A New Arrival In Bjorngard

[Eoin]

The port of Hyfrost at morning was busy as usual, with freight vessels loading and fishing boats getting ready to leave for the day. The docks flowed with the lingual porridge of many different tongues and dialects coagulating together agreeably. If you listened, you could distinguish Atteran, Farsi, Tallandish and Treesian as well as the native Kalasperin and a handful of other languages. If you looked, you could see people of many sorts. Not every sort, because even with its return to civilisation Bjorngard was hardly a mecca, but enough to lend a cosmopolitan shine to Hyfrost's waterfront.

For the few that had little enough to do or were willing to skive off their duly alloted tasks (and there were a few) to spare the time to gaze out to sea, the sight of a small boat entering the bay was not unusual in and of itself. It was too early, or rather too late, to be a returning fishing vessel, and too small to be commercial freight. But pleasure cruisers were not uncommon. The professionally curious, reaching for their binoculars or pocket scrying-glass (I only mention the latter because one of our unnamed observers did just that), would see that it was a steel-hulled boat, ocean-worthy and large enough for four people. It was painted white, and had the name "Nimbus" painted proudly on its prow. On its side were emblazoned two crests. One was recognisable as the crest of Raikoth. The other was unfamiliar, at least to the casual observer (not so our friend with the spyglass).

It was reminiscent of the House of Kalir's crest, except instead of a white bear it bore a rearing white stag upon a blue background, with three crowns mounting the shield. It lay side by side with the House of Kalir, implying equal status and friendship. It was the crest of the House Dornan.

The man with the spyglass smiled, folded the useful little tool up and placed it in his jacket pocket. He pulled a mobile phone out of his pocket and dialled a number. "I thought you'd like to know that he's arrived," he said, before placing that too in his pocket and heading down to the docks himself.

Who is this new arrival? Who knows!

[Arviður]

I know!

[Eoin]

The Nimbus was now pulled up against the jetty. Close to, the elegant but simple design was more obviously Hyperborean, and the easy movements of the two crewmen implied a surety of skill. The two passengers stood in the main cabin. One was a young man with a downy moustache and scruffy brown hair, gazing out at the Fortress of Kalirphanam, high above the docks to the north. The other was an imposing figure with golden curling hair and strange amber eyes. The resemblance between the two men was at first striking, but soon the complete variance between their mannerisms became apparent. The youth was interested in all around him, and willing to indulge in wonderment at sights and sounds not experienced before. The golden man had an air of proud disdain, as if nothing would surprise him or he would not allow it to do so.

Soon the two crewmen gave their golden-haired passenger the nod that it was safe to disembark. He nodded and placed a beringed hand upon his ward's shoulder, "Come nephew, it is time." The lad did not need to be told twice, and charged for the side-hatch, leaping nimbly onto the stone jetty. His guardian proceeded more slowly, in the manner of one who refuses to hurry or rush on other people's account.

On the jetty, the young man gazed about even more fervently, delighted to be out of the boat which he had inhabited for the last three days. He stamped his legs up and down, hoping to regain his land legs all the quicker.

"It won't work, you know," came a resonant cheerful voice above the general clamour of the docks. The lad turned, and saw a thick-set man with salt-and-pepper hair, in the uniform of a Paladin of Volsung. Upon his chest was emblazoned a Walrus, but without tusks. Across his back was slung a large axe (ceremonial, surely). This stranger's manner struck the lad as odd. He was identifiably of Raikoth, but something about him seemed different, something which the boy could not quite place. "It will take a few hours at least to get the land legs back, and even then you'll feel like you're bobbing up and down. In any case, welcome to the mainland, my young friend. I trust you had a good trip?"

Before the young man had a chance to answer, his golden-haired companion stepped in front of him. "The journey across was sufficient for our needs in that it brought us to the mainland in the time allowed and allowed time for my charge to prepare himself for the trials to come." The Paladin nodded, and extended a hand, "Long time no see, Zirandorthel. How are the Vurie this season?". At this mention of the legendary ice demons of Raikoth, the young man's eyes bulged slightly, "So it's true, you do live with the Vurie!". Zirandorthel (for it was he) looked slightly annoyed, "My brother had asked me not to tell my nephew about...certain things. You may feel obliged to inform him further, Niirus, but pray do not make me break my promise."

"Oh very well then. Give my regards to Jogri, tell him I will return some day to finish what we started," at this mention of the ice demons' fearsome king, Niirus' eyes filled for a moment with a gleam of battles past and glories almost forgotten. He returned to himself after a moment, "Will you be staying long?" Zirandorthel shook his head, the heavy golden curls whipping around his face for a moment, "No, I have...business in Shirekeep and will proceed there now."

The golden-haired former Prætor turned to his nephew, and bowed his head. "I will return in several months on my way back to Raikoth. I trust you will be far advanced in your studies by this time." The young man, obviously suppressing the urge to roll his eyes and shrug, bowed his head in return, "Yes, uncle, I will apply myself." "Very good," Zirandorthel glanced at Niirus, "I entrust him to your care then, Niirus of Volsung." "Honoured," the Paladin declared.

And with that, Zirandorthel strode away, the crowds in front of him melting away, and then reforming behind him, soon hiding the enigmatic man from view. His nephew waited until he was out of sight, and then the air was full of questions, "Is it true he married Jogri Temyyyutsion's daughter? Is he really one of the people from the stars, or one of their demons? How can he be my father's brother, if that's true? What do you think he's doing in Shirekeep?" Niirus laughed an enormous booming laugh, and raised his hands helplessly, "Patience, young master! I don't have answers for half of what you ask, and the other half I'm not going to let on to knowing! I will keep your uncle's promise as well, I think."

The youth's spotty face looked so crestfallen that the Paladin felt obliged to give him an encouraging pound on the shoulder that nearly drove the lad to his knees. "Cheer up, it's not every day a boy of your background is given such an opportunity! Oh, you may be from a line of Kaisers and Ard-Barons, but now you're a novice of the Paladins of Volsung! Ahhh, would that I were in your boots, young Amhráil of House Dornan. Come, an early luncheon awaits us at the Fortress, to keep this cold winter air away from our hearts!"

