Unbound

Winter clung hard to the foothills of the Rimefang Mountains. Storms of ice and sleet had blanketed the southern slopes for the past three months, coating ravines and gullies until every step was treacherous. Atop the ice were layers of heavy snow, piled high atop game trails and trade roads in equal measure, blocking the path of all but the most determined of travelers.

Or the most desperate.

In the close-packed streets of a nameless village, a small figure struggled through the heavy weather. He was bundled head to toe in fur and wool, until he looked less a person than a Golem. The snow topped the figure by at least a foot in most places—more if you considered his tall, knitted cap—and ice tangled in the scraggly strands of a dark beard that showed behind a thick scarf. Even his eyes were covered by dark lenses, buckled to his head with leather straps, but his thunderous expression could be read in the tilt of his bushy eyebrows.

God damned stupid bullshit legs! Archie dug a heel into the ground, but groaned when he barely chipped the thick layer of ice. Can’t walk! Can’t even Stoneswim when I can’t touch the earth. Fuck!

Ahead, the warm lights of the only inn for miles shone like a beacon in the gathering gloom, and Archie struggled on. He tunneled through half-worn paths, digging with his leather mittens as the snow kept piling on, threatening to bury him. The flurries were so thick that he was forced to rely entirely on his passive Perception Skill instead of his eyes.

Blindsense is level 56!

Cold Resistance is level 2!

Minutes later, he clambered up the steps of the inn, where at least most of the ice and snow had been removed. A solitary lantern hung next to the door, glimmering with sigaldry on its glass panes, and above it: an ice-coated sign.

Deerwick Inn. So this is Deerwick. Thought I had gotten turned around in the storm. He stomped his feet, knocking off all but the smallest bits of snow, and tried the iron latch. It turned as easy as the thick door swung on its grease hinges, and he was blasted with a wave of sound and glorious heat. Oh, yes. This will do for now.

“Close the blighted door!”

Archie ducked in, pulling the latch closed behind him, and was greeted by an absolute wall of people. Humans, Goblins, Hobgoblins, and even a few of those birdfolk stood in tightly packed groups, their shouts and cries filling the space to the rafters. The majority of the crowd, however, was decidedly Dwarven, same as every town south of the Rimefangs. He spotted Goldspinners, Shieldbreakers, even a few Rockjaws wearing their dumb iron masks. All of them bore their clan glyphs proudly on their left shoulders, and in typical Dwarven fashion it was displayed with as much ornamentation as they could afford.

Middle of a snow storm, and they’re still dressed like they’re at a party. Archie had spent far too much time among the Dwarves, and he knew they would knife their own mothers if it’d help them flaunt their wealth. Back in Birchstone, it had been almost a game to see how extravagant their feasts and galas could become, all while dealing in rumor and gossip and politics. Archie snorted. He’d had enough of that to last him a lifetime.

The sound was overwhelming, the smell ripe, but the heat could not be denied. He took off his cap and scarf, releasing a tumble of dark gray curls and an unkempt black beard. The goggles stayed on, by necessity. His face was red and numb, from his jaw to the tip of his stupid, bulbous nose, but just a few moments inside the inn had them all tingling painfully. He loved it.

Archie made his way to the counter, careful to keep his hands to himself as he slid through the shifting crowd. Wandering hands in a world of Tempered warriors was a good way to end up dead. The place was packed tight, owing perhaps to the strains of upbeat music at the far end of the room, but if more was going on Archie couldn’t make it out. He had learned early on that his newfound height made simple things he’d taken for granted—like seeing over the heads of folks in a crowd—out of his reach for good. His Blindesense helped, but it would never replace the convenience of his natural sight. Not to him.

Still, he made it to the counter in one piece and, after leveraging himself up onto a stool, flagged down a server.

“Just came outta the cold, love? What’ll it be? A bit of warm supper and a room for the night?” She was a matronly Dwarven woman with red hair liberally streaked with white and a bodice cut entirely too low. She smirked at Archie's wandering eyes, not bothering to cover up. “Perhaps some company? A handsome Gnome like yourself wouldn’t find it too hard on the purse.”

The server’s words were thickly accented and almost faster than he could follow, but the twinkle in her eye was unmistakable. He smiled wide. “As tempting as that might be…just a meal and a room, if you’ve the space.”

“We do, though it’ll be bunking out here with this lot. We’re about packed up, what with the storm an’ all.”

“Out here?” Archie kept his smile, but it was a struggle. He had no interest in sleeping where just anyone could reach him. Focusing his Willpower, Archie ran two fingers across the bartop, gathering sticky ale, cold stew, and the gritty remains of salt. “Are there really no rooms?”

She leaned forward as if to support herself on an arm, but her posture suggested something far different. “We’ve a couple rooms, but they’re for a more…discernin’ sort.”

Strongarm tactics, eh? Archie reached out and casually let his two fingers trail along the Dwarven woman’s hand, leaving a patch of salt sticking to her. Inside of him, a warmth uncoiled like a spool of thread to gather atop her knuckles, glowing an unearthly red-violet. “Come now. Surely you could spare a private room for me.”

