours. Happy with what he saw, he took his wooden mug from the stone sill and washed down the last of his meal. This was the time he enjoyed most, a long evening by the fire after a good day. The hunting had been most successful and there was easily enough meat in the pit to last the worst of the season. No need to hunt in the blinding snows this year. The last few winters had been mild just as the soothsayers had predicted and it seems that their sacrifice had been found worthy. But this next winter was shaping up to be a bad one. But, despite this, things were looking up.
| Hafgar | Fetch me my knife woman! |
Moving from the stone fireplace he took a seat at the stout wooden table dominating the center of the small room. His chair, remembering his shape from many hours of use, was quite comfortable for its look. With a satisfied sigh he leaned back and assessed the array of horns before him. The winter months gave him a fine opportunity to work his carving. The lowland merchants had paid good coin for his trinkets last year, and he was hopeful the fools would again add to his coffers after the winter. Outside the wind had picked up and he could see a steady snow falling from his vantage by the window. He was proud of his window, glass was rare and it had cost him a tidy sum. But it was the fools' money and had come easy. This year, should things hold their promise, he would have a fine array of meal plates in the spring. Outside both the wind and the hounds could be heard howling at the night.
| Grunda | Here's yer knife husband. |
| Hafgar | Do remember to attend to the hounds. |
Hafgar always liked to make sure his dogs where looked after.
He selected a partially completed horn and took up the small blade. With a practiced hand and a trained eye he worked the moose horn adding the fine details to the crudely carved bear. Hafgar enjoyed this work, he always did; he could spend hours working his knife and he had done so many times over his life. He thought it amusing that such a childish fancy could be prove to be so financially rewarding.
Hafgar thought back over the past seven years. His eldest son, Surgaf had caught the eye of the headman Kaldarn and was now serving in the chief's guard. His daughter Dunhala was betrothed to a good young man from a good family, and all it cost was one useless boy. What a small price to pay for such good fortune. Samul would never have amounted to anything and the soothsayers required a sacrifice. He was a logical choice and so far his loss had proved to be a boon to this family.
As he worked, his mind moved on to other more immediate concerns, what other goods these carvings would be able to earn him. The lowland merchants had access to even the rarest items. Guston Linkhine had recently purchased a sword from them, the fool. Hafgar had taken great pleasure in pointing out that if a bear was close enough to be struck with such a toothpick then you'd most likely be dead already.
Time passed and the figurine continued to take shape.
It would not be long before this trinket was ready for the traders. But, even then, Hafgar knew that he would not be happy with it. Those merchant fools couldn't tell a good job from a poor one in his opinion. He had figurines he had spent months carving, and Hafgar wouldn't dream of giving even one to the traders when a day or two's work could provide one just as profitable for that purpose.
Taking his mug to his lips he found it empty. He rubbed his eyes and pushed back from the table. How long had he sat here immersed in his craft? He had lost track of the time. Looking at the fire he could see the coals were over an hour old. He craned his neck and looked for Grunda.
| Hafgar | Where are ye woman? I've gone dry here, don't make me fetch it myself! |
Receiving no reply he stood and stretched his legs. The woman was getting lazy of late. Hafgar figured it was about time he remind her of her duties. With a last disgruntled glance at the figurine bear, he took his mug and went for the kitchen. She was nowhere to be seen. Setting down the pitcher of yak-milk he noted her coat was missing from its peg by the door.
| Hafgar | What is that fool woman doing out in this cold? |
Placing his mug beside the pitcher he reached for his own woolen cloak and threw open the door. If Grunda was gossiping with that Linkhine woman again he was going to fix her up real good. Just because they had flamin' wool rugs didn't mean that we should have them. If she said one more word on the flamin' rugs he thought he'd explode.
Wrapped in the warmth of his cloak Hafgar ventured into the snow outside. Not far from the door he could make out the edge of the dog pen in the light that penetrated the darkness from the kitchen. Strangely he didn't see them come out of their boxes to approach the house end of the pen. He didn't blame them - it was horribly cold. He knew a hungry hound would have been at the pen gate as soon as the house door was opened.
| Harfgar | At least she fed them well before going. |
Perhaps he would not beat her too hard this time.
Pulling the door shut behind him he stepped out into the night. The village was a small one. Six families choosing to face the harsh conditions at the higher end of the valley during the winter to have closer access to the prime hunting grounds over the rise. The mountain at this end was also rich in ore, and provided good quality material for the village's two smiths. Although they were somewhat isolated up here, the villages below - with their springtime fields and sheep herds - were not that far off really. And in the warmer months visitors were common enough. More importantly, however, were the brewers sons from the folk below who would make frequent trips with their goods; more importantly at least in the mind of Hafgar Thorin.
Peering through the heavy snow he could see the light from the Linkhine house battling through the night from the other side of the dell. Pulling his thick hunting cloak about him he pushed through the snow towards it. If he was lucky perhaps he could get Guston to part with some of his ale before he and Grunda returned home.
The snow and wind had picked up considerably; this was not a night to be out strolling. Drawing up to the door he pounded on it soundly to be heard over the wind. After a few moments without a response he tried the door, it was too cold to be left standing about waiting for that fat fool to get off his behind. He pushed open the door and stepped into the heat and light inside. Hafgar quickly entered the Linkhine kitchen, one almost identical to his own, and hurriedly closed the door behind him.
| Hafgar | Guston, 'tis I Hafgar. (pulling off his cloak and brushing the snow from it) Have you seen that woman of mine? |
He turned and hung his cloak on a peg by the door, along with three other cloaks, none of which seemed to be that of his wife.
| Hafgar | Are ye here Guston? (walks into the living area) |
The house was warm and dry, with the strong smell of roast boar present throughout. Despite everything Hafgar had to admit that Guston's wife was a good cook, more than likely the reason Guston was so horridly fat. Of course Hafgar would never say that to his face. Guston, a fourth generation smith, had the constitution of an ox and the strength to match. He also didn't take too kindly to jibes concerning his girth.