And he was away, whistling a tune to the crisp and frosty morning. His ward was forced to hurry along behind him. Soon, Niirus broke into a quick jog. "Hey, what's the craic?" protested Amhráil. "Have to build up an appetite, young sir," laughed the Paladin, "besides, didn't you hear your uncle? The trials have already started!"

[Eoin]

The dining hall of Kalirphanam was larger than Amhráil had expected. The boy had read several dossiers on the Paladins of Volsung as necessary material to persuade his parents to allow him, their youngest son, to join the prestigious warriors here. For some reason he had expected a smaller space, for reasons of efficiency and insulation if nothing else. He had conjured a more austere image of the Paladins than actually existed, it seemed, for the walls of the wide chamber were hung with tapestries depicting the voyage of Rhoni Carusion from Volsung, his consultations with the Oracle of Yaanek, and even the far more recent arrival of Yyiji Tonkothian. Amhráil was engaged in examining this last one, with the enormous ice ships with their ursine figureheads when a meaty hand slapped his back jovially.

"Eat up, Amhráil. You were only just complaining how hungry you were!" Niirus bellowed through a mouthful of bread and soup. Niirus was another thing Amhráil hadn't expected. Loud and boisterous and friendly, the Paladin had won Amhráil's affection immediately. What a contrast he was to other Paladins Amhráil had known. The small squad allocated to guarding his family home in Taras were all very serious men and women, which Amhráil had admired. Perhaps because their manner was completely at variance with his own family's. They were committed and driven in their purpose, whereas Amhráil's father...well. Amhráil had decided from an early age that he was going to escape the restlessness and dismay which seemed to plague his family, and find a purpose like those of the Paladins. The same purpose, if necessary.

The boy accomplished these ruminations while eating his fish soup, soaking large hunks of crusty bread and shoving these into his mouth. He used this time to examine the tapestries again, and to look around at the other denizens of the dining hall. "Niirus," he began during a break from eating, "why is this hall so large? I would've expected a smaller chamber, and that the Paladins would use a rotation to decide who ate and when. This large space seems a bit grandiose." He waited for the Paladin's answer, while the big man knitted his brows and finished chewing his bread, "Well, I suppose you're right. But here in Kalirphanam the followers of Joy are predominant, and it was decided that the Order was to gather more support and more numbers. This dining hall was designed with that in mind, that one day hundreds of Paladins might need to gather and in one space. Even the architecture of this hall is designed with such goals in mind, the acoustics are wonderful and it is neither too cold with few people in it nor too hot with a crowd. Does that satisfy you for an answer, my young friend?"

Amhráil nodded to himself. That made sense. Then he remembered something. "My father always said to be wary of Joy." At this statement, Niirus' face showed a sour expression for a split second before reverting to the same spirit of cheerful equanimity which it usually seemed to display. "Your father is a Treesian...there's an old superstition amongst their sort. They tend to equate Truth and Beauty with their gods Lest and Elwynn....and Joy they fear is linked to the Destroyer." "Andan?" Amhráil queried, only to see Niirus turn pale and wince. "Please, lad, I spent enough time amongst your father's countrymen to both respect and fear that name. No, I don't believe He is linked to Joy, else I would hardly be an adherent myself. It's a habit amongst Treesians, to think everything comes under the aegis of their faith." Amhráil thought he should pipe up at this point, "I'm Treesian, you know." "Half-Treesian, and Raikothlin in spirit or else you wouldn't be here. I think you have to have realised enough home truths in order to be here, no need to object when I bring up a handful more."

With this, Niirus picked up his soup bowl and slurped the last of its contents loudly and with visible pleasure. With his last chunk of bread, he cleaned the bowl until it practically shone and then the chunk of bread too was gone. "Well, that was a lunch worthy of Glúmadan," he proclaimed, invoking the name of the Treesian god of gluttony and cookery. He rose to his feet, picking up his bowl and cutlery. "I'm not finished yet!" "You had your chance, boy. Leftovers go in the dog bowls. Time for some sparring practice, let's see how my friend Bjrni in Taras has schooled those awkward half-Treesian feet of yours!"

[Scott of Hyperborea]

Ah, I remember the days when I used to have the motivation to write stories that were a significant fraction of the way to being as good as this one. I must have written down more about Hyperborea than I thought, since you seem to know your stuff pretty well (a word for the wise: I've stopped using words with more than two consecutive y's as I tend to choke on my own tongue whenever I try pronouncing more).

You can be Baron here if you want. I'm kind of busy being Duke of Goldshire for the next month or so.

[Eoin]

Mayyyybe, give me a few more days to find my feet perhaps.

Since my tendency with your Hyperborean lexicon was to mangle words until I found something that I thought sounded good, would you care to provide a Kalasperlin version of Niirus Tinenetuwar? Also Amhráil if you like.

[Eoin]

I'm kind of busy being Duke of Goldshire for the next month or so.

Wait wait wait, you're Yvain Wintersong?! :P

[Scott of Hyperborea]

Hey, dunno if this was around last time you were here, but there's a link to a chat on the Malarbox. It's usually busy-ish from 10-12 or so Irish time.

[Eoin]

Somewhere between Hyfrost and Shirkeep

The weather had been worsening for the past week. Snow was heaped up on the sides of the roads, but even regular plowing could not prevent the road surface being lost from sight under a layer of white, nor the snowmelt refreezing and creating a dangerous surface of black ice. The heavy goods vehicles that were almost the only traffic at this time of year used spiked chains on their tyres to break through the first treacherous layer and churn it into mush. The roads therefore looked less like man-made utilities and more like strange works of arts, with the snow piled high on either side and four channels of mushy water. The new regime in Elwynn was one well-used to ice and snow, and while they understood that maintenance of roads was important, cost-benefit analysis had reached the conclusion that the spring would do the work for them, and the HGVs were managing pretty well by themselves. Emergency rescue crews were cosy in their strategically-placed huts, and the truckers were stoic as always.

