9th day of Withergrasp, 1367
[Quintessence] 5830/16000
The bone-chilling winds of Eldergrove, with their wintry whisper, found their way through the thin gaps of Engin’s austere wooden office. Engin sat at his desk, hunched over a sprawl of parchments. Frost covered the windowpane, spider-webbing across the glass, making the outdoor world seem like an impressionist painting—muted, soft, and dreamlike. He glanced out and shivered, not at the cold but at the sheer magnificence of the Ebon trees scattered beyond the clearing, those black sentinels standing proud and resolute amidst the frost-kissed forest.
Under Ebonheim's auspicious will, they had been granted the grace to harvest these silent guardians. Yet, Engin’s heart held an innate reverence for these ancient trees ever since his arrival in the Eldergrove. His pen paused, the drone of his mundane clerical work succumbing to the call of these memories.
"Ebonwood," he mused, its mere name resonated with a kind of divine awe. Unyielding in strength, imbued with a longevity that made normal timber seem frail in comparison. But more than its practical merits, it was the ethereal aura, the inherent divinity that radiated from the trees that fascinated him.
Engin had been there when the first tree was felled—a sacrilegious act felt even amidst the profound reverence. As Bjorn and Thorsten's axes bit into its pitch-dark bark, a profound silence fell over the villagers, like they were tearing into the fabric of their world. Yet, the tree yielded, bowing to their goddess’s will and their necessity.
The memory was visceral, the sight of those ebon logs in their hearths, burning with a stubborn tenacity, driving away the icy claws of winter—A manifestation of Ebonheim’s protection, an amulet against the relentless cold. But in their goddess' abundant generosity, had they been blind to the cost?
Engin ran his fingers through his peppered beard, deep in thought. The Ebon tree wood was a boon in these frigid times, burning longer, hotter, and brighter than any common kindling. But there was a price to pay for such luxury, a price paid by the land itself. He couldn't shake the gnawing uncertainty over how long these ancient giants took to regrow once harvested. Like the cycles of life and death, seasons of plenty and scarcity, every living thing had its time, and he feared they were borrowing heavily against the Ebon trees' natural clock.
But, surely Ebonheim knew that as well? Or at least, he hoped she did. She was a goddess after all, with the wisdom to make such judgments—err, perhaps he was giving her too much credit. Wisdom was not her forte from what he had observed so far.
Nonetheless, even Engin couldn't deny the Ebon wood's efficacy against the cruel and relentless forces of nature. Even the tempest brought about by the Elemental Conflux did little more than shake the leaves. They were, to put it bluntly, invincible against nature's fury, unbowed and unfazed by the squall.
The tools and armaments crafted from this wood were a boon as well—stronger than any steel and reliable beyond doubt. When he shared the news of the Ebonwood with Roderick, Engin knew that soon word would spread of the harvest and the mythical qualities of this new resource. It was all well and good for the village to reap the benefits of Ebonwood, but when more people flock to this small village, the danger of exploitation from those with dubious motives weighed heavily on his mind.
He could only trust in Roderick's discretion and good judgment to ensure the village would not fall victim to unscrupulous dealings. And as for the villagers themselves... well, the recent integration with the Aslankoyash had provided a valuable experience in taking in newcomers and settling them in. Learning how to coexist and respect each other's cultures and identities was a crucial first step to ensuring a harmonious and peaceful village.
Engin let out a sigh, his breath fogging up the glass in front of him. "Times are changing," he murmured to himself as he leaned back against his chair again. "I should prepare."
Picking up his quill once more, he began to draft the plans for the harsh winter ahead, rationing the use of Ebon wood while eyeing alternatives and safeguarding against potential shortages. There was a great deal to do before the coming season, and the snow did not wait for those who dawdled.
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26th day of Withergrasp, 1367
Thorsten Gustaffson stood in the middle of the frozen square, Ebonheim's playful taunt still ringing in his ears, warming his blood. Ice crystals hung in his beard, twinkling like stubborn stars. The villagers of Ebonheim moved around him like ghosts under the veil of winter's white silence, their breath coming out in frosty puffs that evaporated before their eyes. They bustled around him, bringing out their stock to stockpile against the winter cold. The children, bundled up in thick coats and furs, darted through the village like little sparrows in search of new toys to keep them busy in their long days indoors.
As hearty as a bear awakened prematurely from hibernation, he stomped his boots free of snow and headed to his cottage in search of his morning ale—a fine draught, brimming with flavor after much trial and error from Bogdan's brewery.
The banter he had shared with Ebonheim, while a bit daft and a bit juvenile, still echoed in his mind. A smirk crossed his face as he reached his cabin and lifted the latch with an exaggerated flourish. With a kick, he slammed the door wide open, its hinges squealing in protest.
"She's got the audacity of a snow hare in summer, that one," he grumbled, picturing her teasing smile. "There's muscle beneath this belly!" He gave his belly a loud slap with his hand before tugging his coat off and dropping it on the chair with a loud thud. "Aye," he sighed as he reached for a tankard on the shelf and retrieved the jug of ale hidden at its side. "There's muscle to be found in there all right. It's just a bit shy 's all."