Innocuous Suggestion.

A veil fell over the woman’s face, though not one just anyone could perceive. Archie saw it happen, but only because it was his own Skill, and even then it was barely discernible. He had used Innocuous Suggestion a great many times in the past year, and it was one of his greatest tools. It built up a filter of sorts between the server’s Mind and Body, and inside that filter was a single fact: that Archie was an old friend.

“Oh! Oh, it’s you. How’d I not notice? Of course I can get you a private room. It’ll just cost an extra silver on top. Place is packed, yeah?” she said, straightening her posture. Archie was tempted to press her for a discount, but he was too tired. He had the coin, at least for now. “Just the one night?”

“Yeah. Just the one.” Archie adjusted the scarf around his neck—it really was warm in there. “Supper now, and breakfast in the morning?”

“Alright,” she said, taking his coin and handing him a black iron key. “Room six. Last door on the left. Take a table and I’ll have the boys bring out your supper.”

“Right. Thanks.” Archie scooted off the stool, falling back below the top of the bar, if barely. It was made for Dwarves, after all, and they weren’t that much taller than him. Archie slipped through the crowd again, swiftly finding an empty table near the kitchen doors and far from the musicians. It smelled of mildew and vomit, but his back was against a wall and he had sight lines on the entrance and exit. It could’ve been worse.

Time rolled on.

His food arrived, the crowd shifted, and the music had become lively enough to bring a few of the drunker patrons to their feet. They danced in the way of Dwarves: rigid lines and exacting footwork accentuated with a heavy stomp at the end of every verse. It was a familiar tune, one Archie had heard countless times back in Birchstone and Redspine Hold. It brought to mind old acquaintances and grudges and Archie had to clench his fists to keep from tugging his hood up and over his face.

They don’t know you, he reminded himself. You’re a hundred miles from anyone who would. Calm down. Don’t be suspicious. She’s not here.

She. That woman haunted him, and was the real reason Archie was in the middle of bumfuck nowhere. More armor than woman, she’d hunted him across the Rimefangs, into the depths of the mines, only when he’d slipped through the mountain and into the ice and snow had he lost her. From what Archie had heard since then, she’d raised a hell of a ruckus back in Redspine Hold, killing and burning their elite guard like nothing. A shiver shook through him, despite the heat. Even the thought of her burning, dead eyes had turned his sweat cold.

The dance ended, but Archie barely noticed. He tipped his mug back, finding some solace in the bottom of his cup, but nearly choked as someone spoke.

“Do you wish to hear what the wind whispers?”

Cheers met the words, even as Archie spat ale into his beard. He looked around, expecting to find a man whispering into his ear, but there was no one. The crowd was seating themselves, all of their faces turned toward the far end of the inn where a huge fireplace filled the wall. A bonfire’s worth of flames filled the hearth, outlining the tall but slender frame of a strange looking man. He had a wide, high forehead that seemed entirely too long, and overly large eyes that stared out over the crowd above a faint smile.

Analyze.

Name: Windcaller

Race: Henaari

The rest of the man’s information was all question marks, indicating their level or Temper were far above his own. Archie hadn’t even seen a Henaari, let alone one dressed so strangely. As opposed to the ornate finery of the Dwarves and the roughspun woolens of the Humans and Hobgoblins, the Windcaller was dressed in hundreds of colorful, thinly cut strips of fabric, the end of which was affixed to a black feather. They trembled and swirled with every motion of the man’s body, almost like grass in a summer breeze. Or some endless flock of blackbirds.

“Tell us about the Glimmerghast!”

“No, the March of Fangs!”

“The Demon of Kas!”

Cheers and jeers followed each request, the locals demanding their favorites. Archie hunched his shoulders, careful to keep his eyes moving…but the Henaari drew his gaze like a magnet. The Windcaller did not speak over them, or motion them to quiet down. He simply waited in agreeable silence until the audience settled into an uncomfortable lull. Only then did he speak.

“You cheer and ask for legends, happy to hear of horrors. Why is that?” he asked, and again his voice sounded as if he were right beside Archie, instead of a hundred feet distant.

A Human, half in his cups, barked a laugh. “Cuz ain’t none of it real!”

As if a pressure valve had been opened, the entire inn laughed with the man. Archie didn’t. There was more coming, and he felt it like an icy blade down his spine. An instinct he’d learned to listen to nagged at him, one that had saved his hide many times over. Food forgotten, Archie stared down the Windcaller.

“Hm. Perhaps. Who knows what might have been true in Ages long gone. The march of time is not clean, nor is it simple. The winds howl across the vast dark, where the light of truth has not yet found its way. Perhaps it is true that the Nym were not real, nor the Geist and their inventions. Perhaps.

“But I do not speak of ancient Ages long since Lost, nor of legends that are indistinguishable from a dream.” A complicated instrument of strings and wood was in his hands, and he plucked a note between words. “I speak of the now, for the wings of the Raven are many and carry with them truth. I will share this truth with you, if you wish.”

A single note echoed out through the rafters, and the inn was utterly rapt. The Windcaller clearly took that as encouragement, because he started strumming again. His words were not to song, but they contained a musicality that tickled at Archie’s ears and tugged at his heart.

