Disclaimer: Neverwinter nights (c) Biowear corp. and Atari
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The cold frost clung, relentlessly, to the bleak landscape. It turned grass into hard, brittle hair, and trees into ghostly, naked white pillars of wood, their bare branches swaying in the uneasy wind without the provision of leaves. The wind itself was a biting menace, gnawing upon the already battered landscape, as though trying to leave a lasting testament to its tyrannical reign for three long, bitter months.
Yet, there was relenting. Though the winter clung yet to the land, its grip was a failing one. For all the indomitable power to destroy crops, land, and life, always was the winter pushed back by spring. Always was life able to remerge from its quiet slumber, and begin anew until the next year.
However, this winter was a tenacious one yet. In its death throws, it stuck to the land like a cancer, hurling its forces against that of the opposing spring in a losing battle. However, it was still a battle of trials for those caught in the icy melee of the natural conflict. And, since the dawn of their creation, the mortal races had always sought to defy that conflict…
Across the barren wilderness, a single shape, dark against the frost white grass, trudged onwards though the formidable cold. Though no other travellers passed by the way the figure walked, it would have appeared to any who did as an accumulation of brown cloth, dancing in the wind like a strip of flame, plunging onward through the inhospitable weather without pause or regard.
No feature of the voyager was visible; neither skin, nor hair, nor clothing. Merely the dark shape of their long cloak, struggling against the oppressive wind to the crunch of the hardened grass between their feet, the dry scrape of the cloak against the fabric of their clothing audible from beneath the heavy folds of the cloth on the few occasions the wind ceased its howling.
The figure's path led it against the gradient of a slope, a large knoll upon which the winter had broken the ground into a mosaic pattern of cracks, the fragile frozen grass broken away in an instant by the weight of the wanderer. For the first time, the figure showed signs of struggling, their shape becoming stopped, the clear shape of sleeves detaching themselves from the side of the cloak to aid in clambering the last distance of the hill.
As the figure reached the peak of the slope, white tendrils of their hot breath rising from beneath the thick hood of their cloak against the cold air, they stood straight once more, looking down upon the land beneath, a long, shallow breath that could only have been a sigh of relief, escaping their lungs.
Beneath them stretched a sea of bare wood, the leaves long ago ripped form their bindings and scattered to the hellish wind, turning what had once been a graceful forest into a naked skeleton of its former glory, broken only by the glazed surface of frozen water in the far distance of its vastness, a single glittering jewel in the weak light of the slowly prevailing sun; the river Mirar.
Behind the forest, vast mountains loomed, bleak; dark shapes against the horizon, rising up in jagged, steep crags, which earned the mountains their name. A haven of giants, griffons, and even the occasional dragon from the not so distance Spine of the World…but the figure's journey did not lead so far south, as their eyes drifted from the grey skyline, to the foot of the forest beneath them.
There, nestled against the bare trees, like a child clinging to the skirts of its mother, was located a small wooden building, barely large enough to be called a hovel. The wood from which it was constructed was blackened and rotten, yet still provided more protection from the wind and cold than a weary traveller could ask for.
The building was known as 'the nest'. Though nobody had lived there for many years, it was known by all who walked the lands north of the city of Neverwinter. Though it was difficult to find, it was a welcome haven to many, and it was here that the weary figure allowed their feet to carry them, trudging down the opposite side of the slope with renewed vigour at their sanctuary being in sight.
The decent across the broken, barren soil was an adventure in itself. What little of the crunchy grass remained upon this slope provided little friction, the chalky ground treacherous and unpredictable against the feet of an unwary traveller. However, with the grace of a silken feather, gliding upon the calm breeze of summer, the figure descended as though without care, their passage soundless except for the dry rustle of the base of their cloak against the ground.
The land about was silent. If life still existed in the harsh breaking of winter, it did not announce its presence. No birds sang in the trees, or animals stirring among the woodland. The only sound of nature to be heard by any ears was the soft murmur of the wind against the naked branches.
No fence surrounded the small wooden building that was the walker's destination. Merely ten yards of open ground from the foot of the hill to the rising of the wooden construction; ground marred by years of travelling feet and the hooves of horses. For the briefest of moments, the figure paused, the shape of their hood shifting to conform to a tilt of their head towards the ground.
With the dry rustle of the fabric that entombed them, the figure kneeled where they stood, an arm detaching itself once more from the mass of cloth, fingers wrapped in woollen cloth to protect them from the harsh cold, became visible as they stroked against the ground before them, the passage of their probing limbs parting the frozen soil with surprising ease; ease that was the direct result of recent passage.
