Górin did not expect to be awoken so early by the innkeeper, but grunted a reluctant acceptance. Figuring that he would not easily get enought rest that morning in any case, and asked the innkeeper to retrieve his belongings as he climbed from the bed. From the angry comments made by the other guests, none of the other rangers seemed intent on doing likewise. If their meeting with their witch later in the day was all that was really required, then there was no purpose in rising before the sun, especially after a day of travel or a night of revel. Of the many guests in the nearly-filled room, it was only Górin and four others who seemed to find preference in watching the rituals over remaining beneath the sheets. To his great surprise, both Dákk and Handor were among these. Seeing the attitudes of the two men on the previous night, Górin would have expected their willingness to arise by the innkeeper's calling even less so than he expected the calling.
As it was, the ritual was not to start for some time until after the rise of the sun. While the others grumbled annoyed remarks, Górin felt rather thankful for this fact, actually. The morning was not kind to his head, and his belly seemed in sound agreement. A suggestion with some reasoning of a quiet morning to be had convinced Dákk and Handor to see the brighter side of being awoken so early, and not a moment after their packs were recieved from the innkeeper, the three were off to the mealhouse for an early breakfast.
It was odd to see the mealhouse so desolate, regardless of the hour. When Górin entered, not even a serving boy was anywhere to be seen until they called out for him and a sandy-haired boy poked his head out from behind a wall. Only a handful of others were sitting at the tables, all huddled in a single group, entrenched in their own words, hardly noticing the newcomers and giving only a quick nod when their eyes met. Yet despite this, they spoke so loudly that they could be heard from nearly anywhere in the room. As the three rangers went to sit down, their own discussion was stalled as their ears were directed towards the private, but not quiet, talk.
“-But I heard that the burnings were to be passed over, this year,” a wiry young man who looked hardly older than eighteen said.
“And I was told by Seer Hróþmíg that the masking of the witches would simply be another part of it, not a replacement,” a sandy-haired and stuttering man added.
“Do you expect every man, woman, and child in the county Elbregn to abandon their sleep to come out to the forest at the break of dawn on Brannaht?” An older man with only one eye said, his voice steeped in mockery, “No, this is for the witches alone. They have no care if not even a single layman comes to partake or watch.” He took a large mouthful of soup-soaked bread before he spoke again, which he did before bothering to swallow the mass, much to the disgust of the man sitting directly in front of him. “Furthermore, there’s talk that they don’t want a show for this. Just get it over and done with. The old crones don’t want people getting so attached to the poor girls. It'd be such a shock if not a single one returned…” He lowered his head, but his eyes darted swiftly to each of those to whom he spoke.
“That is no way to speak of the witches, FígnaR,” a fourth man in a battered hat snapped as he wiped his face with a cloth. His mood was foul, but what FígnaR said was hardly the only cause, for he had recieved those words with a mist of soup and soaked bread.
“Kind words leads to attachments, my friend,” the old man replied, this time thankfully long after he had cleared his mouth of food.
“Perhaps they might,” the man in the hat said. “But attachements are what gives cause to good men and women. Should I stride forth out to where they stand now, and say to them ‘Doom is the fate of your journey! Forget this fancy while you still can!’? No, it is through faith in them that their spells and charms have any effect at all. If you huddle yourself by a fire on a cold night in the middle of Leaflay, but don’t hold any respect for it, can you assume that it will continue warming you for long without wanting for another log?”
“Do not speak in symbols and distraction," FígnaR said with a dismissive wave of his spoon, "I said nothing of fires or of logs or of Leaflay nights. I simply think that it is absurd of the elder witch to send her acolytes out into who-knows-where, surrounded by who-knows-what, with only who-knows-who for protection? No matter how much the elder seer believes or prophecizes about their safety and success, this is not an afternoon walk around the city. Were it so that King Gráðír assigned to them each a guard of twenty soldiers? I might feel differently about the situation then. But half a handful of scattered rangers from across Þérge? What new kind of nonsense is that?
