Year 4302, Angar 18th
Ten Years Before Present
North of the lands of Wirhorst on the Frozen Coast lies a city of strong, hardy people - the type that has lived off the ocean's bounty for as long as anyone has lived here. Closest to the direct descendants of the humans who first populated these lands. Everything from fuel to food, the Snow Vale Woods provides and whatever else the people need that the sea cannot give. It is a good, fruitful place during the summer, as nobles from all over the lands migrate to their estates here, or in the province of Skjeld to the direct east. To avoid the heat of the Hinterlands, one must travel here, to the far north, and so many tend to do so, providing plentiful opportunities for those with the skills, fortitude, and disposition to make a decent living in the short, intense summer months.
As sailors go about their business in the harbor alongside traders, merchants, and nobles slumming it to get better prices, one can find that hands easily slip in and out of pockets or cut the strings of a purse with great ease. With throngs of people, warehouses to hide between, and people too busy to pay attention to everything, it makes for a profitable situation for everyone involved, except for the mark, but I love it and thrive in this ordered chaos.
My mark today is a man dressed in fine fur robes as the summer is ending and heavier garb is now being worn. A cooling wind has begun to blow off the ocean today, causing people to bundle up and consider heading back south sooner rather than later. I find myself leaning against the cold stone wall of a warehouse near one of the inner piers. Since moving up here from the Port of Wirhorst, I have had a string of good luck. Stepping into the crowds of people, I walk through them making my way towards my target without alerting him to my presence. He's clearly the type of man that makes up for what he lacks in brains and awareness with coin. Even a blind man could rob this person of everything he is wearing, and he wouldn't notice except for the chill.
Like a draft passing through a grassy field uninterrupted, I cut the hemp strings of the man's purse - it falls in my open hand all in one quick, smooth movement. I have quite a bit of experience with this, as I learned the trade in Wirhorst. But this summer I have been here in Iona, and this is where I have perfected my art. Once I pass by several people, I disappear, stuffing the pouch into a small sack hanging off my belt and hiding under my fur-lined cloak. Not missing a step, I turn to climb up a set of stairs towards the main square of town.
Another strong gust of chilling wind comes off the Maelstrom Bay, making me yearn for a strong dark ale, hearty stew, and a roaring fire. I avoid the more upscale taverns and pubs that litter the main square and cater to the tourists: these are preparing to close for the winter as most of the business dries up and heads back south to the more cosmopolitan areas of the kingdom. I head past the main square towards the industrial area of town–-the smiths, tannery, curing houses, woodworkers, and craftsmen of all stripes, where the pubs and taverns are frequented by locals and seedy characters. Rowdy places full of music, laughter, cards, dice, dealings in the back rooms, and guards to keep troublemakers out - fun places to just be.
The Lusty Octopus is the rather ridiculous name of my tavern of choice, owned by an older elven woman named Aoife, who is as happy and jolly as anyone I have ever known. But one must not be mistaken, the lithe women, with her graying hair, wears a heavy cutlass on her hip, always. She is standing behind a wide ale-stained bar with several fishermen gathering around the far side away from the door. A roaring fire pit sits in the middle of the rather large room, with a cast iron cauldron resting above it. Aoife's famous stew simmers where she occasionally moves over to stir it.
Several old, knobby tables surround the fire, and a fair amount of people sit in the chairs around them. A bard sits near the fire with a mandolin in her hands, an intoxicated smile on her face as her fingers run up and down the frets. A rather plain-looking rapier with a large guard is leaning against the chair she sits in. I don't get a good look at the woman, as my focus is on the bar itself, walking by her without a second thought.
"If it isn't my favorite young woman," Aoife says while walking up to me with that joyful smile on her face. We exchange a quick hug, saying, "Did you happen upon some sovereigns today?"
"I sure did," I reply with a smile.
"Well, the stew is rabbit and venison as I didn't have enough of either for a full pot. We tapped our last keg of the brown ale made with honey from Yoln. Also, got your favorite room available, interested?"
Grinning, I reach into my cloak to remove the coin purse and put down several copper sovereigns as well as two silver sovereigns.
"That's for the tip last night," I say.
"We have to keep a lookout for each other, eh?" Aoife says while she takes the two silvers and slips them into her personal coin pouch. The other sovereigns she pulls toward her and into a box just out of sight. "Especially for one with such natural talent as you have."
I fight the blush from her complement creeping upon my pale cheeks and murmur a quick thank you. The matron-like woman chuckles and pours me a large stein of ale, and places it down in front of me. Grabbing the wooden mug, I take a long drink, from the russet-colored ale, enjoying the fullness of its body along with the delicate floral flavor of the honey mixed in with a nutty–-pecans in particular–-from the roasted malt. The slight headiness from the ale causes me to calm my mind and relax my body.
