Chapter 2

The Dooming

When she looked at the serene snowy landscape spreading out before her, she just knew that it was a dream. There were no streets, no trees, just an endless amount of starry night sky and dancing snowflakes, while the moon Mannslieb shone brightly, with Morrslieb, the cursed moon, having waned only to a crescent sliver. 'That's not right.', she thought to herself looking at the sky. 'That is not tonight's sky. This is the sky for different eyes, for another night, past or future … '. While she was acutely aware due to her studies that the stellar constellations did not align with the current date, she did recognize that she was unusually aware of that fact for a usual dream. One was rarely that lucid during a dream that one could recount the current date, so she concluded that this was some sort of prophetic dream, one that was not uncommon for Witching night, even if it was a short nap in the wee hours in the morning. Therefore, there was only a modicum of reason to panic, which was why Yalene decided against it.

Knowing that much, she watched with somewhat amused curiosity as the ground and the snowflakes dissolved, leaving her floating in the endless night stepping between stars, some close, some far, some pale, some bright.

She watched as the stars formed into the shape of an island shrouded in eternal mists, its shores calling her to return again and again. There was a sense of destiny there, a call that was at the same time loud as a thunderclap and soft as the ringing of a silver bell that seemed to seep into her very soul.

Then, a small, goat-like creature materialized before her, its horns delicate like silvery twigs, its eyes blue like the eyes of a newborn. The dream-goat hiccuped, some sort of bubbles leaving its mouth that reflected some dreams, wishes and emotions that Yalene could not quite perceive. However, she thought that if this was how a drug trip looked like, she ought to have tried something like this already. It was never too late, she mused as she watched that adorable dream-goat smile and hopping away into the star sign of the Dancer. Yalene gave it a little wave as it bid its farewell.

The playful strands of the brightest light she had ever seen made her weep because she could barely fathom its beauty. Yet she was not embraced by that light, but rather by something far more earthbound; it made her heart glow with joy and sorrow.

It lasted only for the a heartbeat, then she felt herself fall apart into dozens of pieces, was yanked back painfully, as if she had been in free fall, only to discover that she had been tied to an unmoving anchor. Being torn apart like this was the most curious sensation, one that was so terrifying in its inevitableness that the pain that followed thereafter seemed like a relief. It was excruciating pain that gathered itself within her right hand, deeper than skin, beyond flesh and bone.

That would all be disconcerting enough if she didn't feel somebody slobber over her face, and it took only a moment for Yalene to realize that this was the only thing tied to reality, and that her dream fled her mind. When she opened her eyes, she was lying on her couch, buried under a large tome and a dog, her heart racing and her skin feeling cold and clammy. The heavy monstrosity bending over her and licking her face was none other than her large mutt with a face like a good-natured bear, made of fluffy fur, loyalty, kindness and cowardice. Apparently, Trantüte had been sensing her mistress tossing and turning during her nap and had decided to wake her up, which Yalene was thankful for.

With unsteady hands and feeling awfully drained, she petted Trantüte and gently pushed her away, so that she could sit up, carefully place the tome on the table before her to gather her thoughts.

What a remarkably and admittedly alarming experience. In fact, she still felt herself trembling. Usually, even bad dreams would fade in the moment of awakening, but this one stayed with all the gory details it entailed. The feeling of being pulled apart had been worse than any dream or even imagination of death. Death was complex, but said and believed to be only rest and remembrance. What she had felt was as a nothingness, a kind of place that the word 'oblivion' was made for, although she had never truly grasped the sheer meaning of this word before this moment. The small glimpse alone had been so frightening, she couldn't imagine the despair of actually living it.

When she looked out of the window, she saw the snow-covered rooftops of her neighbours bathed in the golden light after dawn. It was already New Year's day, having defeated the night that was so important to Morr, in which people dreamed of things to come in the following year. That in itself was not unusual, but she hadn't dreamed of death, but something far more terrifying.

She heard the steady thumping of Trantüte wagging her tail against the wall as the dog sat on the ground like the well-behaved girl she was, looking at her mistress attentively. Yalene almost scoffed, but it was hard to scoff at what looked like a stuffed animal the size of a calf. This dog had only been with her for a year and was basically still a puppy, but its presence soothed her and kept her mind away from that terrible nightmare and what it would mean. Since she felt too upset to go back to napping, she determined to at least do something useful and rose to go wash herself, then get dressed. That dog drool should not be given an opportunity to dry.

Yalene's house was cosy, if constructed in a needlessly complex fashion, with many twists and turns and small rooms that made her humble abode a small labyrinth filled with precious wonders that were scrolls and books. Despite the great recent invention of book print, a lot of her own personal library still consisted of artfully illuminated books that were not only far more durable in being actually bound, not glued, but priced as works of art. Even books themselves, or so she had been told, had been a recent innovation. Three generations ago, scrolls had been the norm, but the founding of the colleges of magic a century ago caused a solely needed revolution of the way knowledge was stored. Afterwards, it had been just a matter of time until an inventive Middenlander got tired of straining his hands, cut a few blocks of wood into shape and smeared them with ink to inadvertently create the best thing since plumbing. What a fascinating modern age they were living in that allowed for everybody to have knowledge in the form of books at their fingertips for reasonable prices. Now the vast majority of the populace just needed to learn to read.

