3rd of the 1st Epoch. 769th of the First Age.

The fire’s cracking in the centre filled the enormous space of the tent, stretching over the former space of the former capital of Virdr. The flames lit the walls, shadows painting the large form of Pentarch Zahgorim clad in his ceremonial robes with clean silver scaled shoulder plates, a vambrace that extends into a clawed gauntlets embedded with myriad-coloured jewels glinting in the shadows of the enormous shrine dedicated to the Nightscale.

The shrine itself was the first thing the Bál-Su’urthr taking up residence in the remains of the city commissioned by order of his father, the previous Pentarch. It was made by the combined effort of the clan’s earth-shapers and the few enslaved dwarves that were captured during the takeover of the north.

Zahgorim recalls as he witnessed the dwarves sculpting out the terrifying figure that was the Nightscale in their eyes and minds, then the more divine corrections added by his clan’s earth-shapers later. One such detail were the four wings, that started out skeletal, oozing with a miasma containing the faces of the people frozen in fear. Those faces were no more present, as soon as the earth-shapers of his clan saw them, they smoothed them out, reshaping the wings to be more regal, scaled.

Just as he finishes reminiscing about the old days, his fingers snap, and the entrance closes, the leather melding together so no one can enter. The warm atmosphere fades, one of calm finality coming to its place. The flames go silent, motionless completely as even the air feels like it stopped in its perpetual motion.

Darkness formed into the shape of a handsome man with a regal mane of a lion, the eyes of a wicked serpent and the ripe muscles of a bull hidden under a formal robe with golden trims exposing his chest.

“How can I be of service, O’ Great Ruler of the Hour of Passing?” The furred carpet gently caressed his knees as he bowed down swiftly, yet elegantly in front of the Nightscale.

“Griggorn has passed.” The Nightscale speaks, his deep voice echoing with a slight hint of solemnity as his eyes focus on Zahgorim.

“Was it the elves or the dwarves, might I be bold as to ask?” He slowly raised his head up, veiled in shadows while the hood draped over it. His eyes met with the Nightscale’s gleaming with a symmetric pride.

“Neither. It was someone not of finite nature.” Zahgorim listens calmly while resting his hands on his swathed in black thighs.

“Did the gods found a way through? Or was it something else?” Zahgorim asks, maintaining his eyes on the blurring dark shape in front of him.

“They carry a familiar yet weird presence. I have yet to precisely identify them.” The Nightscale speaks as he averts his gaze to his stone jaws with ossified flames gathering in them.

“But more importantly, the remaining Dhau-Íssz will need reinforcement.” He then turns his head down once more, focusing on Zahgorim. “I’ll send the best O’ Greatest of the Primals.” The finely dressed Pentarch adds while bowing deeply once more as he dissipates, the warm presence returning with the air once again breezing him gently as the entrance opens up. His chest expands, air breezing his tusks and lips while his eyes close down, a sweet ode ringing in his minds. Send the finest.

**

14th of the 12th Epoch. 768th of the First Age.

The cart rocked under Vro-Ghahk as he sat on top the hay covered back, mesmerized by the snow blanketed plains spanning far into the distance. The forest was barely visible, the pine trees appearing as a mash of green with hints of snow dropping as the gentle winter wind breezed them.

The large bovine mounts pulled the cart slowly, groaning occasionally when their riders jerked the reins to slow them down, not to tumble the cart over. Their blindingly white fur covering most of their bodies melded them into the scenery, if viewed from afar.

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“How are my son doing?” Vro-Ghahk turns his gaze from the alabaster landscape to Hom-Raz the Farseeker of his clan draped in thick pieces of furred clothing. Her dreaded hair cascading down on both sides of her neck, while her face is blanketed in shadows under her large hood with furred frames.

“They’re a few days away from Tellnat.” Her eyes turn wide as she falls in a deep meditative state. Her vision changes to one in a much greater height, while the feeling of cold air breezing her skin results in a slight quiver. The two other Virdrior Hawks look at her with surprise as she takes a deep dive towards the marching group of Hvitr-Ha’ygr.

