And then everything was still. All a dreadful silence except for the
chilling winds that hissed through the air and the saddened howls of a
husky pack that smelt the blood of the fallen corpse, which had now stained
the snowy ground with a sickening flush of red.
Jerold the Tribal, son of Ivan and heir to the McGuire White Warrior family, sat cross-legged in front of the body of his freshly slain victim. His hands were adorned together with an old polar bear pelt just below his left shoulder, tightly gripped at his breast as blood soaked through the fabric. The corpse, which was a massive Wooly mammoth calf, lay motionless on her side with the blood-rusted blade of a large axe planted atop her forehead. Jerold finished his mending and knotted the pelt tightly around his torso.
Jerold was a tall and masculine young man, almost the age of fourteen seasons. He carried with him always a double-headed axe that rested solemnly on his back by a thick strap of rawhide, a dirk made of stone on his waistband, and a small hatchet; the handle almost being too small for his grasp; tied to his thigh. His head was kept warm by a scarab shell skullcap, which his father had crafted on one of his many great adventures in Faydwer, and his face was tattooed with numerous scars and war-painted markings. His chest was left bare; which was somewhat unusual for this type of weather; and his legs carried nothing but a red-checkered kilt which his mother had tailored him, and knee-high leather boots which he treasured very much.
Jerold stood, unfastening the buckle over his shoulder and wielding the giant axe firmly in his broad hands. He let out a heavy grunt as he lifted the axe over his head; the gash in his chest spewing blood once more; and hammered it into the head of the calf. Snatching the blade upward, he slammed the blade into the skull once more with a heavier grunt, and after this he took the giant tusks of the baby mammoth and tied them to his waistband.
Jerold McGuire was one of three sons. He was the second oldest, the first being twenty and the third being seven. The oldest brother was last heard of in Odus; a dark island where many arcane magicians tame a sort of necromancy; and after the letters stopped arriving everyone presumed him dead. Jerold never had the chance to meet him, so it never really bothered him much. His younger brother, whose name was Samuel, was enlisted into the Tribunal of Wolves; a secret society of witchcraft and tribal ancestry that taught only a selected, gifted few. Jerold's father was a retired adventurer for the White Warrior tribe; something of a guild that taught all the men and boys of Halas great skills of war and patriotism, and his mother ran a small tailoring business that mercilessly kept her at work.
Jerold was proud of his successful hunt. After returning the axe to his spine and buckling the strap, he began marching through the snow; which had grown thick from heavy winds that just begun. He was a mile or so away from Halas and found his surroundings quite different and a bit strange. If he continued walking north, perhaps half a mile or so, he would definitely find himself in the Permafrost, which was home to the snow giants and Orc type; dangerous, dangerous predators. Jerold could feel the bristles of hair on the back of his neck erect at just the thought of the place. He had once heard gossip of a man who wandered too far north; and he was kept as a slave by the giants. The Permafrost carried strong blizzards and raging winds all throughout the year, and no one could hear a thing for miles and miles. It was, and although Jerold had never experienced it, completely impossible to navigate.
After a long hour or so, when the sun was beginning to set and the sky began to darken, Jerold could barely make out the title "HALAS" printed upon an old wooden sign in front of a large cave entrance. The winds were beginning to stir now; quite more violently; and Jerold thought it best to hurry himself into the city so he could sell the mammoth tusks and bring home the bread his father had instructed. Making haste with his feet, Jerold entered the cave and naturally waved to a few merchants who huddled in the corner of the cave with only a dim pillar of fire to keep them warm. One of them, a woman, instantly spoke aloud, "Jerold! Where've ya been, lad? Yer muther's worried ill, and I won't be surprised if yer father beats yew to death before the night's over." Jerold, who had never even stopped the march of his feet, nodded his head in response and turned his worrying glare down to the snowy floor. He knew this wasn't good. He knew that surely, if the tusks wouldn't sell for at least two platinum coins each, he would be belted and whipped until his father hadn't enough strength to lift his arm. He said a special prayer before slipping deeper into the cave and boarding the old wooden ferry that took him across a small lake to Halas, the city of Barbarians.
