Olaf

Season of the Phoenix - 1304 AE

It started with a tap on the window. A sound so soft it hardly bore attention and was soon swallowed in the noises of the lodge. Visitors and drunkards alike lay sprawled across the floor, loudly arguing in dark corners of the lodge, or, as was most often the case; brawling. The lodge itself smelt of unwashed bodies and the bitter tang of vomit. Furniture was sprawled about without care and the tapestries, once the envy of the Halvault Snowfields, were heaped in corners, silently developing mold and fungi. The carving work that Olaf was so proud of, that Gylda loved, was scratched and defiled, pitted with the markings of axe and claw. The door that Olaf had so lovingly made, replaced by a simple one made of pine. The original long gone, fed to a fire in a rage. A gentle susurration of drunken voices filled the cavernous room with its rambunctions. Missing from its occupants was the host to this sordid affair.

Olaf lay hangover in the bed of furs he once shared with his mate. His head ached as the pleasures of last night's adventure presented their bill. Absently he scratched the scar bisecting his abdomen with the thick fingers of his right hand, his left looking in vain for the warm body of his mate. He slit his eyes then opened them, staring up at the ceiling above him. The clamoring from behind the curtain that led to the lodge making his already throbbing head ache the more. As always the case, the mornings were the worst time of day for Olaf. In the mornings, just before he rose from his bed and made good with his ale, when his eyes were still tightly pressed together and his body warm from the furs he piled over himself, then and only then could he convince himself that that terrible night never happened. He could convince himself that instead of a pillow it was Gylda pressed tightly in his arms and that little Aliana would soon be up and jumping on their bed to wake them. Then he would open his eyes and the world would reassert itself. Gylda was gone and Aliana was worse than gone. He was alone in the world.

So he attempted to fill the void left by their disappearance. Every night was a celebration at Sunspear Lodge, and every night he would drink and be merry. He would drink and drink until he could not stand and anyone with red hair became Gylda. His eccentricities became known throughout the Wayfarer Foothills. His door was open to anyone who came and he was very generous with his food and ale. Before entering, however, travelers with red hair were often warned to cover their locks, as depending on Olaf's mood, he could be affectionate, apologetic, or murderous. On good nights he stayed in the lodge and drank, sang, and brawled until he passed out. On bad nights, Endenvar would send Valdi into the wild to fetch him; inevitably finding him slumped near where they had last tracked Gylda. On those nights Valdi would carry him to Endenvar's lodge and Endenvar would sit long into the night listening to Olaf's lamenting.

Now in the pale light of the morning, listening to the merrymaking in the room beyond, Olaf lay motionless, his face expressionless as he listened to the sounds beyond. That is when he heard the tapping. Like a drum it echoed through his hangover mind, a thud thud thud that made his anger grow. Taking a deep breath, and swallowing the bile that rose in his throat, he hoisted himself up then sat awhile - waiting for the world to slow its eerie spin. All the while the tapping grew louder, and more violent as it spun around his skull. While fighting the churning gestations that raised his bile, he stared down to his large feet and noticed that they were once more covered with dried mud and bits of detritus from Halvault Snowfields.

He had gone looking for Gylda again last night.

He sighed and ran his hand over his face, trying desperately to rub the feeling of ineptitude that followed him like a shadow. After that night he had remained unconscious for three days before Endenvar had found him lying in a puddle of congealed blood. The wounds inflicted on him were not serious by themselves, but as a collective they rendered him useless. The story he told was that Gylda and the little one had been taken by marauding Jotan. Considering how far inland the Jotan had moved, it was an easy story to sell. The truth was a bitter pill to swallow, and none save Endenvar and perhaps Valdi knew it. Olaf was ashamed. He had loved Gylda from the first moment he saw her, standing in the shadow of the overprotective matriarchy of her family. She was small for a Norn, but had the sweetest dimples. It had taken him months to convince her that he was worthy of her. He had hunted and killed and bought many trophies to her, but she was never impressed. So he had built Sunspear Lodge. He had worked a full year, felling only the finest trees and carving all the murals. With the help of his mother he learnt the art of weaving and made all the tapestries that lined the wall. He used the pelts of the animals he killed to create rugs and throws. When he was sure it was perfect, that nothing was left to do, he bought Gylda to the hearthstead.

"Look" he had said, "If you let me I will provide. I will give you a home and a family. I will protect you and respect you. In this lodge you will forever have a home. The Spirits of the Wild will forever be welcome, and nothing shall ruin your peace here."

The words he had said rung hollow now, and the lodge was in ruins. The effect of his footloose behavior since Gylda's leaving taking a definite toll on the wooden structure. She was gone, their child was gone, and he was alone. He rubbed a callused hand across his face, attempting to remove the sleep and guilt that hung over him. Endenvar had said that it was impossible that the child would be corrupted by the dragon. In many ways he might be right, none had ever found out what happened to the woman and children taken by the dragon's minions. Endenvar, however, was not there that night. How else could he account for her glazed eyes, the blood, and atmosphere of wrongness that surrounded her like a shield? He had done what he had thought right. Looking back, however, he should have anticipated Gylda's reaction. She had loved that child from the moment she had drawn her first breath. It was love for her child that caused her to cut ties with the strict matriarchy that she grew up with. She wanted their child to find her own path in life.

He groaned, his chest heaving as he folded into himself, yet again overcome with guilt. He put his face in his hands and waited for the desolation to pass. Presently he stood. His large body unfolded itself from the cooling embrace of his bed. His bloodshot eyes scanned the room, briefly alighted on the leathers thrown about, the clutter filling its dark corners, and the dust that left a thick layer over everything that belonged to his mate. A knife stuck out from the door frame leading to his sleeping chamber, vaguely he remembered betting Valdi that he could hit a fly with it, looking about he noticed that his sanctuary was riddled with the remnants of that particular adventure. Tapestries hung lopsided on the walls, and the murals he had so carefully painted were covered in drunken graffiti of a somewhat obscene nature.

He gingerly made his way across the room, body heavy with the effects of last night's drinking, his oversized feet somehow managing to step on every piece of glass between himself and the round window that looked out onto what was once Gylda's herb garden. The tapping that was beating like a drum on his skull was originating from there. The hair on his arms and neck rose as he neared it, his heart thud thickly in his chest. Carefully he reached for one of the many weapons carefully placed around the hearthstead (Never will he be caught unawares again, he thought.) and reached for the thick woolen curtains made for them by his mother. His breath stilled as he looked out onto the tundra beyond his house momentarily struck dumb by the apparition outside his window. Blood Fiend, his mind supplied. The sword in his hand dropped with a thump that seemed to echo in his mind. Desperately he prayed that the sound would drown out the knowledge of what a Blood Fiend languishing on his windowsill meant. It didn't. He knew only one person who would send a Blood Fiend to his home. His blood ran cold and sweat broke out on his thick brow. As he watched, it raised one of the many spine like appendages that hung limply from its bulbous body, bought it to the window and tapped it with its thick bone tip. Olaf swallowed thickly.

He was being summoned.