As we said earlier, the HGVs were almost the only traffic on the wintery roads. Today a lone, presumably insane, traveller was wandering the roads on foot. A heavy cloak was wrapped around his medium-sized frame, and his golden hair was packed underneath a fur-lined hood. The fur of the hood was of some strange beast, orange with green stripes, and its heavy clawed paws had been salvaged for use as toggles to pull the hood closed. This gave the impression that there was some strange savage miniature beast that had commandeered a man's body to traverse the frozen landscape of Shireroth. All that was visible of the man's face under the hood was a jaw of determined set and the tip of a nose.

None of this deterred a compassionate soul driving a Lamifo Semi Truck, who spotted the lonely traveller, gave an exclamation of surprise, and quickly slowed down in order not to splash the man with a deluge of icy slush. He leaned over to open the passenger door and yelled, "Get in, get in, it's bloody freezin'!" in an accent that spoke of origins far removed from Benacia. The hooded man looked up, as if considering whether he really wanted to be in the warm cab of the truck instead of out in the ferocious elements. Then he appeared to nod to himself, and clambered up. The door slammed shut, and the truck was off on its route once more.

"How long have you been walking for, lad? You must be crazed, if not beforehand certainly by now. It's not human weather out there!," the trucker chattered, twiddling with the knobs on his radio and paid scant and fleeting attention to the road ahead. "Aha!" he exclaimed, finally finding a radio station amongst the static. "This is Syrelwynn Prophecy Exchange FM....And this is the prophecies for today....heavy snow expected all over Benacia today...Hercules Xebec especially is advised to keep an eye on the road and not to worry about what his wife is getting up to with his best friend Vernon *static* -carrot *static* The stock market is as usual too nebulous to quantify in something as reliable as broadcastable prophecising....Oh, and today's maxim: Picking up a golden-haired stranger may seem like a good idea at first. That's all for today's prophecies...." Soon the fleeting signal was lost once again as the snow descended like a piecemeal avalanche. At this moment, the hooded stranger pulled on the clawed toggles of his cloak, and it slid back to his shoulders, revealing a head of curling golden locks.

The trucker caught this out of the side of his eye, and coughed, nearly swerving into the snowbank. He shook his head, and smiled at his guest. Briefly. He had seen the face, too, and his face went pale. "Oh, it's you," he muttered, and then, "-my lord." "I am no longer a lord of anywhere, Cian Rug'n Bhembriadh, as you know," Zirandorthel responded gruffly. "Hmmph, my apologies then. Habit, I suppose. How is your..." "My brother is well, still clinging to an idea of resurrection but it gives him some scant purpose." The trucker nodded, rasping his hand over a stubbled chin in contemplation. "Some of us have stopped waiting you know. We had to, we couldn't wait forever, we had lives to lead, children that needed more than broken hearts to sustain them. But there are still a few. Diehards, you know. Still keeping the flag flying, poking into everyone's business. Call themselves the Order of the March Breeze, like Brave-Finian's boys. Not so brave, if you ask me. We could at least face up to the fact that the old days were done and gone. I was in the wars, you know. Babkha, the Skerries, Tallandor, all of them. I tried to stay in, but there was only room for so many and then they turned mercenary and I didn't have the taste for it. So here I am, driving a truck..," Cian glanced over to Zirandorthel, to see that his passenger was asleep. "Now there's something I never thought I'd see, Goldidark asleep in my cab. Well, my boy, you'd better be going to Shirekeep, because I'm not stopping until I see the M'Jiliad Gate."

The semi-truck trundled off through the snow, towards the illustrious capitol of the Imperial Republic.

The Fortress of Kalirphanam

"I think you just don't know."

Amhráil took a swift glance at his tutor before tucking into the tartiflette that had been placed in front of him. Good wholesome food, so needed today. Niirus had woken him up at the crack of dawn with a bucket of cold water over the head. "There!" the Paladin had cried, "Now you'd better get up and exercise before that freezes you to death and I have to write your Deathbook for you. What will it say? 'Lazy novice, wouldn't get up out of bed, met master's righteous punishment'? Yes, I think so." This was mostly delivered as they both marched along a corridor, Amhráil still struggling into his tunic. The boy had learned not to protest in the past few days. He had also learned just how pampered he had been at home. Yes, Bjrni Inghorion at home had driven he and his brothers hard, but it was nothing compared to this. Up before it really got light, a light breakfast followed by a gruelling four hour period. Sparring practice, tactical seminars, and even pitched mock battles where teams of novices fought each other to achieve objectives or just to wipe out the other team by touching them on the back with wooden swords. By the end of all that, Amhráil's arms legs and head all ached, and his stomach was in the midst of throwing a riot. But his spirit was still undaunted, and right at the end of practice when Niirus came to find him, the first thing Amhráil had asked was: "So why is my uncle in such good standing with the ice demons?"

Niirus had refused to answer, as he had refused since the first day Amhráil and Zirandorthel had arrived in Hyfrost. Claiming to be abiding by the promise Zirandorthel had made to his brother. But Amhráil had had enough. His uncle had always been mysterious, and his father generally refused to talk about their childhood...if such a shared childhood had ever taken place. Amhráil and his own brothers had always had their suspicions. Eoin and Zirandorthel were....identical, except of course that where Eoin's hair was brown, Zirandorthel's was golden, and eyes of green were contrasted with eyes of burnished gold. Unnatural eyes, those. Where their father was merely human, their uncle was....something else. Certainly the fact that he consorted with the ice demons, and was just so strange. The man had been a constant source of wonderment and curiosity since Amhráil's early childhood, and he wanted answers now.

So he had resorted to nettling the Paladin's pride. Niirus obviously prided himself on his store of tales, Amhráil and the other novices had heard the Paladin's booming voice relating stories to the other masters while they were consigned to their dormitories. Keeping such a promise would have to be a hardship for him. If only Amhráil kept up his offensive, Niirus was bound to cave in eventually. Meanwhile the boy tucked into the meal in front of him and waited for his latest barb to sink in.

"Alright."