He paused as he caught a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the windowpane—his gut seemed a bit bloated, and there was a slight heaviness to his frame that hadn't been there before. Could the snow hare be right? Or perhaps he had simply eaten too much at the feast?
Shaking his head, Thorsten upended the jug over his tankard and began to pour. "Never mind that," he muttered as he filled the tankard with a frothy mouthful, "the ale will keep me warm."
While he downed his morning ale, Thorsten watched the villagers going about their business with quiet approval, content in the knowledge that his work as their shire-reeve was going smoothly—well, mostly. Some issues cropped up now and then, but nothing too taxing.
Ordinarily, there was always something to do—mending roofs and walls, trimming branches in the spring, mending tools and armor in the summer, and cutting wood for winter fuel in the autumn. This year though, aside from a solid month of repairing what the Elemental Conflux had wrought on their village, there was a decive lack of chores that needed doing.
It was a welcome circumstance, to say the least—a time of peace and prosperity with nothing to do.
"Hmmm..." he mused as he brought his tankard to his lips again, savoring the bold flavor that filled his mouth before swallowing it down. "It's good," he said to no one in particular as he placed the tankard on his desk with a thud and rubbed his stomach with a chuckle. "A bit too rich though."
He stared at the glowing embers in his hearth, the crackle and pop of the firewood a soothing drone in the silence of the cabin. A sudden gust of wind rattled the wooden window shutters, the whistling sound a familiar song from his homeland.
Home.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
On the wall hung a faded tapestry, the colors dimmed but the tales it told as vibrant as ever in his memory. The patterns depicted the story of the Ulfhendar, the elite wolf warriors of his homeland, and of his own journey through their ranks.
Thorsten picked up the old, unadorned helmet lying at the corner of the table. It was an artifact from a time when he was more wolf than man, an echo of a chapter closed yet never forgotten. He ran his thumb over the cold iron, the smooth surface marred by nicks and scratches, each one a ghostly whisper of battles fought, victories claimed, and losses mourned.
As he held the helmet, his gaze slid over to the corner of the cabin where his enchanted axe lay. It was a beast of a weapon, its edge still sharp, its power undiminished by the years. But today, it lay quiet, a sentinel in his sanctuary, waiting for the call of duty. A soft chuckle escaped him; his younger self would have been appalled at the sight of such a weapon in slumber.
He remembered those days clearly—the raw energy, the searing passion, the relentless desire to prove himself. Rising through the ranks had not been a journey bathed in glory; it was a steep, treacherous climb, each step earned with blood, sweat, and unwavering resolve. He had been a storm then, his fury and power as unpredictable and devastating as the tempests that ravaged his homeland's shores.
Thorsten leaned back in his chair, the rough wooden backrest pressing against his broad shoulders. The faint scent of pine and aged timber filled his nostrils, grounding him in the present, yet his thoughts were far from the tranquil cabin and the snowy village of Ebonheim.
The life of an Ulfhendar was one of balance—between the man and the beast, the chaos and the calm. In the heart of battle, he was the storm's fury, his wrath as relentless as the winter winds. But amidst the quiet of his homeland's woods, he was the storm's end, his spirit as gentle as the first snowfall.
A sudden gust of wind swept through the open window, carrying with it the crisp scent of winter. Thorsten closed his eyes, listening to the songs of the elements, carrying his thoughts further back. He remembered the winters of his youth, the thrill of the hunt, the biting cold, the silent dance of predator and prey. He remembered his first winter wolf encounter, a beast of legend, its icy gaze holding a challenge that his fiery spirit could not resist.
Opening his eyes, he found himself back in the present, back in his cabin, the heart of the morning sun filtering through the window, casting a warm glow on the faded tapestry. He set the helmet back on the table, a gentle clink echoing in the cabin’s quietude.
After finishing his breakfast, Thorsten pulled on his boots and his fur coat, picked up his whittling axe, and headed to the forest to replenish his woodpile—still a necessary task despite having Ebonwood to burn in his hearth.
As he neared his chosen spot, he was greeted by a familiar face—Serrandyl, the beastkin warrior from Aslankoyash who was every bit as cheeky as Ebonheim, but a whole lot less clever. Thorsten suppressed a groan before greeting her with a wave. A thick fur coat enveloped her athletic frame, leaving only her face and tail exposed to the elements.
"Good morning!" she called out, her voice cheerful and bright, before gesturing to the pile of logs and branches she had gathered from a nearby bush. "What do you think?" she asked with a proud smile, her tail swishing about with excitement. "Will these do?"
He leaned over the pile with a critical eye and nodded. "Aye," he grunted, "that'll do."
Serrandyl clapped her hands together in satisfaction. "Perfect!" she said before pulling her fur coat tighter around her body to keep warm. "I'll be going then. These logs aren't going to haul themselves!" With a playful wave, she made her way to the Aslankoyash camp, leaving Thorsten alone in the snowy forest.
He gazed after her in silence for a moment before moving to gather his own supplies for the day's work. It took a bit of time, but her tribe had now adapted quite well to living in the valley. As he busied himself, an idea popped into his head. He stopped, an amused smile creeping up his face.