After her morning routine that made her and her dog not only presentable for the world, but also less irritated because of the timely intake of breakfast, she let Trantüte out to play in the snow to return to her reading, formerly hidden under a floor panel in her study. Her father's grimoire had been bound in inconspicuous brown leather and given a title indicating a book about astronomy. It looked thoroughly ordinary at the first, second and third glance, unless one was schooled in things arcane or the language that College mages used. After the dire warning she had received, Yalene had spent the rest of the night that she had not been napping skimming through the pages, surprised at the sheer amount she had forgotten. Her skills didn't exactly lay dormant, but she used them in a very specific and subtle way … but there was so much more a real mage could do. Her interest had been especially piqued by the possibility of creating a protective sheen around the skin, or dispelling the winds of magic altogether. Once, she had known all of this, but she was optimistic that, if given time, she could use that knowledge again to her advantage.

She had spent hours on her reading and was ready to leave for the festival, when suddenly, her door flew open and none other than a youth in dire trouble stood crying at her doorstep.
Finja was the only daughter of her dear friends, friendly healers, both of them. That young girl had grown into an impressive and confident youth, with lustrous auburn her like her father used to have and a beautiful face like her mother's. But now, that poor girl was just a shadow of her usually witty self, with reddened eyes from crying, and she hadn't even pinned up or braided her hair, which now hung loose around her shoulders, making her look even more dishevelled.

"Aaaaw, poor sweetheart, look at you." Yalene cooed and hugged that girl, knowing fully well that teenage drama was afoot and that it was best to meet it with compassion, patience and an open ear. "Let's get you some tea and see what we can do for you, shall we?" Finja nodded against her shoulder, and then wordlessly pulled away and let herself slump on the couch. The dog would have been nice to comfort the young girl, but of course, in times of trouble, Trantüte was nowhere to be seen.

Finja and her were not related by blood, but her parents and Yalene were often guests in their respective houses. In fact, there was a clause in Arnwald's and Wiebke's will that, should they both for some reason not be able to care for their child, this duty would fall to Yalene. Over the years, the scholar had performed several duties that would normally fall to an aunt or a grandmother, like changing diapers or giving the bottle to baby Finja, or looking after her in their parent's rare absences when she grew older. She had also done the most precious service to any parent with a newborn, which was what all friends should do with new parents: bringing them food and cleaning their kitchen.

But today, her role required some emergency-soothing.

Finja was sitting on the couch like a little deadhead primrose and looked at her with those large, innocent blue eyes that could make anybody melt with sympathy. Tears welled up her eyes again and as soon as Yalene closed the door behind her, she blurted out. "He's going to leave me!"

No surprise there. Yalene had been instantly suspicious of that lout that had been courting her dear girl, but she had been wise enough not to counsel against him and just let the matter run its course as far as she could, merely injecting herself to help with avoiding any more permanent consequences, like pregnancy. 'Called it', she thought to herself, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction of being right under the compassion and the bleeding heart at the sight of seeing a beloved person so crushed and heartbroken. For that alone, that boy deserved a beating.

So Yalene did the best thing she could think of, by first preparing the kettle and making some tea, since there was no way she would rush misery. After having put two cups of tea before them both, she sat next to Finja and offered her shoulder to let the tears and words flow. And they flowed in abundance, as the girl kept rambling. "He said that I was looking at one of the guys, and that I should not talk to him. I'm his girl, he said. I shouldn't be talking to other guys. I don't even know which one he was talking about! And then ..." Her voice now reached what "… and then he said that he has been so nice to me and that he sacrificed so much just for me, and that I'm ungrateful. I'm not! I tried to support him. It's been so rough for him with his work, but he wouldn't listen ..." Apparently, there was more, but her voice faltered, denying service while her tears flowed.

This was the moment when Yalene looked her straight in the eye, full of compassion, kept her voice as gentle as possible. "He said he left you?"

Tears welled up again as the girl. "I can't come to the festival today. I can't! He will be there, and … and ..." Her eyes became unfocused as she searched for answers. "If I could just apologize, if he would just listen to me ..."

"There, there." Yalene attempted to soothe that inconsolable girl again, with limited success. But that was the moment when she let her tone become a little firmer. "Maybe it's time to respect his wishes. He left you, after all …"

Unfortunately, every teenager ever been in existence was prone to see the own feelings as the most glorious, the most earth-shattering emotions ever to have been felt by anyone, their love a flame, nay, an inferno for eternity, their grief the abyss that swallowed the world. She remembered how hard it had been to deal with those emotions as a young girl herself, and now she saw that lovely girl go through the same.