I take a full bowl of stew along with a piece of stale bread, my favorite combination. I enjoy my meal to the point that I feel happy and content, the first time I have felt as such in far too long a time. Since before I left the troubled streets of the Port of Wirhorst; left behind my uncaring whore of a mother. All the scum and lowlifes that I knew and were after me for one reason or another are hundreds of miles to the south, and without care enough to chase me this far. Now I have a belly full of food and alcohol, great music coming from the exceptional playing of the bard and her slightly husky voice becomes a beautiful thing when singing.
Though, I pull myself back from being too comfortable, always keeping an eye over my shoulder and a clear idea of my surroundings. I decline another ale from Aoife and just turn to look out over the bar's patrons. The early afternoon crowd has left to go back to their crafts, farms, nets, or whatever they must finish doing before the sun comes fully down. With only a few intrepid tourists and a handful of adventurers making their way north into the ancient Pass of Kiljorn. Which is the easiest way to get north of the Frost Dragon Mountains, where fortune, glory, and quick death await those brave and foolish enough. Not I, however: I prefer the comforts of a city to the untamed wilds. Still, the thought of heading up there to see what riches I can grab, alongside a reliable group, is enticing.
The bard is staring at me with piercing gray-colored eyes; an unreadable expression decorates her rather angular face. She has taken her cloak off, leaving the woman in a dark blue tunic, which has been repaired with multicolored patches. Her pair of black leather pants are scuffed with age but strong and still in well-maintained condition; along with two matching boots on her feet with little silver charms hanging off the sides.
"Do you like what you see?" I ask the woman from across the room.
She shrugs and grins at me, saying, "You are interesting. To say the least, anyway."
The woman gives a languid stretch before standing up with a slight yawn. Standing taller than me she moves with the grace of an elf and even has the right body type for it. One could almost mistake her for one if it wasn't for the ears and voice, distinctive of humans. After a moment, she comes up to stand beside me at the bar.
"One jigger of your finest whiskey," The woman orders.
A moment later a straw gold liquid is poured into a clean glass. The bard drinks it quickly before leaning on the bar looking at me.
"I'm Tegan," I offer my hand to her.
She smiles and grips my forearm in a strong shake, she says, "You can call me The Bard. Most people do."
"The Bard?"
The woman shrugs her shoulders with a quick head movement to get the bangs out of her eyes. After a moment she says, "Yeah, I find it direct and to the point. I've had my eyes on you since you entered."
"Is that so?" I ask as smooth as I can.
The Bard smirks before leaning in close to me, saying, "I am not the only one who has taken an interest. There were two dangerous-looking women asking about you around town. I didn't get the best look at their faces but be warned: didn't look friendly at all."
"Why are you telling me this?" I ask as my suspicions of this woman question her intentions.
"Call it a hunch, but what is to come is bigger than all of us," She places a gold sovereign on the bar. "Aoife, this is for Tegan's stay here. As long as she needs it." The Bard looks back over at me, saying, "We will meet again. I am sure of it."
Before I can even get a word in, this mysterious stranger gives me a wink and tips her triangular hat. Turning on her heels, she strides back to where she was resting, tucks her rapier within her belt, straps her mandolin around her torso, over an ancient-looking lyre, and she is out the door in a flash.
The thoughts linger in my mind as I spend the rest of the day pondering over mugs of ale that I nurse for hours. My back is to the wall as I sit in a corner table far from the door, just in case. Paranoia on high alert for anyone interested in finding me, yet as day turns to evening and evening turns into the dark night that this area is famous for, nothing comes of it. I just find myself falling asleep on the table as the slow night waddles onward into the late, late hours.
"Tegan," Aoife says while she pushes on me a bit, "Wake up; I don't want to have to carry you to your room."
Blinking through sleep-dazed eyes, I look up at the elf. Yawning, I say, "Oh, sorry. Didn't mean to pass out."
She shrugs, "There wasn't much going on. Just closing up early tonight."
Nodding, I stand up and gather my bearings for a moment. Stretching, I offer the woman a goodnight as I walk up the narrow staircase leading to the rooms. The landing has an old, faded red carpet set forward down the hallway, stained from dirty boots and misuse, and it adds a bit of charm to the antique-looking wooden floor. Opening my room's door at the end of the hall, I make an instinctive move as I look around for anything out of the ordinary. The familiar smell of old wood, stale tobacco smoke, and hay fill my nose, but nothing is out of the ordinary.
Upon the small dining table set in the corner near a window, that has a great view of the ocean, is a folded piece of parchment. Taking the crisp sheet, I open it up to reveal a note written in an elegant flowing style:
Tegan of Wirhorst.
We have been watching you, and admit we are impressed with your skills. There is a job for you. All details will be in a hollowed out log a short distance from the main gate - near the bowed willow. Your compensation will be generous beyond measure.
-Friends
I scan the spartan room one more time for any sign of forced entry or if I am not alone. Yet, once again I am all by myself with nothing to indicate something suspicious has happened. A concern of an ambush or a set up comes to mind, but I haven't been here long enough to get someone that pissed off at me. Splashing some water in my face from the fresh bowl off to the side, I force my senses back to full alert. With a renewal of my determination, I leave the tavern through the back door and outside stairs, as to not bother Aoife. I take to the abandoned streets where only the occasional town guard wanders.