Thorsten returned to the village after collecting his haul and making his way to Engin's house. Without bothering to knock, he pulled open the door with a flourish and barged in without so much as a word of greeting—and then stopped, taking in the scene in front of him.
Ebonheim sat on a chair across from Engin, their heads leaning over a large parchment spread across Engin's desk. They seemed to be locked in an intense discussion as Ebonheim pointed out something on the parchment, while Engin squinted at the paper, an old quill in his hand.
Both looked up as Thorsten entered, his boots thudding noisily against the floorboards as he walked to their side. "I've got an idea," he said with a grin, "If you've got time."
Engin blinked in surprise before chuckling and nodding. "A moment," he said before turning back to his papers and adding something to his notes with a small grunt. After a moment, he laid down his quill with a sigh and said, "What did you have in mind?"
Thorsten cleared his throat, trying to remember his idea in full. "It's like this," he started, "I propose that we host a survival challenge in the wilderness. A few days at most." He held up his hands to forestall any objections. "But there's a catch..."
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In the snow-covered commons of the village, Thorsten stood shoulder to shoulder with the village elders, a motley assembly gathered to watch his proposal unfold.
"All right, listen up!" Thorsten's voice resounded across the assembly, a wild symphony of grit and jocularity. "Here's how this little exercise's going to play out."
Even Engin, usually stern, sported a faint grin as he watched Thorsten's lively banter cut through the winter's chill. The burly warrior paced before the crowd, each thud of his heavy boots striking the snowy earth punctuating his words.
"We're all going to have a go at roughing it in the wilderness of the Eldergrove," he announced, throwing a wide sweep of his arm towards the dense expanse of the forest.
"But aren't we doing that already?" one of the youngsters shouted in protest from the crowd. "We live in the wilderness!"
Thorsten let out a hearty laugh, a wild grumble that caused the youngling to shrink back in embarrassment. "Aye," he said with a sly grin, "but the game this time requires that we survive out there on our own for three days and three nights. Those of us that hunt and gather already have the skills we need to do so, but those of us who have no survival experience..."
Thorsten trailed off as his eyes scanned the crowd, and an understanding murmur passed among them. Those who did not possess such knowledge and skills had been recruited to participate—some with enthusiastic glee and others with nervous anticipation.
"But," Thorsten continued, dragging his fingers across his rust-colored beard, "there's a twist. Each of you will head in with nothing more than a bundle of basics." He gestured to a nearby cart laden with rudimentary survival kits—a sturdy hunting knife, a whittling axe, a waterskin, a flint and steel, a small pot, a blanket, and some dried meat.
The crowd drew closer, gathering around the cart to get a better look at the supplies while Thorsten continued his explanation. "And it won't just be the wilds you'll contend with." He turned to Hilda and Th'maine. The old druid and reclusive Arcanist stood side by side, each wearing thick fur coats over their clothing. "Our beloved druid—as well as our Arcanist friend who had come out of his study just to help for this event and not because I dragged him out—will add a dash of difficulty to this event by placing magical surprises within the forest. Aye, you'll need to keep your wits about you."
Th'maine cleared his throat while Hilda pulled her hood down to expose her lined face to the elements, a knowing smile on her lips. "Be careful, children," she said with a chuckle. "Your Arcanist here is not to be trifled with."
Th'maine rolled his eyes before fixing his gaze on the crowd again, his expression blank. "What Hilda means," he said in his dry tone, "is that I've prepared several magical traps along your path. If you're unaware or unlucky enough to get caught in one, it'll be to your embarrassment and our amusement."
Whispers spread through the crowd, a low susurrus that rustled the silence of the snowfall. Some of them looked at one another with a gleam in their eyes, while others shook their heads or rubbed their arms nervously.
"But remember," Thorsten's tone softened, the gruff timbre taking on an air of gravitas, "the aim ain't to endanger anyone." He looked over at Ebonheim who nodded. Her golden eyes were earnest, their usual mirth subdued. He knew she shared his concern. "If any of you feel you can't continue, call out Ebonheim's name. She'll fetch you and bring you back. We'll also have watchers throughout the forest. Any sign of danger, and you'll be brought back."
Thorsten let out a deep, satisfied sigh as he surveyed his audience. "There's an end to this little exercise, a reward for those who endure and succeed. You will be rewarded with a meal cooked by our goddess herself."
A loud cheer rose among the crowd, voices ringing with a vibrant enthusiasm as the younglings scrambled to reach the cart. Thorsten stepped forward to open the bundle, handing over a few items to eager hands, while the adults watched from a respectful distance.
"Be careful out there!" Hilda called out as she made her way towards Thorsten. "Remember to stay warm, find water, and eat properly."
As Thorsten watched the crowd break up and disperse, he caught sight of Serrandyl approaching the cart and gathering her supplies into a sack slung over her shoulders. He gave her a quick, questioning glance. "You're participating?"
Serrandyl's tail flicked around with an eager wag. "Why not? Sounds like fun!" she answered, a toothy grin on her lips as she brushed a lock of hair from her eyes. "Besides," she continued, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "I want to see what those magical traps do."