Jalamorn Donovan; town tavern keeper and a great friend to everybody; filled Ivan McGuire's mug with a bubbly white substance that overflowed from the top and sank between his fingers. Jalamorn; a very old, yet very hefty barbarian; tried to keep the drinks coming as fast as the McGuire snatched them down his throat. "Ale, grog, some of that honeymead. keep them coming oldtimer." The old barbarian just chuckled as he slung mug after mug into the hands of Ivan, who was at a slowing pace now. After four or five more mugs, he finally let in and let the bartender catch his breath. "Only seventeen, Ivy. Just four more and you can have it."
Ivan shook his head, feeling the puke begin to boil inside his stomach. He was drunk; drunker than he had been in a long time; and it took a minute to get his words together. And after he did, they were murmured with a numb tongue and a thick, fuzzy white beard that wouldn't stop finding the insides of Ivan's mouth every time he spread his lips.
"I come ta ask you fer a favor, Old friend."
At these words, the smile upon the old barbarian's face was blended with puzzlement and concern; yet he kept his calm and began polishing the mugs.
"Sounds serious, Ivy. and your drunk. Would be wise to hold your tongue at a time like this."
Ivan, who probably couldn't make out the old barbarian's first three words, ignored it as if he never heard it. He propped his elbows on the table and rested his head, which was pounding like a hammer, at the ends of both of his palms. The next few words came with a rather serious tone.
"I'm stationed fer Kunark tew days after this noight. I received a letter directly from Qeynos, an' if the barbarians fight 'long side with th'elves and the men." His speech paused for a moment, as he looked up at his old friend, "We would earn the trust of the Freeport, The Commons, The Karana, and the new hobbit town; Riverdale. We could form an alliance with the Faydark, and get as much land in Kunark as we want."
Instead of being surprised, as to Ivan's expectation, he was laughing to himself rather hysterically.
"I'm too old fer that sort of ting, Ivy." Ivan shook his head. "No, old friend. I don't want to chance the loss of you an' the grief of that devoted wife o' yers. If I don't return to Halas in three seasons, I want yew to take care of my wife and me two sons. I want Samuel to be inspected by the Councils of the Tribunal." "And what of Jerold.?" asked Jalamorn; somewhat knowing what his drunk friend were to be thinking. "You're a father, Jally. Yew know of a father's love." There was now a sensitive, very serious tone to Ivan's words, and the old bartender leaned in closer for his instructions. "If it comes dewn to it, and hope to god it does not, I want yew to sell him to Neriak fer enough platinum to settle me wife an' child." Jalamorn shook his head, not sure what to say to such a request. Without declining it, nor accepting it, he just nodded his head and said, "Be back before three seasons." Ivan knew that his old friend's conscience was taking hold of him; though the simple nod of his head meant more than a promise. Twenty years ago, this same old man thirsted for the bloodshed and the battle high; a true merciless raging warrior that was believed to know not the difference of right and wrong. And no more than a few seconds later did the McGuire fall out of his barstool and collapse to the ground.
Jerold leapt off the ferry, as it came no less than four feet away from the edge of the dock. He raced through the front entrance halls and stormed into the town square; nearly pushing Bumorf McCain, which was the best and most respected fisherman in Halas, off the wooden planks and into the freezing lake.
He nearly tumbled forward as he stopped the work of his feet at the front door of "McDaniels Smokes and Spirits," some kind of witchcraft and sorcery shop that bought large tusks for the highest bitter in the city. Opening the door, quite cautiously and slow, he glanced about the room. There was only one candle lighting the small shop, which was placed on a desk with a strange looking man behind. He had an eye patch, and he had, which was strange of all, no arms. Jerold didn't want to stay any longer. He held the tusks closer to the candlelight so the keeper could see.
The strange man behind the desk didn't seem to be impressed. He tossed a small pouch at Jerold, yet which seemed to only carry a few copper and silver. Jerold McGuire didn't want to argue. As quickly as he had come, he exited the shop and made a flee for home.