Predictably, Finja started to get defensive. "You know nothing about love! You never married, you've never had a man. How can you say this?"

Not fazed in the slightest, she put up an air of exalted serenity while she kept her voice gentle and understanding. "No, I never married, but I do know love." Cupping the chin of the girl, she slightly lifted it to look Finja in the eye. "I love you, and I know that you are unhappy. But you are a smart young lady; you know what you are worth and how you want to be treated. And don't you worry about the festival today. You will just dry your tears, you will wear the green dress and you will look absolutely radiant and enjoy yourself. See for yourself where this leads."

"That's really nice, Auntie, but you still know nothing about real love, love-love, love for a man, romance-love …"

That made Yalene chuckle softly. "Haven't your parents told you the story already?"

Again, those blue eyes widened as the girl enquired a touch too eagerly. "Which story?"

Yalene sighed deeply and reclined on her couch, staring more at the ceiling than her interlocutor when she recalled that particular memory. "The story about my almost-marriage."

She felt how Finja perked up in interest and curiosity. That feeling was sudden as well as a welcome change of pace, and if it dried her tears and entertained her enough, what was the harm in telling her? Again, Yalene sighed resignedly and then recounted that tale that she had been mocked about all her life.

"Imagine the following scene: Me, 17 years old, about to leave for university and terribly smug about it. I really had the worst smart mouth back in the day, but for some reason, this was an appealing trait for Sören Kruse. You know Fynn Kruse, the Forest Warden? They're cousins."

The youth frowned. "I've never heard of Sören Kruse."

Yalene waved her hand dismissively. "Keep listening, and you'll know why. So this strapping young lad has been chatting with me occasionally about some town gossip, about his prowess as a hunter and how creative and romantic my insults were. At the celebration of Sonnstill the whole town goes nuts, which is the reason why I have the best birthdays." She fell into a dreamy sing-song as she recounted that day which, to a certain point, had been quite lovely. "Everybody was adorned with flowers in their hair, there was bad music, a lot of drinking, even more dancing and the charming odour of aged cheese from those Loerk-despising bumpkins presenting their bare feet to everybody passing by." Those were old, humourless men and women who rubbed their feet with toads in summer in hopes that their feet would sprout as many warts as possible to show their disdain towards Loerk, god of dance. Loerk for his part reportedly showed disfavour to joyless, tragically danceless people by cursing their feet with warts. Usually, when Yalene greeted them at every festival, she mostly heard slightly confrontational grunts. Adorable company, all of them.

"Along comes Sören, grinning from ear to ear. At the height of the festival and alcohol-induced jolliness, he goes down on his knees and asks if I would marry him in front of everybody."

"Isn't that kind of sweet?"

"You seem to be confused, my dear girl, because proposals should never be a surprise. I think he knew I would need time to agree, time he didn't want to invest. So I laughed him off in front of the whole crowd and was stuck with the reputation of being cruel for decades. Sören, his pride shattered, left town and joined the Longshanks, some sort of Forest Warden Order who vow to never stay at one place for more than a week."

Finja frowned, not quite succeeding as the skin on her forehead was too young to wrinkle properly. "I know that you preach self-sufficiency all the time, but that was kind of cruel, Auntie. Did you really have to laugh at him in front of the whole crowd?"

All Yalene could do was to smile warmly, waving her hand dismissively. "Yes, I should have handled that more diplomatically. I was a different and more spiteful woman back then. Ever since I have learned not to judge people and listen to them carefully; it's how I always get the juiciest gossip in town. But whatever I might have done or not done to him, I was right to refuse him. He shouldn't have put that pressure on me."

"Did you love him?"

That was a difficult question, one that Yalene could only answer after exhaling deeply. "I … don't remember." As much as she searched her feelings, she couldn't say, even if her life depended on her. It had been so many years since that day, and she had had so many complicated feelings towards love, marriage and her own achievements or the lack of it in that regard, that she really could not say. Finja seemed to sense that the conversation was at its natural end, and showed wisdom beyond her years in letting this matter rest, leading to a long, pensive and strangely comfortable pause."But if it was love, then this taught me that love is not enough."

Finja did not seem entirely convinced. "Are you sure? It seems to me that love is enough. It has to be."

"I am too clever to contest that." Yalene replied in good humour. She begged to disagree, but there was no sense in doing so. A young girl like Finja had to make her own experiences, and would could not be dragged towards enlightenment. One could give gentle pushes and hints, but in the end, she had to walk that path on her own. So it was time to change the subject. "By the way ...", she said conversationally. "… what happened to the pendant I gave you?"

"The one that is definitely not a charm against pregnancy that you gifted to me as soon as I started seeing him?" This time, the girl turned around to face her confidante, her eyes dried and still red, but her expression glowing with quiet and at the same time fierce determination. "With that Witch Hunter in town, I hid it in the garden. Nobody will ever find out from me."