With another expulsion of pale vapour from beneath the hood, the figure rose once more, renewing their march towards the cabin once more, their steps slightly more hesitant than they had been previously, the prospect of company obviously not being as suitable to the figure's liking as quiet rest alone. However, the figure's lonely voyage descended the slope nonetheless, the building marching steadily nearer as, making no sound beyond the soft, almost imperceptible rustle of their cloak, the traveller neared their long sought goal.
In the approach, details of the small shack became more discernable in the partially faded, eternal grey of the lingering winter. From beneath the door; an ill fitting slab of weather bitten planks, nailed together in the rough shape of the frame that left visible gaps across the length of it's uneven edges, a trickle of light could be seen from within the hut; no doubt the result of a flame or other light source within. As the figure's steps brought them ever closer, the feint smell of smoking meat reached their senses, the scent rich and sweet after so long surviving only on the barest or iron rations…however, the figure's steps grew no swifter, their speed decreasing to an all out stop as their long march finally concluded at the door of their destination.
Hesitating upon the doorstep that had been the purpose of their journey, the figure cautiously extended a hand, knuckles turned towards the wood, to rap softly upon the door. In the otherwise silent calm of winter, the knock seemed deafeningly loud, the traveller's numb hands barely even feeling the texture of the wood beneath them, even as the announcement of the figure's presence was met by a metallic clang from within…the sound of disturbed cutlery…followed by the protesting creak of the cabin's floorboards, as a great mass shifted within.
For a moment, the light that streamed from beyond the door was eliminated by the intervention of a colossal shadow; the inhabitant of the taking a moment to observe the intruder through the crack perhaps, before allowing their admittance…whatever they saw apparently satisfied them of their safety, as the sound of a dull scraping across the wooden floors, as though a heavy object that had been blocking the door were moved, before the portal opened to allow admittance, one traveller meeting the other face to face.
For the cloaked being who had finally concluded their long winter trek, the meeting of the other was a journey in itself…beneath the edge of their hood, the figures eyes moved up…and up…and up…rising to a point seven feet from the ground, meeting the pair of yellow eyes that looked back down towards them with a hint of curiosity.
The occupant of the cabin was gigantic, both in height and girth; leaning toward in their stance to observe the much smaller cloaked figure, their head easily brushing the top of the door frame. Arms thicker than most men's legs, the sleeves of the coarse winter tunic the being wore stretched tightly over biceps that, even relaxed, rivalled the size of their owner's head, supported the gigantic frame of broad shoulders and a barrel chest, a colossal hand on either side of the door, as the giant's features peered down at the cloaked sojourner.
The man, for man it was, possessed features that were clearly human. However, despite the growth of a well kept beard, it's sable hairs gathered to a fine, artistic point beneath the man's chin, between his extraordinary size and the yellow, cat like eyes that examined his visitor, it was obvious his blood was not limited only to that species; however, his features were not unhandsome and the signs were so slight that the union must have occurred several generations before this particular individual's birth.
If the moon had come face to face with the sun, however, the pair could have been no more unlike each other than the two travellers who faced each other now. Where one was a man of titanic proportions, the other, the cloak wearing traveller of the frozen wastes, stood at a height of a mere three feet.
The human male looked down upon his tiny visitor, who returned his gaze unflinchingly from beneath the fold of their hood. Raising an eyebrow in a moment of consideration, the man stepped aside, raising a muscular arm to gesture into the interior of the cabin, inclining his head forward in a welcome.
"Have a seat," he murmured in a deep, resonating voice. "I didn't plan on company…but your welcome to join me."
With the soft rustle of fabric, the cloaked figure inclined their head forward in a nod, their cloth sheathed arms once more detaching themselves from the side of the cloak to take a hold of the hood, gladly pushing it backwards as, at least for this night, the wearer was pleased to find a warm fire and a soft bed.
"Garas Hagrind," the gigantic man introduced himself, lowering his arm as his invitation was accepted. "And you?"
As the figure cast back the hood, flowing ripples of chestnut hair were released from their binding, cascading about the traveller's slender shoulders. No longer in shadow, the auburn eyes that maintained their careful watch upon the large man's features were framed by a face of delicate, famine beauty. With a smooth, heart shaped jaw line, and a slim, bow shaped mouth that, despite the freezing cold, managed the hint of a smile, it was no child that accepted admittance into the nest, as may have been expected from her diminutive stature, but a young Halfling, perhaps not even yet entered into her twentieth year.