Jerold the Tribal, son of Ivan and heir to the McGuire White Warrior family, sat cross-legged in front of the body of his freshly slain victim. His hands were adorned together with an old polar bear pelt just below his left shoulder, tightly gripped at his breast as blood soaked through the fabric. The corpse, which was a massive Wooly mammoth calf, lay motionless on her side with the blood-rusted blade of a large axe planted atop her forehead. Jerold finished his mending and knotted the pelt tightly around his torso.
Jerold was a tall and masculine young man, almost the age of fourteen seasons. He carried with him always a double-headed axe that rested solemnly on his back by a thick strap of rawhide, a dirk made of stone on his waistband, and a small hatchet; the handle almost being too small for his grasp; tied to his thigh. His head was kept warm by a scarab shell skullcap, which his father had crafted on one of his many great adventures in Faydwer, and his face was tattooed with numerous scars and war-painted markings. His chest was left bare; which was somewhat unusual for this type of weather; and his legs carried nothing but a red-checkered kilt which his mother had tailored him, and knee-high leather boots which he treasured very much.
Jerold stood, unfastening the buckle over his shoulder and wielding the giant axe firmly in his broad hands. He let out a heavy grunt as he lifted the axe over his head; the gash in his chest spewing blood once more; and hammered it into the head of the calf. Snatching the blade upward, he slammed the blade into the skull once more with a heavier grunt, and after this he took the giant tusks of the baby mammoth and tied them to his waistband.
Jerold McGuire was one of three sons. He was the second oldest, the first being twenty and the third being seven. The oldest brother was last heard of in Odus; a dark island where many arcane magicians tame a sort of necromancy; and after the letters stopped arriving everyone presumed him dead. Jerold never had the chance to meet him, so it never really bothered him much. His younger brother, whose name was Samuel, was enlisted into the Tribunal of Wolves; a secret society of witchcraft and tribal ancestry that taught only a selected, gifted few. Jerold's father was a retired adventurer for the White Warrior tribe; something of a guild that taught all the men and boys of Halas great skills of war and patriotism, and his mother ran a small tailoring business that mercilessly kept her at work.
Jerold was proud of his successful hunt. After returning the axe to his spine and buckling the strap, he began marching through the snow; which had grown thick from heavy winds that just begun. He was a mile or so away from Halas and found his surroundings quite different and a bit strange. If he continued walking north, perhaps half a mile or so, he would definitely find himself in the Permafrost, which was home to the snow giants and Orc type; dangerous, dangerous predators. Jerold could feel the bristles of hair on the back of his neck erect at just the thought of the place. He had once heard gossip of a man who wandered too far north; and he was kept as a slave by the giants. The Permafrost carried strong blizzards and raging winds all throughout the year, and no one could hear a thing for miles and miles. It was, and although Jerold had never experienced it, completely impossible to navigate.
After a long hour or so, when the sun was beginning to set and the sky began to darken, Jerold could barely make out the title "HALAS" printed upon an old wooden sign in front of a large cave entrance. The winds were beginning to stir now; quite more violently; and Jerold thought it best to hurry himself into the city so he could sell the mammoth tusks and bring home the bread his father had instructed. Making haste with his feet, Jerold entered the cave and naturally waved to a few merchants who huddled in the corner of the cave with only a dim pillar of fire to keep them warm. One of them, a woman, instantly spoke aloud, "Jerold! Where've ya been, lad? Yer muther's worried ill, and I won't be surprised if yer father beats yew to death before the night's over." Jerold, who had never even stopped the march of his feet, nodded his head in response and turned his worrying glare down to the snowy floor. He knew this wasn't good. He knew that surely, if the tusks wouldn't sell for at least two platinum coins each, he would be belted and whipped until his father hadn't enough strength to lift his arm. He said a special prayer before slipping deeper into the cave and boarding the old wooden ferry that took him across a small lake to Halas, the city of Barbarians.