This time, it was Yalene's heart that sank while she felt the spirit walnut in her pocket, as the possession of this thing alone could put her on a pyre. What was a Witch Hunter doing in the middle of winter, right here? Was he searching for demons in apple pies that would be served at a celebration? There was the vain hope that the Witch Hunter that Finja so skilfully had mentioned was only passing through. In any case, she would only make a token appearance at the festival and take her father's grimoire with her, to make certain that when she left town, nobody could find something suspicious in her belongings. She smiled thankfully at Finja, proud of the girl for thinking on her feet, and silently sipped her tea.

Before dusk, when she left her home balancing two apple pies on one arm, she spotted a good friend of hers on the street and called out to him. Arnwald, a white-robed Shallyan healer, was a mild-mannered and pleasant middle-aged man who had barely a hair left on his head, his white beard carefully trimmed. He was currently carrying a large, heavy pot on his own and smiled thankfully when Yalene rushed to his aid.

"For the poorhouse?", she enquired while lifting one handle of the pot. How she managed to do so without dropping anything was a mystery to her.

Arnwald nodded amicably. "This evening, it's on me to feed the poor. We have two women in labour in the temple. So the man gets thrown out."

Understandably so. While Arnwald and his wife Wiebke both belonged to the temple of Shallya and were thus well-versed in treating sickness and common injury in addition to their primary duties of assisting with birth and caring for the dying, most women giving birth were understandably reluctant to accept a man's expertise when they were at their most vulnerable. The worship of Shallya, the goddess of Healing and Mercy, was very much a female domain, yet a well-respected one. Their temples doubled as hospitals for most injuries, and only the rich or desperate would need the services of a true physician, who had to be regularly called from Salzenmund.

"Baxter Anke should be due any minute now." The Shallyan started to ramble to distract himself from the heaviness of the soup pot and conveniently provided Yalene with gossip. "Goodman Wilke, Enno Haiermann, Lovis Bergström and Berit Kleijn died last night. Old age and weak hearts, all of them. Plus, Old Volker was found frozen solid in the western woods. He's still thawing. Don't know if the undertaker will wait much longer, but people will wag their tongues about this, especially with the Witch Hunter having an interest in this case."

Peculiar. For one night, this was an awful lot of deaths, even for a town like theirs. Usually, this would be Morr's bill within a week of a lean, yet uncatastrophic winter. The last Witching night this deadly had been 23 years ago, with actual undead rising from unsanctioned graves. To this day, that particular Hexensnacht had not been talked about if absolutely necessary, the townsfolk being careful to purge that memory from their minds. But last night, old age and disease had been as deadly as zombies. That the dreaded Witch Hunter that she was now warned about again was investigating told her that there might be more to this story. On cue, she thought that she might be feeling a peculiar warmth in her apron where the spirit walnut still rested.

She was however not surprised that Old Volker had met his demise; he had always been odd, muttering darkly to himself and seeing shadows when there were none. Without any family left to care for him and the patience of friendly neighbours exhausted, it had only been a matter of time, as cold as it sounded. Still, this had just been a poor, old, confused and frightened man. He didn't deserve to die like he did.

"I heard Finja visited you? Is she alright?", Arnwald asked, now groaning under the weight of the pot, a chorus that Yalene joined.

"She will be in time. Heartbreak hurts, but we all heal. Eventually. Sent her celebrating with Trantüte. Can you take my dog for a few days? I'm going on a trip with Leevke and Tjorben. We'll be back in about four days if things go smoothly." Leevke was the resident priestess of Verena and one of her dearest friends, so she had approached the woman with the clear knowledge that she would jump to the chance. In truth, Leevke would have probably complained if she had not been asked at all.

Arnwald made an affirmative and vaguely enthusiastic grunt as the two of them arrived at the crowded marketplace and they had to put down the pot of soup so that Yalene could rebalance her pies on her arms. As it was tradition for this province, the first day of the new year was the day when the townsfolk would gather at dusk to lead the children roughly around age ten to their Dooming, a premonition made by the local priest of Morr about the nature of their death. Every child in the Empire received their Dooming either by a priest wandering or local. In Sturmhöhe's case, Tjorben Aldebrook would read the portents for the first time without aid, which made the end and beginning of a new year by far the busiest time in the year for him.

It was also customary for Nordlanders to begin the new year with a celebration starting around midday, with mainly meat and blood pies being served, they did so to celebrate not only the incoming milestone for the life of those children, but also a winter soon to be ending. Because gathering a whole community just to eat meat was awfully unsavoury, as they would be forced to sit together even if they didn't like each other, that event was also filled with bad music and dance, the food being offered in a sort of buffet. Given the cattle being slaughtered before this day – one had to share the dread before Witching night with animals, after all – and the abundance of food this produced even in lean winters, Yalene had always wondered why the people in the poorhouse still preferred to stay there and eat their soup. Arnwald had explained to her once that there was a certain amount of pride, and the inhabitants of the poorhouse were mostly concerned about being called greedy or freeloading by the local rumour mongers, especially since they were already living on charity. That, sadly, was a legitimate concern. So the soup had to go to the poorhouse, but both she and Arnwald felt that the pot was a bit too heavy to carry it even one step further.