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
“That is to say nothing of the witches themselves,” he went on, elbows now on the table as he leaned forward to ensure his voice was clearly heard by those sitting not even arm’s length away, “I quite liked the elder witch, and I have ever since she took up the position…What what it, twenty years ago? If not much can be said about her acolytes, she at least has some sense. Or so I thought, until I heard that the girls she's sending out are just that. Maidens. Some of them aren’t even my brother-daughter’s age. I know not the methods of how they rise in their ranks, but surely they would have more faith in the older members of their convent?…And remind me not of the cold, won’t you? I quite like a healthy Leafsway heat, and I've had more than a lifetime’s worth of shivering. I would like to enjoy my Brannaht for all that it is worth before my blood starts to freeze. Now that reminds me-”
The attention upon the other conversation was cut short, as the sandy-haired boy had suddenly appeared nearby, holding a tray of three steaming bowls and a loaf of bread. They ate quickly, but paused often whenever they thought the talk of the other patrons might be useful for their ears.
When at last the three rangers had emptied their bowls and made the loaf of bread disappear, they spent little time remaining in the house, other than to clear their payments and gather their things from by the door. By that point, the streets had begun to get slightly more populated, though it was hardly by those wandering about for leisure. Guardsmen and workers still made up the majority of passersby, and none seemed in any mood to start the day just yet. Even for a morning of a holiday, it was still a morning all the same.
As the three passed casually through the southern road, they began to spot other rangers like themselves, headed in much the same direction. Not so many as to be a crowd, but enough that the colors of their lord and the trappings of woodsmen caused them to stand out. However, as they went onward towards the boundaries of the city, more rangers were spotted ahead and behind, for it seemed that despite the late drinking, many were still interested in waking up early to witness the rituals.
The morning light was coming slowly, but the sun’s light could pass through even thick Thergic clouds, and it was not an overly dark morning, though the skies still carried the omen of rain. How fine for Brannaht, Górin thought with a grim sigh, though it was not the rain over festivities that bothered him. Rather, he fancied very little the thought of being trapped beneath in a downpour while the witches insisted on telling him things he already knew and gave directions for things they knew nothing about. To everyone’s relief, the guards at the gate said nothing and only waved them through when they gestured to their lords’ colors and nodded towards the forest.
Finding the general location of where the rituals were to take place was not a difficult task, as it turned out, much to Górin’s relief. “Somewhere near the center of the forest,” was about as good a direction as he was given, but he shrugged off the ignorant navigation as a city-dweller who was used to street names and landmarks that all looked the same. He tried to not let it annoy him, but the morning headache of the drink was doing a fine job of it, already.
Looking out down the slightly-sloping decline of the southern outskirts of Elbregn, they gazed out to the vast grounds of the forest of Stékkr, standing tall and eternal over the city. The tiny splashes of color from the other rangers’ cloaks could be partially seen as they made their way through the lanes between the huge tree trunks and towards some unseen destination. The little points of reds and blues were utterly dwarfed by the massive green and brown trees that stood above. Even Elbregn itself was like a little pen of land that the Stékkr loomed over and guarded. A great ring of trees it formed. To reach Elbregn from the outside, one would have to pass beneath the Stékkr; between the trunks and below the leaves. There was no threat the gargantuan grave-trees imposed upon a traveler. The weight and power of the flames from which they were sown cindered still within. From afar, one could look at a Stékkr and see a mass of crimson and golden leaves lightly shifting in the wind, like a distant and terrifying conflagration.
Long ago, the seedlings of the Stékkr were sown. In a dying land, the last desperate survivors made piles from the endless sea of corpses, and burnt them outside of their homes. Long ago, in a dead land, the cold ashen remains of the mounds sprouted forth. Like little sparks of light amidst a terrible void of darkness, the stems Stékkr rose from the cairns of ash.
Each and every one of the Stékkr grew from, for, and in the memory of those who perished. Every leaf, the color of pure flame, waved as a funerary flag against the bitter winds of struggle. Each trunk, broad and twisted, held fast against whatever storm or blight wracked against it. Each little flame that burned within those great trees was a memory. A piece of conflagration. A trace of hope. Faint and trembling once as a mound of plague bodies, and now great and roaring as a tree of wisdom. Whatever poison or plague or despair reached out to take hold of the hearts of the dair in this land, the fire of the Stékkr burned ever brighter. Whatever ill cold bit at the land nearby, the heat of the Stékkr drove it away.
Sparing no time, Górin only sped up his pace slightly, and proceeded into the forest, with his two companions in turn.