The warmth of a firepit is of little solace up here in the mountains, where the wicked winter’s fist keeps the land in a firm and cruel grip. Wildermore has always been a “wild” place so to speak, for it is not the kind of land one would pass through easily and without purpose, and the people who do make their living here are hardened folk. Yet there are strange tidings afoot here these days, for to many it seems an evil spell has been cast upon the land; a curse of ice, fires, and blades. While the Mark suffers under the threat of invading orcs and hillmen, Wildermore seems to suffer also from the cruelest of weather, and its like has not been seen since the days of Helm Hammerhand and the Long Winter, as it has been told through the generations.
In this cold and empty bed I’m sleeping alone, upon the loft of an unknown house in an unknown land, far from what I now call my home in Bancross town. In another bed at the end of the room, there sleeps a man I have yet to know fully, though I place my trust in him all the same, for I have no other choice. Ofin be his name. A native man of Forlaw; a tracker and a seasoned rider, and his snores fill the room before I try to fall asleep myself, as well I can, in this unknown place. He has grown used to the cold, while I have not. My blood feels thin and my breaths are rough and scars my throat, and every layer of clothing I wear - furs and leather and wool - can barely keep me warm, and yet we must soldier on and endure the long, cold night. I look up one final time before I force my eyes closed, and I see the smoke of burning birchwood lingering there below the roof; a thick, grey cloud that would dearly sting my eyes, should I raise myself up. The smell and heat of burning wood still haunts my senses at every turn, even though I know well the difference between a fireplace and a burning house. I turn around in the bed and pull another old blanket over myself, and draw a deep breath from the musty air. The hay in the mattress is hard, and this pillow is a mere shadow of what it once has been, much like this very house.
Still, only a day or two ago a man, woman or child slept in this very bed; people unknown to me, and yet I can feel their presence still persisting here in the darkness. I know the subtle and sweet scent of herbs and spices, I see a few strands of golden hair still resting on the pillow, and I feel all the bumps and dips in the mattress, where someone has spent countless hours sleeping and resting for whatever the morrow may bring to their lives. I wonder where they have gone, and why this little settlement is all but empty, yet there are no apparent signs of battle. The ones who used to live here are just… gone. Did they flee the creeping cold at long last and turned towards the larger villages for a night of warmer comfort, or was it the looming threat of something even worse that drove them away? And then I begin to wonder what the morrow will bring for me, after this dreaded day of woe and unhappy escapades.
For she is gone. My she-wolf is lost to me, and I know not where to find her. She, the one I hold so dear, the adopted mother of my child, the one I love with all my beating heart and flowing blood. She has been taken away by an unknown force, and by whom or why, I do not know. A tall man clad in furs took her, it was said, by a witness in Scylfig town. Somehow, I remember very little of the events that occurred before, even as I try so hard to remember. My own thoughts are hidden from me, covered by shady curtains and blankets of snow, and the bitter sight of the knife-sharp ice crystals, almost as tall as the tower of Orthanc itself, that stands scattered across Wildermore brings my mind no rest. Wicked magic it is, and with each step one would take closer to the ice, the very warmth of your blood seems stolen away. And likewise does my blood freeze to ice as I think of what perils she’s facing, of the man or beast who took her, and what if… no.
The deep cold shakes all the doubts and fears away as my body shivers. Within moments I feel my thoughts begin to scatter and revolve again, as the world around me slowly dissipates like the mist on a dewy morning. All the dust, the smoke, and the cold just floats away on frozen wings, leaving only myself behind in its wake. The veil that clouds my thoughts and senses is lifted, inch by inch, until my memories are once again clear as a crystal lake. And I remember again, at long last… I recall the day when we set out from Bancross, and of the words I uttered to my little girl, that we’d be back before she knew it. I told her that the few days and weeks apart would, like always, just float by like a leaf on the river to us all, and that she can take care of herself while we are away, now when she’s almost an adult herself. My baby girl is growing so fast, perhaps too fast for my liking. Then I remember the ride up north, and the now obligatory stop and rest in Faldham, where we’re always greeted with a warm meal and a song by my long-time friends and comrades, even though their numbers seem to grow thinner with every visit. Death would give respite to no man or woman, and my own death is already waiting along the road, though I know not when or where, and perhaps that is best.
The cold chases away the clouds of doubt and death once again, and I remember in its stead the passing of Cliving next, and the long, winding road up into the mountains, that made even Ealfin struggle to keep his footing on the loose gravel and icy patches. I know again the wintry chill that punched us like a hammer, once we reached the flatter lands above. There was this unnatural cold that froze your every exhaled breath, and swiftly left my beard riddled with icy droplets. There were these strange ice crystals that littered the landscape and whispered of dark spells in the northern nights, and of frozen fires and jagged blades. People were shivering in their homes while the air outside was filled with the ominous sound of howling wolves and wargs, and the restlessness that follows with danger lurking in every nook and shadow. The people of Wildermore are afraid, and for good reasons. And yet they are fighting back… as towns and homesteads are burned and razed, the villagers gather in greater numbers to defend their homes and strike back at the cold and bitter villainy and wizardry that has befallen them. For such is the spirit of the Eorlingas; unquenched, unbroken, still standing tall and proud in their darkest hours, while the world burns around us. No matter how many times we are struck down by ill deeds or wicked hearts and minds, we will rise up again, as Men of the Mark.
And here we stay, Ofin and I, stuck in an unknown farmhouse while a snowy storm rages outside and the cruel wind bites and claws at the wooden walls. Here we are chasing an unknown foe, who carries my woman for reasons unknown. My body aches… every fiber screams in pain and agony of the freezing cold, until at last I fall asleep with my hand still resting on the hilt of my sword, the only bedmate I’d have this night. While my thoughts and memories may have returned in these shattered fragments, my restless dreams remain more of a white, soundless void, until I hear from far away at the edge of dreaming… the howling of a wolf.
The story continues here: Into the Cold: Dreaming of the Battle