Amhráil nearly dropped his fork in surprise. For one thing, Niirus was generally quiet during a meal, devoting the precious moments to devouring everything placed in front of him. For another, he had expected to have to keep up the begging and pleading for at least another week. Well, this was a turn up for the books.

"You want to know why your uncle is in such good standing with Jogri Temyyyutsion? I'll tell you. Tonight. Now eat your blasted tartiflette, you little cub."

Amhráil tucked in with gusto. Just wait until the other novices heard about this. A story from Master Tinenetuwar, and all about his own uncle. They'd be green with envy!

[Ryan]

Good story. Write faster.

I had a whole bunch of cultural stuff developed for Bjorngard when I first founded it. So if you're interested in seeing it I can dig it all out.

It's entirely at your discretion though. You can use it or disregard it.

[Eoin]

I'd love to see it. We can jam on it here in the forum or if you'd prefer we could use Google Wave or something and post a finished product up for people to be dazzled by

[Eoin]

The Feast Hall, Kalirphanam

The novices gathered excitedly in the foyer, chatting amongst themselves and craning their necks to see when the masters would let them into the feast hall proper. This was one of the few nights they had not been sent to their dormitory after evening study, and there was an air of anticipation and general gaiety. Amhráil in particular was pleased: in the system of barter and favours that sufficed the novices for an economy, he had scored big. Evening entertainment, and with the famed storyteller Master Fireaxe!

There was a sudden hush as one of the Paladins broke off from the congregation around the main dining table and walked towards them. It was Skjel Nidersion, who had them for firearms training. He still wore his work-tunic, with his personal symbol emblazoned on the chest: a hooded man standing in front of a volcano, to represent that the Paladin was descended from a prophet...though it could have some other meaning. "Well, young novices," he said in a far more jovial tone than his usual barking commands at the firing range, "Master Tinenetuwar has prepared himself adequately, you may come in if you are ready to be quiet and not ask any questions until his story is done." The novices eagerly nodded their assent, and Master Nidersion smiled and waved them in.

Close to, Amhráil could see how his tutor had prepared. His battered nose was shining a glossy red, and his eyes twinkled in far merrier a way than normal. There was a smell of something alcoholic in the air, reminding him of Rugalá celebrations at home. Suddenly he felt a twinge of homesickness, thinking of his family home in Taras and the stories his father and his father's friends would tell when drink was on them. Stories of Carradu (which here they called Blackrock) where Eoin had been fostered to train much as Amhráil was being fostered now in the oldest of Treesian traditions. Stories of Attera to the far east, where Eoin had reached lofty rank before a dream of revelation brought him home to reclaim his family's throne. Stories of the battles against Tomas, who had usurped Amhráil's great-grandfather and namesake. Stories of days gone by and not returning. Amhráil remembered his father's face when he told those stories, when laughter and tears seemed to comingle into memory itself. Yes, his father had much the same way of preparing to tell a story as Niirus did. And this too, was a story of home. The youth mentally shook himself and sat down amongst the other novices on the floor, all looking expectantly at Niirus.

Niirus Tinenetuwar was seated on one of the great chairs that normally stood unoccupied on a raised dais but had been lifted down to the floor for the occasion. In his left hand was a mug that steamed in an inviting manner and was probably the source of the celebratory odour. In his right was a faded badge of cloth. When he saw that the novices were ready, he looked to his fellow Paladins who were all seated on the surrounding tables, and nodded. "This is the tale of Zirandorthel and how he gained the favour of the king of the Vurie, Jogri Temyyyutsion. But first, I must tell you a little of Zirandorthel himself, who he is and where he comes from..."

Just inside the M'Jiliad Gate, Shirekeep

"May Eiseamlar smile upon you, Zirandorthel," Cian Rhug'n Bhembriadh called out as his truck pulled away from the pavement and rejoined the traffic. The trucker then honked his horn beligerrently, "Look where you're going ya sod, can you not see this enormous truck I'm driving?!" Zirandorthel watched him forcefully drive his way into the lane of traffic and then around a corner, on the road to some warehouse on the outskirts no doubt. Zirandorthel hadn't thought to ask him what he was carrying, but then the man hadn't asked Zirandorthel what he was doing in Shirekeep either. Reciprocal incuriosity was a common factor amongst ex-patriate Treesians, who usually dabbled in some illicit enterprise or another.

Zirandorthel took his bearings, and set down the street, heading towards the Government Quarter. It was about half an hour's walk, which would give him time to compose his thoughts for the audience ahead. He hadn't gone far when he saw out of the corner of his eye a dishevelled man stop pretending to read his newspaper and begin to follow him. At the man's side was a dog, in a similar state of ragmuffinity. They walked briskly until they were level with Zirandorthel. They waited until the three of them were clear of other foot traffic before they spoke.

"Fancy seeing you here, my lord," the dog said in a tone of sarcastic respect, "We didn't think you'd be off that island for the next while, not with you having things so cushy. Did we, Cearbhaill?" "No indeed we didn't, Strike," rejoined the man disguised as a tramp, "in fact we're very curious as to what Lord Zirandorthel the Golden Darkness would be doing in Shirekeep in the dead of winter without the Embassy knowing about it first." "I think you mean the Treesian Cultural Exchange and Coffee House that happens to be located in the Embassy District, as surely there is no need for an ambassadorial presence for a nation which is defunct," Zirandorthel said, not turning to either one of the spies but keeping his peripheral vision on them.

"I don't think we asked him to interpret just exactly what we meant, do you Cearbhaill?" growled Strike, the muscles under his faux-matted fur bunching treacherously, "We said the Embassy, and we mean the Embassy. Not that crowd of deserters, drinking mangocinos and singing folk songs in their deserted building. The real Embassy, and the real godsdamned Ambassador. Who would like to make your acquaintance before you deliver whatever it is your delivering to the Rothian government. Now, are you coming, or do Cearbhaill and I have to make you come with us?"

Zirandorthel looked at Cearbhaill, who seemed a man built to pound things into smaller pieces, and at Strike, who was showing his gleaming white fangs as he spoke. "Very well then, but I hope the 'Ambassador' doesn't detain me for long. I have a date."