"Lidda," she answered softly, her voice almost Elvin in its melodic tones, as she stepped over the threshold. "Lidda Kisto"
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The cold frost clung, relentlessly, to the bleak landscape. It turned grass into hard, brittle hair, and trees into ghostly, naked white pillars of wood, their bare branches swaying in the uneasy wind without the provision of leaves. The wind itself was a biting menace, gnawing upon the already battered landscape, as though trying to leave a lasting testament to its tyrannical reign for three long, bitter months.
Yet, there was relenting. Though the winter clung yet to the land, its grip was a failing one. For all the indomitable power to destroy crops, land, and life, always was the winter pushed back by spring. Always was life able to remerge from its quiet slumber, and begin anew until the next year.
However, this winter was a tenacious one yet. In its death throws, it stuck to the land like a cancer, hurling its forces against that of the opposing spring in a losing battle. However, it was still a battle of trials for those caught in the icy melee of the natural conflict. And, since the dawn of their creation, the mortal races had always sought to defy that conflict…
Across the barren wilderness, a single shape, dark against the frost white grass, trudged onwards though the formidable cold. Though no other travellers passed by the way the figure walked, it would have appeared to any who did as an accumulation of brown cloth, dancing in the wind like a strip of flame, plunging onward through the inhospitable weather without pause or regard.
No feature of the voyager was visible; neither skin, nor hair, nor clothing. Merely the dark shape of their long cloak, struggling against the oppressive wind to the crunch of the hardened grass between their feet, the dry scrape of the cloak against the fabric of their clothing audible from beneath the heavy folds of the cloth on the few occasions the wind ceased its howling.
The figure's path led it against the gradient of a slope, a large knoll upon which the winter had broken the ground into a mosaic pattern of cracks, the fragile frozen grass broken away in an instant by the weight of the wanderer. For the first time, the figure showed signs of struggling, their shape becoming stopped, the clear shape of sleeves detaching themselves from the side of the cloak to aid in clambering the last distance of the hill.
As the figure reached the peak of the slope, white tendrils of their hot breath rising from beneath the thick hood of their cloak against the cold air, they stood straight once more, looking down upon the land beneath, a long, shallow breath that could only have been a sigh of relief, escaping their lungs.
Beneath them stretched a sea of bare wood, the leaves long ago ripped form their bindings and scattered to the hellish wind, turning what had once been a graceful forest into a naked skeleton of its former glory, broken only by the glazed surface of frozen water in the far distance of its vastness, a single glittering jewel in the weak light of the slowly prevailing sun; the river Mirar.
Behind the forest, vast mountains loomed, bleak; dark shapes against the horizon, rising up in jagged, steep crags, which earned the mountains their name. A haven of giants, griffons, and even the occasional dragon from the not so distance Spine of the World…but the figure's journey did not lead so far south, as their eyes drifted from the grey skyline, to the foot of the forest beneath them.
There, nestled against the bare trees, like a child clinging to the skirts of its mother, was located a small wooden building, barely large enough to be called a hovel. The wood from which it was constructed was blackened and rotten, yet still provided more protection from the wind and cold than a weary traveller could ask for.
The building was known as 'the nest'. Though nobody had lived there for many years, it was known by all who walked the lands north of the city of Neverwinter. Though it was difficult to find, it was a welcome haven to many, and it was here that the weary figure allowed their feet to carry them, trudging down the opposite side of the slope with renewed vigour at their sanctuary being in sight.
The decent across the broken, barren soil was an adventure in itself. What little of the crunchy grass remained upon this slope provided little friction, the chalky ground treacherous and unpredictable against the feet of an unwary traveller. However, with the grace of a silken feather, gliding upon the calm breeze of summer, the figure descended as though without care, their passage soundless except for the dry rustle of the base of their cloak against the ground.
The land about was silent. If life still existed in the harsh breaking of winter, it did not announce its presence. No birds sang in the trees, or animals stirring among the woodland. The only sound of nature to be heard by any ears was the soft murmur of the wind against the naked branches.
No fence surrounded the small wooden building that was the walker's destination. Merely ten yards of open ground from the foot of the hill to the rising of the wooden construction; ground marred by years of travelling feet and the hooves of horses. For the briefest of moments, the figure paused, the shape of their hood shifting to conform to a tilt of their head towards the ground.
With the dry rustle of the fabric that entombed them, the figure kneeled where they stood, an arm detaching itself once more from the mass of cloth, fingers wrapped in woollen cloth to protect them from the harsh cold, became visible as they stroked against the ground before them, the passage of their probing limbs parting the frozen soil with surprising ease; ease that was the direct result of recent passage.