"Hey, you there!", she simply called out to the nearest group of Watchmen, clearly recognizable by the distinctive blue and yellow uniform that they shared with the soldiers of Nordland. Thankfully, the small group of men took heed, and she particularly addressed the one that was built like a lighthouse. "Can somebody carry this for Brother Reijnders?"

The lack of enthusiasm was palpable as the Watchmen silently exchanged looks. In the end, the lighthouse shrugged and grunted affirmatively, good lazy-mouthed Nordlander that he was, only to slowly getting his frame into motion to help Arnwald, who waved at her before going back to work.

When she was finally able to set down her pies, she scanned the crowd, but her favourite nephew was nowhere to be seen. Since he had a so very pregnant wife and a toddler home, she somewhat disappointedly assumed that they didn't attend the event. She was, however, ambushed by a bear hug by her brother, Captain Hendrik Hoffmann himself, giant of a man with a majestic white beard. He hugged her tightly and used the opportunity to whisper a few words into her ear.

"I'm heading for Dietershafen in three days. Setting sail in a few weeks. I surely need an interpreter." Not awaiting a response, he simply winked and grinned widely as Yalene was awash with gratitude. It was good to know that she could take refuge with her brother just in case the situation in Sturmhöhe became dicey. Perhaps she would take that offer either way. The Sea of Claws partially froze over winter, so Hendrik was currently on shore-leave at half-pay. This was one of the few years that he could spent the beginning of the new year home, so she ought to make more time for him.

No more words were necessary, they understood each other. So Hendrik tipped his imaginary hat and started mingling with the crowd again.

There was barely time to get a drink, as dusk set in soon. When the sun kissed the horizon and basked the snowy forests in blood-red, Tjorben Aldebrook appeared in his most ornate and magnificent robe. The heavy black cloth was embroidered with runes of old, his girdle and shoulders adorned with bones and skulls, his features obscured by his hood. The formerly celebrating and laughing crowd immediately fell silent as Father Aldebrook strode through their rows deliberately without acknowledging anybody, striding to the graveyard.

The Dooming was about to begin.

Yalene joined the vast majority of the crowd in silence as they all slowly followed Father Aldebrook, only to stay away from a distance. Usually, a Dooming would be held in a cave, but since these were scarce in these parts, the Morrian priests held this rite at their garden, having prepared a large brazier and waiting for the children to come forth, one by one. It was a distance of about a hundred metres that the children had to walk back and forth, which, as Yalene remembered vividly, only added to the terror of having one's own death foretold.

She watched as the first child, a scrawny boy with tousled hair, was given his raw meat that he would hand the Morrian to be burnt as an offering, and then receive his Dooming. The poor boy looked as if he was about to throw up out of nervousness as he reluctantly trudged through the snow to face his fate with half the town watching from a distance.

There would be over a dozen children tonight who would have their destiny foretold, so Yalene decided to stand comfortably. It was frowned upon for the able-bodied to sit down to witness the Dooming, but it was allowed, even encouraged to have conversations, provided they were done in a low voice. Tjorben's mother once told her that the whispers added to the focus of the priest and the general atmosphere, which was as good a reason as any.

Sometimes, words were not only whispered, sometimes they were even unnecessary. Leevke, one of Yalene's dearest and oldest friends, demonstrated this now when she sauntered up to her carrying a plate with a big slice of meat pie, handed Yalene a fork and clicked it with her as if they were glasses. Then, they both took a bite of that pie and ate it in silence. Leevke was a stocky woman, her strawberry-blonde hair cut at chin-length in mourning for her recently deceased husband. She wore her most ornate white robes befitting her role as a priestess of Verena currently serving in an official role. As stern as she usually was, it was mild interest that now dominated her face as she tried to gauge her friend's reaction to the attempt of creative cooking.

Yalene let the flavour of the meat pie reside on her tongue a bit longer than it was necessary to believe what she had just eaten, before she enquired in the most polite and quiet way possible: "Say, treasured friend of mine, are these rum raisins in your meat pie?"

"Uh-huh." Leevke grinned.

"Why, by Ulric's right buttcheek, would you use rum raisins?"

"Mainly 'because'." There was a glint in the Verenan's eye that betrayed the strictness of her appearance and usual demeanour. "Today, I've finally divorced the Freeses. About time … and they lied about breaking their marriage jug as well! Those people should never have been together." She shook her head while Yalene took another bite of this strange meat pie. The taste started to grow on her, oddly enough. It was not surprising that Leevke had been high in demand in regards to legal practice. As a Verenan and one of only two judges in this town, the first day of the new year was also her busiest time of the year, since every citizen of the Empire was encouraged to lay every and all old grudges to rest, and Leevke took her role as Mother Janßen very seriously. Yalene would know, because just last year, she had been forced to pay a refund towards slighted neighbours for a letter not penned to their satisfaction. Unfortunately, the neighbours had been thoroughly justified in being disgruntled.