The Feasthall, Kalirphanam

"You all know that there are traditions in every land to do with the winter solstice," Niirus said. "In Shireroth it is a time of prayer and thankfulness that your friends and family survived the year without being devoured by war or famine or less metaphorical dangers. In other countries it is a celebration of the end of the darkness of winter and the advent of the spring and the hope and joy which it brings. In Raikoth, the celebration is one of the partnership and symbiosis between Truth and Beauty themselves. Yes, it is simply an astronomical event, the planet's orbit of the sun means that the seasons change once more. But Beauty is the Queen of Night, and the stars are her people (even if the Treesians tell a different story). She reigns supreme in our night sky for winter, and we may gaze upon her people's glory. But every year she relinquishs that supremacy and Truth rewards the hard work of the farmers with new livestock and crops which can only be grown by the greatest ingenuity and knowledge in the far north.

"In Sidhal, the most northerly tiel of Raikoth, there is a local tradition, that of the Longest Night Parade. All the children of the area are woken in their sleep by an eerie piping, and a song which goes something like this."

Here Niirus motioned to two of the younger Paladins. One of them, tall and thin with a tangled mane of black hair, produced a fife with a fluorish and piped up a tune. The other, a slender and beautiful girl who Amhráil and the other novices had fallen in love with in their first day of training, began to sing a song just as Niirus had described:

Come out, all you girls and boys
Out of your beds now, make no noise
The parade is here down in the street
There's sights to see and food to eat
Wrap up warm now, don't catch a chill
It would hurt our hearts to see you ill
Oh, and worry not of father and mother
We'll not tell on one another!

As the girl sang it, her eyes opened wide, a devillish grin suffused her face, and her fingers curled into claws. She was obviously a born actress, and Amhráil began to wonder how she had ever ended up as a Paladin. When she had sung this verse twice, Niirus began his story once more.

"The children go down to the streets, in their heavy coats as the song suggests, and lo, before them would be a strange parade. People dressed in wonderful costumes of blues and whites with masks, and wearing stilts to give them exaggerated height. These costumed revellers would shower the children with cooked sweetmeats and small presents of miniature musical instruments. The lead reveller, whose stilts made them no less than twenty feet tall, would conduct a great dance, where the children would play their instruments and jig and reel with their hosts. Then, before the dawn, the lead reveller would sound an end to the festivities, and the Longest Night celebration would cease. The children would go back to their beds, thinking that their parents had been in costume for the whole night and had put on the celebration to give them a treat.

"In fact, something far different is true. Each year at Longest Night, those in Sidhal who have reached the age of 18 or over await the fall of darkness with a tinge of fear. For every year, when the children are put to sleep, there comes a knock on the door. Those who are older than 18 know to dress warmly for the night, and they all answer together. At the door is a being that children might take for an adult human in stilts wearing a costume. The adults know better, that it is one of the vurelin, the ice demons.

“The ice demons usher the adults of Sidhal out of the tiel and away to the north, where for a brief few hours they cross into the Ultimate North. There the vurelin’s servants give them nettle tea to drink until their masters return when dawn is about to arrive. For it is the ice demons themselves who host the children of Sidhal at the Longest Night parade, and it is none other than Jogri Temyyyutsion who conducts the great dance and directs his subjects in the revelries.

“And why should they do this, you are probably wondering. The ice demons are famous for few things that are nice or pleasant, and certainly they eschew cultured behaviour. Why celebrate the winter solstice, which represents for everyone else the death of winter? And why celebrate it with the humans of Sidhal, who fear and loathe them? The answer might surprise you…it is because they are joyous. Jogri Temyyyutsion is particularly joyous, because on the winter solstice every year his son is reborn. His son’s rebirth represents the promised return of winter, the season of the ice demon’s dominance over the kalirin, while during the spring, summer and autumn the bears have the upper hand in the eternal struggle. Of course these seasons are barely distinguishable in Oraikoth, but the ice demons mark them just the same.

“So each year in Sidhal the Longest Night parade takes place, the ice demons celebrate the birth of their king’s child with the children while the adults of Sidhal are hostage in King Jogri’s palace. Then in the morning the realms are divided once more, the parents and ice demons return to their home, and life goes on. So it has been for centuries. But one year, not so long ago, it was different.

“It was in this year that Zirandorthel and his brother had arrived in Raikoth. Zirandorthel quickly grew tired of his brother’s efforts to settle his young family, and decided to go wandering. He toured all of the tiels of the western coast of Raikoth, and soon heard tales of the Longest Night celebration, where the adults of the town dressed up for the amusement of the children. Interested by this local tradition, he journeyed north and ended up in Sidhal. He had hoped to arrive in the midst of the parade but a tricky river crossing had delayed him. He was a few hours late, and was wondering whether there would be anything to see except the litter festivities generally leave behind. But the spectacle he met was far different from what he had expected. The streets were clean, and deserted. And even from the outskirts of the tiel he could hear the wailing of children and a strange gnashing grinding noise.

“He proceeded to the centre of the town, and saw an uncommon sight. The ice demons were still there, in broad daylight, where the glamour cast by the stars could not hide that they were not costumed performers but real creatures, which alternately terrified and fascinated the children around them. The children who had not been to sleep, and who had learned that their parents were hostages from the one or two ice demons who would tell them anything. The ice demons seemed just as disconsolate as the children. They wished to return to Vurie, and yet they remained.

“As for the gnashing grinding noise, Zirandorthel followed that noise to the spiral tower at the centre of Sidhal. Inside was Jogri Temyyyutsion, who was gnashing and grinding his teeth in a pure rage. Zirandorthel beheld the king as few have ever seen him, for he hid himself now even from his own subjects. When he saw the golden-haired wandered, the king swiftly hid his face, but it was too late. Zirandorthel had already seen that the demon king was slowly melting, his features had already begun to lose their sharp edges. This did not perturb him very much, as we know Zirandorthel has seen many strange things in his time, and is himself a strange being. He simply said, ‘Jogri Temyyyutsion, I have heard tell of you. Why do you and your people interrupt the festival of the Longest Night, and where are all the parents of this town?’