Pausing to stick his head into the main room he found it empty as expected.
| Hafgar | Are ye showing off that sword again? |
Since he bought that damn sword Guston had been harping on to anyone who would listen about how he planned to understand the methods and produce them himself. So long as the traders still had room for his carvings Hafgar didn't care either way.
With a frown for the plush rugs decorating the floor he turned to head out to the shop outside. He had walked back out through the kitchen when the door opened. There, leaning against the door, was Guston. White faced, covered in snow and clearly having trouble staying upright. The large smith mouthed something from the doorway. Jacob could see the snow flying past him into the kitchen, leaving a stream of white in its wake. The house was suddenly filled with the chill of night.
| Hafgar | (laughs) Ye've been drinking again!. |
Guston's reponse was to meekly hold out a blood-drenched hand before he collapsed to ground. Hafgar was suddenly afraid. He stood frozen or a moment, trying to decide what to do when an armed and armoured figure stepped over Guston's motionless body and into the now freezing kitchen.
There was something vaguely familiar about the man as he drew closer.
| Hafgar | Who... who are you? |
| Thorn | Hello father. |
| Hafgar | (confused) Surgaf? |
| Thorn | No, not Surgaf. |
| Hafgar | (sucks in a breath in shock) No! ... Samul? It cannot be! You... you are dead. |
| Thorn | Quite right father, Samul is dead. I am called Thorn now. And as you delivered Samul to his death now Thorn will deliver death to you. |
The mid morning sun peaked over the eastern rise of the valley sending its rays across the lowlands like the fingers of a god. Icicles shed crystal droplets from their tips and cast light into a series of colours against the branches that held them. It was still cold, but the wind and snow of the night before had ceased giving way to a brisk mountain breeze from the upper valley to the north. The deep snow, soft and crisp crunched under foot as Thorn pushed on towards the village ahead.
Stopping for the first time in hours he adjusted his pack on his shoulders. Its weight had made the trek difficult, and the straps had begun to chafe to the point of being painful. Leaning against a gnarled trunk of black wood he reached out and snatched the tip of an icicle from a nearby branch. Squinting at the new light, and crunching the ice in his mouth he pondered his options.
He had finally paid his visit and said his good-byes. It had been as memorable a homecoming as he had hoped it would be. He knew he would not be back in this part of the world soon, if at all.
The rest of the world awaited him, and all it had to offer, he had finally erased his past and now the future beckoned. In the distance before him he could see the snowline, where the blanket of the mountain finally gave way to the rocky tundra below. To him the line marked the end of his old life and the beginning of a new. This had been the moment he had waited years for and he was in no rush to leave the mountain.
Letting the sun's rays warm his left cheek he paused to watch the village below. The villagers seemed to be moving around at the usual pace, which he had come to appreciate as horridly languid in comparison to the rest of the world. A few goats could be seen vainly looking for grass that was not there inside their pen, and over to the western side of the village he saw a crude still, billowing steam into the cold morning air as if a cloud was trying to escape.
From off to his right he heard the sound of approaching children. Excited voices rang down from above him along the valley wall. Shortly he saw a small boy, slight of build running headlong down the ridge above him. Behind the boy could be heard the sounds of others following.
| chasing boy | We ain't done with yer yet maggot! |
Thorn turned his attention back to the small boy.
Without a backward glance the boy leapt over a rocky outcrop not ten feet distant from where Thorn now stood and landed in a deep pile of snow. With the speed of a well-rehearsed trick, the boy pressed back against the outcrop and wedged himself into a thin depression, all but vanishing from view. With a quick smile Thorn stepped behind the tree he had been resting against.
Shortly he saw another boy, a few years older than the young trickster, come into view only a few feet from the outcropping. Before long three other boys came into view. After a brief discussion the large boy pointed further down the valley towards the village.
| chasing boy | (pointing) He musta gone down to the village. |
The four of them headed off and it was not long before Thorn saw them enter the village from the twisted tree line below.
Thorn stepped out from the side of the tree and approached the outcrop. Thorn was impressed; he couldn't even see the small boy.
| Thorn | Come out boy. |
| Maggot | Who are you? |
Spinning on his heel Thorn was amazed to see the small boy come out from the tree he had just himself left. That had been an impressive maneuver, he had not seen a trick such as that since he left the island. Ignoring the boy's question he began to fumble with his pack straps.
| Thorn | Who were those boys chasing you? |
The small boy looked about carefully, evaluating the scene.
| Maggot | I have to go now. (turning to run down to the village) |
| Thorn | Wait lad. I have something for you. |
The boy stopped behind a tree maybe fifteen feet distant. Having retrieved what he was looking for from his pack he stood and threw the item to land in the snow at the boy's feet.
| Thorn | For luck. |
Swiftly he collected his pack and set off on a path to skirt the village below on his way to the snow line.
The boy stood still and waited for the stranger to disappear from view and warily he approached the object in the snow. There at his feet was a crude horn carving of a bear, down on its haunches ready to spring.
| Normal Text | Character's words or descriptive text if part of a paragraph |
| Italic Text | Character's thoughts or actions if surrounded by parenthesis |
| Bold Text | Character is shouting. |