Suddenly, the strangest feeling made the hair on Yalene's neck stand up, and she saw Leevke's expression of stern satisfaction quickly turning sour. A moment later, she saw why. The man approaching them was without a doubt the ominous Witch Hunter she had heard so much about. He looked like he was taken straight out of a story book, with short, grey hair, weathered skin and harsh features, his countenance eerily calm, wearing black cloak and weaponry of his profession comfortably, as if it were weighing less than driftwood. His burly frame contrasted the rather short ones of Leevke and herself. For a man that looked that grizzled, his expression was rather benign, lifting his wide-brimmed hat in a gallant gesture that seemed odd and terribly out of place for such a gruff and unwashed man

"Indeed. This celebration is called Doomstag. Learn it." Leevke replied in a steely tone, and if she didn't have a plate on her hands, she would have crossed her arms while she stared daggers at the Witch Hunter. Yalene, for her part, thought that her friend was a tad too confrontational with a man who had the power to potentially turn neighbouring farms and quite a few residents into ash. "Before you continue, I feel that it is my duty to remind you that you are operating outside your jurisdiction. There will be no interrogations or arrests without the approval of the local magistrate or the Watch."

"Easy, Verenan. My quarrel is not with you or your flock.", the Witch Hunter reassured her in a surprisingly smooth voice before turning to Yalene. "I hear that you are the local interpreter of the elven tongue."

Curious. Eltharin was a difficult language for humans to learn, as it was vastly more complex than other tongues. In fact, Yalene was one of the few humans to have mastered this language, and it was one, if not the main source of income for her. Scholars across the Empire and beyond sent her scrolls and texts for translation, and she had been called to serve as an interpreter at some talks with the Wood Elves on a few occasions. It was just odd that a Witch Hunter would even be interested in such a language; usually, his kind was thoroughly dismissive of anything Elven, sometimes even downright hostile. Plus, the language he used rubbed her the wrong way; usually, common folk would refer to the elven tongue as 'elf-speak', which told her that this Witch Hunter came from a much more educated or elf-friendly background than he let on. She looked at him expectantly after reluctantly nodding in affirmation.

"You don't happen to know if there have been any elves in this town?"

What kind of question was that? The amount of shadow on his face was now almost palpable, indicating that even the winds of magic thought that he was lying. He was preparing some kind of verbal trap, but which one. She saw Leevke tense up in the corner of her eye as well as she replied in a cheerful, polite whisper. "I'm afraid I haven't seen one in years."

"Huh … your accent seems a little less atrocious than the other townsfolk.", he grumbled, clearly changing the subject because his line of questioning went nowhere.

"I am a linguist, after all, so I do recognize that the Nordlander dialect sounds strange to your ears, even though I do not concur." Yalene chirped. "Furthermore, I had had the privilege to study in Ulricsberg many years ago. I learned a lot about Imperial history and linguistics there, as well as masking my accent. It leads to better grades, you see." She had also learned a lot about magic in theory there, but she would rather rip her arm out than telling him this.

Baldwin Schönecker's expression changed, but as she could see only a moment later, he was actually pleased. "Middenheim, hm? I was born there. Bustling and shining city, isn't it? It's truly the heart and soul of the Empire."

She merely nodded in agreement as the Verenan munched rather insistently on another bite of meat pie.

Baldwin's expression became pensive and even longingly melancholic while he obviously wallowed in the memories of his place of birth. "Unlike this place, it's so big that it's no wonder that we never met before. Why did you leave?"

"Because I wanted to return home."

This answer apparently touched something in that grizzled Witch Hunter, since he was clearly taken aback, but then hinted a wistful smile after he had heard this reply. That was all he apparently wanted to say, because he straightened his shoulders under his armour.

"Thank you for your cooperation. I might have need for your expertise again." He then obviously meant to leave, which in turned caused Yalene to respectfully nod and turn her back towards him. That was the moment she felt him take one of her two braids into his gloved hand. She froze at that blatant violation of personal space and personal hair, turning her head only ever so slightly so that she could see the offending Witch Hunter in the corner of her eye. He was looking pensively at the braid in his hand, as if holding something foreign, strange and precious. Even his voice sounded a bit faraway, completely oblivious to his intrusion. "I have to ask: What is it with you Nordlanders and long braids?"

While his behaviour was out of line, he was not wrong and it must have seemed strange to him as a Middelander. Nordlanders, male and female, traditionally kept their hair as long as possible, and tended towards long braids and ponytails. Yalene was no different: her hair was long enough that it reached almost to her knees and she had bound them into two braids flowing down her back ever since childhood. Her hair was still a point of pride for her … and something private that she didn't appreciate to be touched by strangers. Her pleasant demeanour was gone, her voice now carrying the whiff of sharp reproach while she refused to turn around.