“’A pox upon those elders,’ rasped Jogri through a tongue thick with snowmelt, ‘They have cursed themselves. As they have stolen my child, so I shall hold them from theirs!’ And though he did his best to cackle in an evil manner with this pronouncement, Zirandorthel though he could detect the slightest sob of desperation.

“Now the Golden Darkness (as he has been known for a long time now) was not always a kind or amiable soul…if indeed he is today. But he had learned from his brother’s good example perhaps, for at times he felt that it was enough to do a good deed for its own sake. Here was a tiel with its parents missing, its children crying, and its streets full of demons. Why not see what he could do to help? Of course there is also another theory, that Zirandorthel saw that if he did the king of the ice demons a service, it might yield rewards in the long run. Who knows what motivates such a man?

“In any case, Zirandorthel unslung his great axe Delnurning and bowed to Jogri Temyyyutsion, ‘I will do my best to aid the return of your child to your bosom, hallowed King of Vurie. Simply tell me where to begin.’

“The king of demons saw no reason not to tell this strange human what he desired to know: that the adults of Sidhal had finally succeeded in their plan to escape their catered prison in King Jogri’s palace and had stolen Jogri’s son, born only the previous night. They had then escaped the palace and now roamed in the Oraikoth, the Ultimate North, perilously close to the borders of the Kingdom of Kalirie, where the Bear-King would surely receive them and demand the ultimate surrender of the ice demon kingdom. In any case Jogri was powerless to stop them, as the kidnapping of his son had trapped him and his subjects in Raikoth.

“Having heard this, Zirandorthel nodded to himself (as is his wont) and left the spiral tower, striking for the north. King Jogri Temyyyutsion watched him go, tears of melting water leaking down his face.

“And that is all we have time for tonight,” announced Niirus, standing up from the padded chair. There were many groans, not only from the novices but from a few of the younger Paladins (and some not so young). “Now, now,” Niirus protested, holding up his hands, “I will finish tomorrow. Truth be told, I have had too much of Master Cebmion’s excellent sherry, and the land of dreams calls me as it must all of you! Goodnight, novices and Paladins all. May you rise in the morning with clear heads. We will meet here again tomorrow, and I will tell you of how Zirandorthel saved the son of Jogri Temyyyutsion!”

[Aurangzeb Khan]

This is all excellent stuff.

One favour to ask, could you work in an encounter with some of the Khan/Kaiser's employees known as the Gentlemen-at-Cudgels, a body of men who are charged with the enforcement of law and order through the implement after which they are named and who are famed for the unique manner of their interactions with strangers.

[Wil Nider]

This is Eoin by the way.

The next evening in Kalirphanam

"Now. Where were we? Ah yes..."

"There are no trails across the Polar Bar, the mighty range of mountains that lays between Raikoth and Oraikoth, between Hyperborea and the Ultimate North. Some of the Kalir have been known to make the journey on their visits to humankind, but amongst humans there have only been a handful of passages, and all of them through a famous tunnel which leads beneath the mountains and emerges in the city of Til Kalir, seat of the kingdom of Kalirie.

"But as we know, Zirandorthel is more than human. Within him lies the soul of a daemon from beyond the stars, and the mortal frame which that soul inhabits has never been known to be soft. Leaving the weeping children and melting daemons behind him, he pulled his cloak around him and set his sights on the formidable peaks ahead.

"The trail that he took is unknown to me. I know I would never try it, though I would dearly love to look on any part of Oraikoth, even the realm of Vurie! I would never try it because for all my belief and acceptance of the teachings of the priesthood of Joy, I still fear death. That is what keeps me fighting, and it is to save those I love from death that I have participated in war. Zirandorthel has no such fear. Smile with me now, friends, and imagine how those poor mountains felt, knowing that such a being was passing through them. Their thorny peaks where the wind howls like the bean sídh of Fabon. Their deep valleys were the sun does not penetrate even at high noon and where grues and other foul creatures lurk. Their treacherous slopes where rocks leap and roll underfoot. All were disregarded in face of such a singular purpose. And so the mountains allowed the Golden Darkness pass...if only to be rid of him.

"Soon he was on the other side, and on the road to the city of Til Vurel, a road unpaved but tracked endlessly beneath taloned feet, and lined with sharpened sticks upon which were stuck skulls and other gorey trophies, which some ice daemon or other had placed as a decent-hearted being might place art or an offering. They are a cold-hearted and callous folk, and except for their odd practice of the Longest Night they exhibit no trace of better feeling. Even then, their gesture is skewed by the abduction of all the townsfolk of Sidhal. Zirandorthel considered these roadside decorations as he strode upon the highway, but did not dwell long on them. One such as he, who has seen stars die and all their occupants go screaming into the void, is not phased much by a little savagery.

"The citadel of Til Vurel is massive, and the palace of Jogri Temyyyutsion sits at the middle of it like a great thorn-legged spider transmogrified into an architectural behemoth of dark sapphire and grey stone. The ice daemons were not to be seen though. Either they were in Raikoth with their king, or they had barred their doors. Even though they are the masters of their desolate part of the Ultimate North, they had enough magic about them to sense the arrival of something even worse than themselves. Where the Golden Darkness walks, those who are good at heart know wonder because they cannot understand him. Those who are evil at heart know fear, because they know what he might do.

"And so to the palace, which lay empty too, the drawbridge down and the portcullis open. Inside there was a great clamour, as the ice daemon guards fought against the rebellious hostages. Zirandorthel did not draw his axe, he did not expect to find anyone he truly wanted to kill or capable of killing him. He already knew the essence of what he sought, since in his journey north he had contemplated the nature of the problem and reached a conclusion. He walked the twisted staircases and labyrinthine halls until he came to a small chamber. The fighting was not far away now. The door was barricaded from the inside, as he had expected. So he found a nearby window and scaled the outside of the great castle. As I've said before, what Zirandorthel considers an easy task is incomprehensible to you or I. When he told me about that, he did not flutter an eyelid, simply related it as the simplest expedience.