“Don’t you worry about him. He may be a bit rash at times, but there is a good head sitting atop that neck.” Vhar-Thurg adds while keeping his pace with the carts. The cold wind breezes through his faded green bald head hidden under ivory magical paint.

“It’s not that he is worrying about.” Eywindur keeps his pace while interjecting rather loudly before Vro-Ghahk. “That boy has already proven himself during the siege of Vinterefalt.” At the mention of the siege during which their clan settled, Vhar-Thurg scratches the scar on the left side of his head. “Oh right.”

“My worries are more on the side of what may lurk in that cursed forest.” Vro-Ghahk looks up, his chest puffing out as a soft burning course through his body still not enough to heat him up as the empty coldness freezes him from inside.

“Whatever that is you saw, it’s in the mountain, isn’t it?” Eywindur asks while scratching his chin under a heavy bush of greying beard. “I’m not sure if I’m being honest. Can’t you fly over the forest just in case?” He turns towards Gha-Rhol while she remains in her trance.

“Can’t. There are no birds flying over it.” Gha-Rhol says in a monotone voice as her eyes gain their yellowish colour back.

“I tell you, he can handle himself. I still remember him cutting down the Volva of the Kingdom during the siege. If he could handle that one, some monster will be no problem for him.” Vhar-Thurg speaks with a cheerful tone as he recalls the siege.

“Wasn’t she the one who punctured your head with an ice spell.” From the other side an aging human with long braided beard and intense black hair, namely Bjartur speaks up.

“Yeah, I remember we had to scrape your brains up from the pavement.” Yho-Zhul snorts loudly as she recalls Vhar-Thurg massive body getting up with a large icicle standing out from his bald head. “I recall your sister being pretty furious with you charging at two warriors while blood poured over your paint.”

“Well, she was always a worrywart just like you Eywindur.” He turns around for a bit, speaking at his old friend, “Neither of us were. We just knew that you needed healing instead of rushing at the enemy.” Eywindur sighs while speaking.

“Oh, that is true, I guess.” He said with a vacant stare on his face. “Also, in that moment she was angry because you were more a hindrance than help for the boy.” Eywindur adds while recalling Kr-Aghk dumbfounded face as Vhar-Thurg passed by him, striking at the elderly sorceress of the Virdr kingdom.

“I still disagree with that part. Cutting her right arm off helped him greatly if you ask me.” Vhar-Thurg laughs out lightly as he recalls the moment the sorceress cried out in pain, blood flowing out like from a fountain. Then in the next moment, her head flew off, staring at the castle’s gate with her empty blue eyes.

“He almost cut your head off, my friend.” Bjartur yells from the opposite side as he relives the moment. Just as Vhar-Thurg rushed in, Kra-Aghk lifted his blade up after his fist forced the sorceress down on her knees, her long grey hair cascading down while revealing her wrinkled nape. With each step he was about to decapitate her, but the rushing Vhar-Thurg baffled him as he cut off her hand that sent the icicle to his head.

“And because you refused to wear a helmet.” Vro-Ghahk jumps in the conversation. He recalls the moment when he walked inside the ruined temple that housed the injured, hearing the thunderous voice of Vhar-Thurg’s sister echoing through. “Well, at least I proved that neither an arrow nor an icicle in the head could end me.” He speaks up while scratching the mark of his head wound.

“Head so thick it can only be penetrated by magic.” Rielk, a hobgoblin, adds while wiggling his tail on the saddle. “Truly, the Nightscale smiled upon me.”

“Did not mean it as a compliment.” Rielk adds while they are heading closer and closer to the forest forming a natural border between the two former provinces Hodeskalleme currently controlled by their clan and Sneolv housing numerous settlements belonging to Bál-Su’urthr and some of the smaller clans.

“Will we pass through chief or make camp?” Rielk asks while turning back. His brownish fur melds in with his armours as the wind blows.

“Let’s make camp. Keep watch while we’re in the forest.” As they slowly approach the border forest, silence falls upon the group as they enter under the shadows.