Despite a few side-glances my way, I am not accosted by any of the underpaid guardsmen and am allowed to leave through the main gate without harassment. Flurries of snow begin to fall to the ground at a slow and steady pace, signaling the mass exodus of the tourists here. With the wind picking up, the snow has already spread across the ground and obscures my vision a bit. The area around the town is completely void of trees, having already been felled years ago in the building of ships, buildings, and what-have-you. So, I make my way toward the Snow Vale Woods, which lie off far into the distance, beyond what I can see, but I know exactly where it is.
Not a long walk by any means and kind of a beautiful one, at least at any other time, if I wasn't freezing. The snow has sculpted into various rounded shapes over everything around, giving the landscape a beautiful picturesque quality about it. As if it was part of a fantasy that a southerner would envision winter in the north. Despite missing the roaming packs of wolves that populate the lands or as I have been told, it isn't something I imagined the place to be.
Over a cresting hill, I find myself standing in front of the rather imposing and foreboding Snow Vale Woods. I know there isn't anything too dangerous in these trees unless you end up going far along the river that splits the forest in twain: deep within the heart of the woods, you can find orcs, goblins, trolls, and even mongrel centaurs. However, I doubt my employers ventured that deep. Still, I pull out my dagger from my belt and take a deep breath, the icy air somehow reinvigorating my energy as I do so. The snapping and cracking of the falling branches under the weight of snow and ice sound off in the distance, like boulders hitting the ground. My feet tromping through the snow adds to the noise and I curse my lack of grace in this environment.
After a short trek into the woods, I find myself in an odd copse of willows, usually the type of trees you see a bit south of here. I don't know how I found it, but I wander into this peculiar place, a frozen pond sits in the middle with an old log lying beside it as a makeshift bench. With a stump beside that, and this is where I find another piece of parchment and a doeskin pouch laden with its contents.
Opening the pouch, I see a great deal of silver and golden sovereigns inside. Tying it shut, I stuff the small bag into my sack. Taking the dry parchment, I unfold it:
To the north, into the frozen wastes lies a ruin that leads deep underground. Inside is an ancient altar of the humans that migrated from over the seas. There will be a blade on the altar or around the altar. No one has entered this ruin in thousands of years. We know our information is more than reliable, however. You will gain riches beyond a single pouch of sovereigns. Prepare your mind and body. Use the money to outfit yourself but you must do this alone.
You will recognize the entrance to the ruins when you find the two wolf statues. Once you have completed this task, we will contact you.
We are watching.
-Friends.
Reading over the note in the dim moonlight, which breaks through the canopy above, I am a bit dumbfounded. Looking around at the numerous shadows, I spot not a single thing out of the ordinary. Not a person around that I can perceive. Rolling the parchment up, I turn and make my way out of the forest back into the wide-open snowfield leading to Iona. Not too long after, I am back through the gates, headed towards the Lusty Octopus.
Not being able to do anything about it right now, I slip back into my room to try and get some rest. Sleep doesn't come to me easy this night, however, thinking about the job I have just taken up. Into the dangerous wastes alone with no one to watch my back or help me if I fall - the payout better be worth the risk. At least I can guarantee myself some choice pieces of loot being alone out there. I spend most of the night making a mental note on what I need to get tomorrow so I can head back out of the city.
I'm up at the breaking of the sun over the horizon, casting its rays across the snowfields. The town is already busy at work; as the days shorten work increases while people try to squeeze that last sovereign out. Even the petty criminals seem to be leaving as I stroll through the market. Less shady characters are lurking in the shadows, waiting for a purse to snatch. The type most people overlook but I keep an eye on since they are all competition to my very livelihood.
My destination is a sturdy redwood and stone building with a sign of an open chest and written upon it in Simple Common Runic states the rather generic General Goods. A man dressed in furs and hunter's garb stands through the wooden door holding it open for me and I walk into the familiar surroundings. The air is thick with the smell of leather and hardwood, which puts me at ease, a bit. Various gear, equipment, and general items are displayed all around the room, cluttered about in the rather small dwelling in no fixed order.
Mostly my shopping list consists of the basics one needs to survive out there. Flint, sleeping roll, a month's worth of dry rations, and a few other odds and ends that strike my fancy, more of them then I would think I'd need. Settling my debt with the merchant I make my way back into the cold, bitter air where the sun has begun to grow obscured by thick clouds. The crowd that once made this town a bustling city is thinning, and the place feels a bit empty as I look around the main square. Closing my eyes, I inhale the scent of this town-salt water, fish, and leather-all floating on the crisp morning air.
Opening my eyes with a new sense of determination and no longer any doubt in my mind, I head towards the front gate where a large caravan of pack mules, horses, wagons, and numerous humans and hired elven workers load goods heading to Skjeld before the major snowstorms take over the north. Causing a bit of a sense of urgency inside of me as it is quite a far trip just to get to the general area. For now, I make my way through the caravan and exit the town.
"This is going to be interesting," I say to myself as I take my first step north toward the pass.