“In far off Nagast, where the fog clings tight, a power has arisen. It flies a flag of blue and red-gold, the signs of a Lord, who saved the land from monsters and abominations in equal measure. A Lord crowned by the System itself, anointed with True Authority.”

As if on cue, the light of the fire seemed to thin, and shadows sprung from the corners and crevices to gather upon the small stage. As the Henaari spoke, those shadows danced, forming people that fled before monstrosities many times their size…until another landed atop them in flashes of blue and red-gold, as if the fire had been caught within the dark.

“The Lord, called Autarch, liberated the Territory of its threats, both mortal and monster, serving the people as did the Lords of old. All were welcome in Nagast, all were flourishing. But all was not well.”

The shadows changed, turning to cheering crowds as the figure burning with an inner fire stood at their peak. Among him were others, a figure with a spear, one with a chain, many with robes and staves, even a man Archie could have sworn was a Dwarf, bearing two burning axes. Then, with a change in tempo, walls erupted around them, and the sound of drums intruded. So caught up, Archie didn’t even bother trying to figure out where the drums were coming from, and could only watch as those figures were approached by armies.

“The Hierocracy grew jealous of this Lord’s power. Afraid. They sent battalions of Inquisitors and Paladins to take back the Territory.” Three large shapes rose above a sudden forest—Manaships—and they disgorged hundreds. Thousands. “The land was beset, their Lord helping another Territory through trials of their own.”

Fire spawned among the dark, burning the wall and the people atop it. Many fell as the music sped faster and faster. “Though they fought with all their might, the new people of Nagast could not overcome the Hierocracy. Not when the High Guard arrived.”

Rapt or not, that drew a gasp of horror from the crowd. Archie didn’t know why, but when four figures head and shoulders bigger than the average soldier appeared, he soon grasped the context. Swaths of the defenders were mowed down, the walls were broken, and everything seemed to be teetering on collapse.

“Yet in their moment of direst need, the very heavens themselves split asunder and smote the High Guard. The Lord had returned, and he bore with him a crown of not one but two Territories! He rode from the broken sky atop a golden Dragon, washing the field of battle clean in an instant. The Hierocracy, broken and bloody, fled.

“The Autarch of Nagast was triumphant.”

Gasps turned to cheers as the hated Hierocracy turned tail. Archie hadn’t had much exposure to the weird zealots, but not a single person he’d met had ever much liked them. Down on the stage, the Lord floated above everyone else, a crown now glowing atop his featureless head as people below reached up in adoration.

“Why’re you wearing those?” said a small voice. Archie started, his senses completely caught up with the Henaari’s performance, and spied a small Dwarven boy standing at his table. He was chewing a finger and staring at his face. “Aren’t they hard to see with?”

Archie looked back to the Windcaller, but the man was packing away his instrument, and conversation was starting back up among the crowd. Whispering mostly, all of them talking about this ‘Autarch’ guy. Archie clenched his jaw, fighting back the irrational surge of annoyance in him. He wasn’t even sure why he was mad. “Aren’t you supposed to be turning a spit or something?”

“I’m on break.”

Archie rolled his eyes, knowing the expression was hidden by his dark goggles. He stood up, making the decision to go talk with this Windcaller person. “Go have a break somewhere else.”

A sound like splintering wood cut through the inn’s noise as the thick front door ripped off its hinges. Folks fell before it and chairs skidded across the floor as men and women rose with weapons in their hands. For his part, Archie could only stare, rooted to the spot like a deer on a busy highway.

No. No no no…

A shadow loomed, black upon the moonlit snow, before it entered. A giant with a full helm, nearly eleven feet tall and covered in dark plate armor that gave no hint to their gender, but Archie knew. The sheer weight of her presence—her Spirit—clung around her like the phantom of a foundry’s flames.

It was her.

She wore no cloak or fur to ward off the weather, and her shoulders steamed as the snow boiled away before it ever touched her. Weapons hung from her like a portable armory, swords and maces and flails, strapped to waist, arm, hip, and back. She was an engine of destruction, and everyone could feel the truth of that in their bones.

“You.”

Archie just about jumped out of his skin, thinking that the giant woman had finally found him…but no. With everyone taking to their feet, she would barely be able to spot him. Instead she had a broadsword pointed at the Windcaller. The Henaari was watching her with a rapt expression on his face, as if he was happy to see a bared blade. Or was it her he was happy to see?

“I am seeking a Gnome that smells of salt and stone. He is wanted for crimes against the Hierocracy.” The air around her began to darken and the wood beneath her feet charred. Her broadsword burst into vibrant, golden light. “But first: tell me more about this Autarch.”

Archie barely heard the last, because he had already fled. Servers and cooks dropped pots and crockery as he scurried through the kitchen, and a few low level Skills followed after him, but he burst from the back doors and into the night. The snowstorm still raged, but he didn’t care—he would have walked through the gates of hell if it meant he could escape that woman. A little ice and cold wouldn’t stop him.

He had almost made it to the treeline when the screaming started.

Archie never looked back, not even when flames lit up the night.