"The first those inside the room saw of him was a calamity of exploding glass and suddenly a golden-haired form was amongst them, with an enormous axe slung across his back. 'Give me the child and there will be no further bloodshed,' was the request. The man who held the prince of the ice daemons stood against the wall and bellowed, 'And let those daemons take us away from our children every year? Who knows what they are doing with them!' 'They are celebrating the Longest Night as they did when you were young, nothing more,' Zirandorthel said, 'Now give me the child and there will be an end to this.' 'You're in league with them, why should we believe what you say?' the man yelled, holding the child away.

"Zirandorthel looked upon the child. He was beautiful in the same way as the biting wind on our cheeks, as the chill waters as we punch a hole in the ice, as the falling snow upon our heads. His eyes were open, and he beheld the people in the chamber and Zirandorthel with a mixture of infantile wonder and all-too-knowing fear. 'What you hold is not a bargaining chip. What you hold is the only child born to the Kingdom of Vurie. Once every year such a child is born, and on the night that its father dies and the son assumes the throne a great festival is held with this Kingdom's closest neighbours, so that all can know the joy of birth and the promise of returned glory. Can we blame a folk for wanting to spread such a message, even if their methods are called into question? Give me the child, and be returned to your own children. Let the balance be restored, and be thankful that a race known for little except malice and devilment has shared such a gift with you and your families. Now.'

"So the man, dumbfounded with sudden understanding, handed Prince Jogri Temyyyutsion to Zirandorthel, who kicked aside the blocky barricades as if they were matchsticks, and brought the young Prince to the throne room. 'Here upon your throne, your father's throne, your son's throne, I sit thee, so that winter will return and the war of the seasons will carry on,' he intoned, grasped for the moment in the clutch of poetry. Then he turned from that great hall, and led the parents of Sidhal out of the palace towards the realm of Kalirie, where he asked that a spell be put upon them so that they would forget what they had done except in their dreams on the Longest Night. The bear mages saw the humour and the necessity in what he asked, and so they agreed, though they would not tolerate one such as Zirandorthel long within their kingdom, and they asked him leave the good folk of Sidhal with them and depart from Oraikoth the same way he had come. The great bears have too much sense to allowed such a danger to stay with them for long. In Oraikoth, you see, the Golden Darkness' soul was laid bare for all to see, whereas in our less-magical world it is subdued and muted.

"On his return, Zirandorthel met the revellers. The ice daemons bore their king upon a sleigh. He had melted severely in the comparative heat of the tiel of Sidhal, and all he could do when their paths met was raise a taloned hand in thanks. Zirandorthel bowed, and pledged that he would return to the court of Jogri Temyyyutsion in the future to claim his favour."

Niirus Tinenetuwar finished the tale by taking a great swig out of his mug, coughing and spluttering as the spirits hit his throat. "There, an end to the tale!" he roared across the hall, and the Paladins clapped and cheered. "I hope that will satisfy you, my young friend," he said to Amhráil, whose cheeks turned a bright crimson on suddenly feeling every eye in the room upon him, especially that of the pretty young Paladin who had sung the Song of Longest Night the evening before. "Uhhh, yes!" he said, to general laughter and applause.

"Well then, I think we should all take to our beds, because some of us are worse for wear. Training starts at five tomorrow, and we will make an excursion to Dyrsion's Landing in Cape Dragonbane. Get your packs ready tonight, and if you perform well we might hear the story of how Fafni Dyrsion and Rhoni Charusion competed with one another in ancient times in the foundation of this, the fairest part of Shireroth!"

Treesian District, Shirekeep

"All I'm saying is, if New Fabon can beat the Goldshire Diaspora next Thursday, then they'll prove they're better than Llacheu Away for once and for all."

"You're only saying that because your da was from Fabon City and that makes you a Fabonaar and not only no expert but just a biased commentator."

"That makes me Fabonese, actually. Completely different."

"Well excuse me."

The conversation between the two spies had quickly devolved into an amiable bickering that was either entirely natural or carefully designed to put their "guest" off his guard. From the cut of Strike and Cearbhaill, Zirandorthel would guess it was the former. Things had certainly gotten lax amongst the ex-patriate criminal classes if this was what they put on the main gate in and out of Shirekeep. So much the better, less likely to disturb the plan.

Strike was about to take another dig at Cearbhaill's sporting expertise when he nearly walked into a well-dressed man carrying a club who seemed to materialise out of thin air from an alley to their right. The talking dog's heckles immediately rose, and his jowls lifted away from his fangs as he said, "Do you mind, we're walking here."

"Oh. I am sorry," the man said in a voice dripping with sarcasm and oilier than an Antican salad, "I didn't realise. Didn't realise there was any circus animals using the footpath today. That'll cost extra of course."

"Extra?"

"Why yes," came an even oiler voice from behind the trio. Zirandorthel could see another man out of the corner of his eye, with a stick that was even knottier and more varnished than the man in front. "This area of footpath has been commissioned as an extra-monetary revenue generation zone. There is a recession on, you know, and the Kaiserial treasury is down in this fiscal quarter. Therefore we have to set up a cordon, and we have to collect. Sorry, gents, our hands are tied."

"These would be the Gentlemen-at-Cudgels that I have heard about, then," Zirandorthel said in a tone somewhere between amusement and disbelief. "Hmmph," was Cearbhaill's only response. The Treesian and the Gentleman-Cudgeller in front exchanged a glance of visible dislike. For the first time, Zirandorthel noticed various bruises along the spy's arms, and a scar or two where perhaps a bone had jutted from the skin. Perhaps this was not the first encounter between these two.

"Yes sir, I am 2nd Cudgeller Addams of the Ferdiad Avenue Bailliwick, and this is 3rd Cudgeller-in-Ordinary Jemuzin, also of F.A.B.," said the even-oilier-voiced man behind them, "and we are authorised to inform you that the fee for continuing ahead will be 45 Erb." "45 Erb!" exclaimed Strike, "do you want me to warm your boots for you as well?" "Now now, sir, no need to bark at us," Addams remarked. "That's 25 Erb for normal revenue generation, 5 Erb per number of persons in group exceeding two (to compensate for wear and tear on his Imperial Majesty's pavements you see), and 5 Erb for use of footpath at peak times."