"It is ill fortune and displeases Manann to cut hair and nails at sea. When seamen return home, their old habits die hard. Another reason are lice." Baldwin Schönecker looked at her quizzically, and she elaborated. "A lot of our men become seamen. Those seaman hailing from Nordland are cleaned and deliced when they report to their ship. When illness or lice strike, their hair is usually cut short for treatment. A ship, however, that has an abundance of crew with long hair can prove that it is successful in keeping lice and illness at bay. Hence, it is a lucky ship. Crewmen or people with long hair must be rarely touched by lice or illness either, so it has become a tradition." And lucky ships were not only favoured, but a solid livelihood. It was not so strange that long hair as a sign of vitality and potential success had become thus quite popular, and not only with seamen, but with their land-faring brethren and women as well. Besides, if an indifferent and fickle god like Manann could be placated by something simple like not cutting the own hair, there was no harm in doing it even when living on land. "It's a tradition that has spilled over to the mainland for a long time now … so long, I can't remember a time without it. Would you be so kind and please release my oh so healthy braid now?" She did intend to sound exactly as acidic as she was now, since during her explanations, the Witch Hunter had started to absent-mindedly stroke her braid with his thumb. That meant he had officially arrived at the town of creepers and was not coming back from there to sympathy.

Instead of letting her braid go, he still looked at it. "How do you combat lice?"

Her patience started to run thin, but it was Leevke who now raised her voice a little bit louder than it was proper during a Dooming, her voice and demeanour laced with acidic determination, underlined by her hand resting on her sword hilt. "We have a poultice for that. Very smelly. Release her hair this instant."

That last sentence seemed to snap the man out of his reverie, but this time, he kept her braid in his hand just a little bit longer, staring at her with an intensity neither of the women liked. "Long hair is good fortune … and yours hasn't been cut in ages." He simply remarked, but that little comment carried again that icy sheen that made him so intimidating. At last, he let her braid fall, then turned on his heel and left them to the stares of some suddenly curious onlookers.

When he was finally gone, Yalene checked her heartbeat. Racing way too fast, as expected. No wonder … those Witch Hunters were a dangerous pest. She was friends with just about every priest in this town, had a reputation as an eccentric, yet respectable woman and had never been seen to do anything unbecoming, but still … this was a dangerous state of affair. She had to leave tonight, extract herself from this place until the danger was gone. When she felt Leevke's hand on her shoulder, she almost flinched.

"We've talked about your little trip. Don't worry, I'll come with you. Since that creepy buffoon seems to have set his sight on you, it means that we have to leave as soon as possible. I've already talked to my assistant. Florian is a smart lad, he will take over my duties in the few days in which we are gone."

She was right. That Witch Hunter was clearly onto her, so it was time to leave for a short while.

A few hours later in the dead of night, no matter how unwise, they did leave. Tjorben was not deterred either, although he as well as Leevke had just survived the busiest workday of their year, but they still insisted to escort her into the forest despite the hour. While Tjorben wore a chain shirt under his simple robes and armed himself with a mace, Leevke was wearing a cuirass over her white clothing, the sword issued by her church hanging by her hip. Yalene herself had armed herself with a bow and quiver, since this was about the only weapon she could use without accidentally harming another human being. Sometimes, she had touched the spirit walnut in her apron, but it had thankfully not acted up. Silently, the trio went into the forest, lanterns in hand. Yalene had also decided, even in her haste, to follow the advice of her deceased father and was carrying his grimoire in a leather bag slung around her shoulder, the book itself resting on her back under her cloak, safe and sound, but still available if need be. The plan was to rest at the next forest station, near Fynn Kruse's hut, and then make their way west, deeper into the forest.

"So, how did the ceremony go?", she asked when they were safely out of the towngate and walking into the silence, in part to calm her own mind, in part because the tired Morrian looked as if he had the certain desire to pour his heart out. And pour he did.

"That was … draining.", he sighed, his voice just a tad higher pitched than it was normal, indicating that he was indeed shaken by his experience. "Only two of them threw up, so that is certainly the positive side of the evening. At the very least, I'm somewhat glad to leave town for a few days. Now I don't have to look at their faces and their families for a little while. I think the fishmonger hates me now. As for me … I just had to tell little children how they will die and I have no idea if I messed it up. I saw the symbols in the smoke and thought I saw the right signs, but … you know, you never truly do."

"That is the nature of interpreting portents. They are always vague and up to interpretation. In time, you will get better, be it dream or Dooming. Besides, you have your God's guidance; surely, there is ample reason for vague hints of the future.", Yalene noted in a good-natured and reassuring tone. "After all, if the future were clear, we would stop to grow as people."