Jalamorn Donovan; town tavern keeper and a great friend to everybody; filled Ivan McGuire's mug with a bubbly white substance that overflowed from the top and sank between his fingers. Jalamorn; a very old, yet very hefty barbarian; tried to keep the drinks coming as fast as the McGuire snatched them down his throat. "Ale, grog, some of that honeymead. keep them coming oldtimer." The old barbarian just chuckled as he slung mug after mug into the hands of Ivan, who was at a slowing pace now. After four or five more mugs, he finally let in and let the bartender catch his breath. "Only seventeen, Ivy. Just four more and you can have it."
Ivan shook his head, feeling the puke begin to boil inside his stomach. He was drunk; drunker than he had been in a long time; and it took a minute to get his words together. And after he did, they were murmured with a numb tongue and a thick, fuzzy white beard that wouldn't stop finding the insides of Ivan's mouth every time he spread his lips.
"I come ta ask you fer a favor, Old friend."
At these words, the smile upon the old barbarian's face was blended with puzzlement and concern; yet he kept his calm and began polishing the mugs.
"Sounds serious, Ivy. and your drunk. Would be wise to hold your tongue at a time like this."
Ivan, who probably couldn't make out the old barbarian's first three words, ignored it as if he never heard it. He propped his elbows on the table and rested his head, which was pounding like a hammer, at the ends of both of his palms. The next few words came with a rather serious tone.
"I'm stationed fer Kunark tew days after this noight. I received a letter directly from Qeynos, an' if the barbarians fight 'long side with th'elves and the men." His speech paused for a moment, as he looked up at his old friend, "We would earn the trust of the Freeport, The Commons, The Karana, and the new hobbit town; Riverdale. We could form an alliance with the Faydark, and get as much land in Kunark as we want."
Instead of being surprised, as to Ivan's expectation, he was laughing to himself rather hysterically.
"I'm too old fer that sort of ting, Ivy." Ivan shook his head. "No, old friend. I don't want to chance the loss of you an' the grief of that devoted wife o' yers. If I don't return to Halas in three seasons, I want yew to take care of my wife and me two sons. I want Samuel to be inspected by the Councils of the Tribunal." "And what of Jerold.?" asked Jalamorn; somewhat knowing what his drunk friend were to be thinking. "You're a father, Jally. Yew know of a father's love." There was now a sensitive, very serious tone to Ivan's words, and the old bartender leaned in closer for his instructions. "If it comes dewn to it, and hope to god it does not, I want yew to sell him to Neriak fer enough platinum to settle me wife an' child." Jalamorn shook his head, not sure what to say to such a request. Without declining it, nor accepting it, he just nodded his head and said, "Be back before three seasons." Ivan knew that his old friend's conscience was taking hold of him; though the simple nod of his head meant more than a promise. Twenty years ago, this same old man thirsted for the bloodshed and the battle high; a true merciless raging warrior that was believed to know not the difference of right and wrong. And no more than a few seconds later did the McGuire fall out of his barstool and collapse to the ground.
Jerold leapt off the ferry, as it came no less than four feet away from the edge of the dock. He raced through the front entrance halls and stormed into the town square; nearly pushing Bumorf McCain, which was the best and most respected fisherman in Halas, off the wooden planks and into the freezing lake.
He nearly tumbled forward as he stopped the work of his feet at the front door of "McDaniels Smokes and Spirits," some kind of witchcraft and sorcery shop that bought large tusks for the highest bitter in the city. Opening the door, quite cautiously and slow, he glanced about the room. There was only one candle lighting the small shop, which was placed on a desk with a strange looking man behind. He had an eye patch, and he had, which was strange of all, no arms. Jerold didn't want to stay any longer. He held the tusks closer to the candlelight so the keeper could see.
The strange man behind the desk didn't seem to be impressed. He tossed a small pouch at Jerold, yet which seemed to only carry a few copper and silver. Jerold McGuire didn't want to argue. As quickly as he had come, he exited the shop and made a flee for home.