With another expulsion of pale vapour from beneath the hood, the figure rose once more, renewing their march towards the cabin once more, their steps slightly more hesitant than they had been previously, the prospect of company obviously not being as suitable to the figure's liking as quiet rest alone. However, the figure's lonely voyage descended the slope nonetheless, the building marching steadily nearer as, making no sound beyond the soft, almost imperceptible rustle of their cloak, the traveller neared their long sought goal.
In the approach, details of the small shack became more discernable in the partially faded, eternal grey of the lingering winter. From beneath the door; an ill fitting slab of weather bitten planks, nailed together in the rough shape of the frame that left visible gaps across the length of it's uneven edges, a trickle of light could be seen from within the hut; no doubt the result of a flame or other light source within. As the figure's steps brought them ever closer, the feint smell of smoking meat reached their senses, the scent rich and sweet after so long surviving only on the barest or iron rations…however, the figure's steps grew no swifter, their speed decreasing to an all out stop as their long march finally concluded at the door of their destination.
Hesitating upon the doorstep that had been the purpose of their journey, the figure cautiously extended a hand, knuckles turned towards the wood, to rap softly upon the door. In the otherwise silent calm of winter, the knock seemed deafeningly loud, the traveller's numb hands barely even feeling the texture of the wood beneath them, even as the announcement of the figure's presence was met by a metallic clang from within…the sound of disturbed cutlery…followed by the protesting creak of the cabin's floorboards, as a great mass shifted within.
For a moment, the light that streamed from beyond the door was eliminated by the intervention of a colossal shadow; the inhabitant of the taking a moment to observe the intruder through the crack perhaps, before allowing their admittance…whatever they saw apparently satisfied them of their safety, as the sound of a dull scraping across the wooden floors, as though a heavy object that had been blocking the door were moved, before the portal opened to allow admittance, one traveller meeting the other face to face.
For the cloaked being who had finally concluded their long winter trek, the meeting of the other was a journey in itself…beneath the edge of their hood, the figures eyes moved up…and up…and up…rising to a point seven feet from the ground, meeting the pair of yellow eyes that looked back down towards them with a hint of curiosity.
The occupant of the cabin was gigantic, both in height and girth; leaning toward in their stance to observe the much smaller cloaked figure, their head easily brushing the top of the door frame. Arms thicker than most men's legs, the sleeves of the coarse winter tunic the being wore stretched tightly over biceps that, even relaxed, rivalled the size of their owner's head, supported the gigantic frame of broad shoulders and a barrel chest, a colossal hand on either side of the door, as the giant's features peered down at the cloaked sojourner.
The man, for man it was, possessed features that were clearly human. However, despite the growth of a well kept beard, it's sable hairs gathered to a fine, artistic point beneath the man's chin, between his extraordinary size and the yellow, cat like eyes that examined his visitor, it was obvious his blood was not limited only to that species; however, his features were not unhandsome and the signs were so slight that the union must have occurred several generations before this particular individual's birth.
If the moon had come face to face with the sun, however, the pair could have been no more unlike each other than the two travellers who faced each other now. Where one was a man of titanic proportions, the other, the cloak wearing traveller of the frozen wastes, stood at a height of a mere three feet.
The human male looked down upon his tiny visitor, who returned his gaze unflinchingly from beneath the fold of their hood. Raising an eyebrow in a moment of consideration, the man stepped aside, raising a muscular arm to gesture into the interior of the cabin, inclining his head forward in a welcome.
"Have a seat," he murmured in a deep, resonating voice. "I didn't plan on company…but your welcome to join me."
With the soft rustle of fabric, the cloaked figure inclined their head forward in a nod, their cloth sheathed arms once more detaching themselves from the side of the cloak to take a hold of the hood, gladly pushing it backwards as, at least for this night, the wearer was pleased to find a warm fire and a soft bed.
"Garas Hagrind," the gigantic man introduced himself, lowering his arm as his invitation was accepted. "And you?"
As the figure cast back the hood, flowing ripples of chestnut hair were released from their binding, cascading about the traveller's slender shoulders. No longer in shadow, the auburn eyes that maintained their careful watch upon the large man's features were framed by a face of delicate, famine beauty. With a smooth, heart shaped jaw line, and a slim, bow shaped mouth that, despite the freezing cold, managed the hint of a smile, it was no child that accepted admittance into the nest, as may have been expected from her diminutive stature, but a young Halfling, perhaps not even yet entered into her twentieth year.
"Lidda," she answered softly, her voice almost Elvin in its melodic tones, as she stepped over the threshold. "Lidda Kisto"