"That's still only 35," Strike growled, while Cearbhaill merely glared. "What's the other 10 Erb for?" 3rd Cudgeller-in-Ordinary Jemuzin grinned, showing a mouth full of gaps, gold and unsurprisingly few teeth. "Fine for walking your dog on public property without a lead." "That's it!" Cearbhaill yelled, swinging a fist into the man's expectant face. What followed next was a flurry of cudgels, teeth and general mayhem. Zirandorthel rolled his eyes and dived for the nearest Cudgeller. Treesians never changed.

[Daniel Farewell]

Someone bountify this man!

[Aurangzeb Khan]

[Wil Nider]

Treesian District, Shirekeep

The fight between the Gentlemen-at-Cudgels and the Treesian ex-patriate spies with Zirandorthel at their back was broken up by the sudden proximity of a police siren. A blue, yellow and red car pulled up beside the fracas, the Imperial seal on the bonnet of the car as well as both side doors. The passenger doors of the vehicle flew open and three officers leaped out. The driver of the car remained inside until his subordinates had their pistols trained on the breachers of the peace, then his regulation boots hit the cobblestones with a *thock* noise.

Zirandorthel saw how the other police officers said nothing and seemed to train their ears for any sound from the older man, and so he too directed his attention that way. The man was large, his bulk seemed to consist more of muscle than of fat. Under his helmet, the thinning sandy-coloured hair and the freckles which splashed his florid face seemed to suggest a heritage of the old Carradunian Republic. Perhaps Blackrock Nua, where many of the refugees had fled after the great Carradu fell to lawlessness and squabbling warlords? His uniform bore a sergeant's stripes, and he regarded the rabble before him with a look of professional boredom.

"Sun bless, earth keep, sun bless, earth keep, sun bless, earth keep, what's all this then?" he droned, grinning at this abuse of words with a mouthful of blackened pseudo-teeth. 2nd Cudgeller Addams was quick to pipe up, "Just a routine revenue generation zone which has been flagrantly violated by these miscreants, Sergeant. Cudgeller business, you know. Perhaps I can refer you to our local Master at Cudgels, who is as you know the Bludgeoner-General's first cousin. We can furnish you with a full inventory of the fee incurred and a blow-by-blow account of the fine levied for fee evasion. Jemuzin?" Jemuzin, who had removed his left hand from Cearbhaill's throat but still had trouble getting his right elbow out of Shrike's mouth, produced a charge sheet with the Cudgeller's insignia at the top, which he had apparently had time to fill out before the fight broke out.

The sergeant nodded to one of his constables. The woman leaned over and took the receipt, without dropping her pistol. Jemuzin gulped audibly as the muzzle of the mini-B0O0/\/\ pistol came perilously close to his face. "Looks standard, sarge, usual contrived reasons for extorting money out of gods-fearing citizens." "Now look here!" spluttered Addams, his face flashing between a pallour and a rubiate indignation, "we have Kaiserial authorisation to operate in this area. Quite frankly, sergeant, this is above your paygrade!"

"Oh, is it?" the sergeant said, taking a step towards Addams. The man's sheer presence was enough to force the 2nd Cudgeller to shimmy backwards. "It may interest you to know, 2nd Cudgeller Adams and 3rd Cudgeller-in-Ordinary Jemuzin, that there has been a change of plan. Since you engaged these good people in whatever daylight larceny you had planned, the Kaiser from which you obtained authorisation for your little racket has resigned. Something about that Amokolia business, I believe. His Niftiness Kaiser Leto III is in charge now, and as one of his caretaking decrees, he has rezoned the police districts. Myself and my unit now occupy the former Bludgeoning Centre for this area. I am in fact a Superintendent now, I just didn't have time to get a new uniform from the tailors. Oh," he turned towards the female constable who had given Jemuzin pause for thought, "remind me to fine you for calling me by the wrong rank, Officer Sloan." "Apologies, super," the woman said with a smirk.

"Now, as I was saying, your authority no longer applies here as of," he checked his watch, "fifteen minutes ago. We are here to escort you back to the new Police Headquarters for this district, where you will collect your personal effects (those which the constables haven't already appropriated into the lost and found of course) and get on the coach back to Eliria. Am I understood?" A very deflated looking Addams and a stunned Jemuzin nodded and followed blithely as they were put into the police car and driven away. Sloan and the superintendent remained behind.

"As for you three," the superintendent continued, "Strike of Bleak Street, I'm sure you'll be making your appointment in Court next Ifniday? And Cearbhaill Sunsquire, your uncle sends his regards." "Had time to visit him, have you, Sergeant Coulter....my apologies, Superintendent Coulter?" Cearbhaill said nonchalantly. "Yes, and he should be out in four to five months if he keeps up the good behaviour. Good afternoon, gentlemen, and I expect you to be groomed when you're in front of the Judge, Strike." The Cynian flapped his ears in assent, "Oh, count on it, Super."

With that, the new superintendent and his constable moved off down the street. "Just our luck, he was the one who ran us out of the Old City," Strike grumbled. "Yeah, I remember," Cearbhaill said. The two watched as Coulter and Sloan rounded the corner and were gone from sight, "What are you up for?" "One count of money-laundering, two of aggravated assault." "Oh yeah, I remember that. Right, let's go." The two spies turned around, only to be faced with an empty street. "Godsdammit, didn't you hear him go?!" Cearbhaill roared at his four-legged friend. "The Long Fella's going to be pissed," Strike groaned, "C'mon, let's see if we can find him."

Zirandorthel watched the two run off in the direction they presumed he had gone, Strike with his nose to the ground to catch his scent. He then climbed up on top of the gargoyle whose shadow he had been hiding in, and clambered onto the rooftops. A fortuitous police action, something to be thankful for at least. Now for the business at hand. The "Ambassador" could wait until afterwards. Setting his sights across the rooftops at the fortress of Shirekeep, he began jumping from rooftop to rooftop, his golden hair flailing in the wind.