"Also …", Leevke added firmly. "You can voice these doubts with us privately, but in public, you have to stand by everything you have said and done, Father." She stretched his title for emphasis. "You are the authority on this topic in this town, and as long as you are not negligent within a topic that is certainly not a science or set in stone, you must be sincere. You can admit that not every Dooming is interpreted correctly, but you have to insist that what you have seen is the truth."

Tjorben made a noise that sounded like an affirmative grunt that originally wanted to be a singer. "It doesn't help that not every Dooming is true, you know? At my Dooming, my mother said that Manann's folk shall love me not. That is workable and rather precise. Tjorben Aldebrook shall be eaten by fish." He raised his chin as he addressed his two companions.

"What were you told?"

Before he was able to back-pedal and tell them that they absolutely did not need to tell him, Yalene answered rather flatly. "Thy end is not the end!" The added dramatic flair turned out to be enriching for a dark prophecy that had foretold her doom so long ago, only that it didn't. She had always been quite amused by this, while Tjorben paused in his tracks, replying in an equal flat tone.

"Well, that's what we say when we have no idea what the omen say, but we have to give some kind of answer. At the very least, an end that is not the end is a philosophical conundrum."

Yalene smiled. "I always suspected as much. But you will hate what Leevke was foretold." She gave her friend a meaningful glance while the Morrian looked at them both questioningly.

Leevke herself seemed a little bit smug as she recited her own foretelling. "The holy day shall be thy last day."

Tjorben was stunned into complete silence, blinking, opening his mouth to say something along the lines that one should definitely not ask Morr for his dance so blatantly as to go on a dangerous journey on Doomstag, but then simply and somewhat awkwardly stated.

"Great. Now I'm afraid."

Leevke chuckled softly. "I just believe that human minds might not always be able to fathom the will of a God. It always seemed to me that the priest performing my Dooming just helplessly invented some sort of destiny, so I was always sceptical. I honestly don't think that there is any danger here. The greenskins are too lazy to attack in this cold, and we should arrive at the next forest station within two hours - if everything fails, Fynn Kruse's hut is close. So there one could get help if needed. After that, we just travel to the edge of the Laurelorn forest, return your spirit, and then travel back to Sturmhöhe. Seems easy enough." In the pale light of her lantern, Leevke's face seemed even more sincere. "Our most dangerous foe is the snow. Our second most dangerous foe is fear. Both, we can conquer."

Tjorben shifted uncomfortably, and Yalene understood why. Ever since they had stepped deeper into the forest, she could not shake the feeling of being watched, of something ominous, something hiding in the trees that seemed to reach for her with outstretched claws. She didn't know if it was her own fear and concern of the unknown, a figment of her imagination caused by nightmares, fright of Witch Hunters and the appearance of ghosts in her vicinity, or if it was her witchsight picking on some unseen danger.

Leevke's words were the last meaningful words spoken for long hours as they made their way through the winter forest. Along the way, it started snowing, thick flakes floating down the sky as they walked in solemn silence, snow reaching to their knees, making a fast walking pace difficult. All way long, aside from the softest sound of snowflakes trickling, there were no sounds, no nightbirds, no wolves howling in the distance, nothing. The eerie silence should have been a deterrent, but they pressed on.

As they made their way through the thick forest, Yalene finally fastened the bow string on a the strange feeling of danger that only intensified the more they travelled onward. She had the distinct feeling that they were not alone, that she might have heard footsteps in the snow behind them, or before them … it was hard to tell. That strange feeling didn't subside; in fact, it just grew stronger with every step they took. The steadying presence of Leevke and Tjorben at her side was not enough to still her mind. That the forest they were currently walking in was so thick that their lanterns were basically useless didn't help her to feel secure. The forest station was almost within reach, where they could make a fire, warm themselves up and rest for a spell … it should be less than fifteen minutes. They were almost safe, but why o why did Yalene feel that the opposite was true?

It was then when she decided to open her mind and see the world as it was, as she rarely did, when she opened her magical senses and let the world as it was flood over her. She was wary to do this, but it felt right to do it now, in this darkness only lit by dim lantern light. And when she opened her mind, she saw more than she had bargained for. Breath of death all around them like the cold winter night, the dancing snowflakes turning the world black, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth. There was a seeping blackness close, so close that she just had to turn her head, but before she could do that, she had to close her mind again. There were people around them, foreign and different, terrible and beautiful.

They were walking into an ambush.

"Leevke, watch out, there are …!" Before she could finish that warning, as she felt the hilt of a weapon slammed against her temple. The force was enough to send her tumbling to the ground, tasting blood on her tongue that she must have accidentally bitten. The whole world was blurry before her eyes and she barely could make out anything aside from the pain and the memory of face of her attacker. Around her, weapons clashed, and there was shouting. This barely reached her awareness, but what she kept before she slipped into unconsciousness was the shock, disappointment and anger at her attacker, no other than righteous Baldwin Schönecker.