OPEN | this winter brings all the cold to the yard

[northcliffpass]

𝕒 𝕨𝕚𝕟𝕥𝕣𝕪 𝕒𝕣𝕣𝕚𝕧𝕒𝕝

surprise!

I. Snow!

A mere week after the grisly discovery in the Deep Forest and the subsequent dispersal of the eerie spectral visitors, all Northcliff Pass residents wake one exceptionally frigid morning to find themselves buried under several feet of snow. It is of the light and fluffy variety--at least for now--which provides no shortage of entertainment for the village children, and means one is less likely to throw one's back out while trying to shovel it clear of doorways and the streets.

That is your first order of business, as it happens: free yourselves from your wintry entrapment. Or don't, if you've got enough food and drink squirrelled away in your tiny peasant house that you don't need to venture out into the elements. The world is your cold, shitty, socially stratified oyster; ditch your responsibilities, sleep in.

II. Fete! at ye olde tavern

All Souls' Day came and went, and nobody can really be blamed for forgetting about it what with the ghosts and the gloomy business of seeing to the bodies. All that aside the Hammer and Spoke seems especially welcoming that first wintry night, once all the snow shovelling is finished and the streets are clear enough for foot traffic again; lit lanterns glow warmly outside the door, and from within come the sounds of joyful music. Fiddles, whistles, a drum, and plenty of laughter; it seems the snow has stranded a troupe of minstrels in the village, which means at least two or three nights of great fun for village residents.

In truth it will take more than a few nights of drunk mischief to lift the pall cast across the village after the previous month's discoveries, but maybe that's why so many people gravitate to the light and levity and warmth of a party. After such a close call with so much death, it's good to remind oneself that there's joy in the world, too.

III. Cramped Quarters

The nights might be filled with good company, food, and drink, but during the day the village has to contend with another frustration: the roads in and out of Northcliff Pass are closed until the snow melts.

This is a common experience--in late December, January, and February. Not so much in November, when farmers are preparing to take their surplus harvest and livestock down the mountain to Cliffside, or when caravans with schedules to keep to are preparing to head east towards Woodsedge. (The only road clear in that direction is guaranteed to take them past Turn--something no one wants to risk.) Even a few late-season pilgrims have found themselves stuck between Gods' Reach at the summit of the mountain, and the creature comforts of Cliffside below.

There's nothing to be done for it, of course, except to endure the unusually crowded streets, the lack of vacancies at the tavern, and the occasional herd of sheep or goats picketed in very odd places.

Comments

iii

[ragweed]

Kit is more or less immune to sour scowls, given the company he chooses to keep. And at any rate, he owes Fíadh... something.

He turns up like a bad penny, cigarette tucked into the corner of his mouth, and finds a bit of available space by the forge to warm his hands before the fires. Fíadh is easy enough to pick out from the bunch, based on Ben's description of her, and he waits a moment until he's (reasonably) sure he's caught her eye.

"Evening," he says, carefully walking that line between 'friendly enough' and 'mind your own business' like a pro.

[ferruginous]

Despite saying nothing and making no move, Fíadh notices Kit the second he walks in. And what really catches her eye is the fact that she's never seen him before. At this point she's fairly used to the regular faces around town, and having someone new walk about so casually is ... not necessarily concerning, but notable.

But of course he comes up to her; she just had to flick her gaze to him right when he noticed. Whether it's to talk or start something, both prospects are equally loathsome. So Fíadh continues at her work meticulously polishing a strip of metal, giving nothing more than a grunt of acknowledgement.

[ragweed]

Acknowledgement is still acknowledgement! Kit can work with that.

He reaches up to pluck his cigarette from his mouth, blows a whorl of smoke away from the other loiterers around the forge, then takes a few steps nearer to Fíadh. There's no point in waiting for a less awkward moment to start a conversation with the taciturn types; he'd be better off waiting for the saints to rise from their graves.

"Thanks for helping Ben," he tells her, forthright. "He's my--" uhhhhh "--friend, runs the carpentry shop with me. He mentioned you, and the, uh, you know." The ghosts. Spooks. Whatever they are.

[ferruginous]

Fíadh runs back her past conversations with Ben in her mind. It's really easy, actually, considering the two of them have exchanged a handful of words each. But she recalls that Ben was missing someone and had her go through his empty shop. Looks like it's not so empty anymore.

"Mm. Is he all right?"

[ragweed]

"Mm. Is he all right?"

He's in the process of taking another puff off his cigarette when she asks that question, and chuckles a little. "Yeah, he's fine. Same pain in my ass he's always been." It's the softness in his eyes and lopsided little smile on his face that makes the words a testament to how much he truly cares for the cantankerous diva who lives with him.

Kit glances absently around the forge, gaze out of habit looking towards the places where the walls meet; you can take the carpenter out of the carpentry shop, etc. "You need any work done around here?" he asks Fíadh a moment later, then adds, "On the house." Evidently it's his way of giving his gratitude more meaning.

[ferruginous]

Normally Fíadh would bristle at the suggestion that her shop is not completely up to par ... but wouldn't you know it, she has been in need of a certain carpentry project for quite some time now ...

She gives a curt nod before motioning Kit to follow her. Somehow there is still a dark abandoned corner of the smithy and it in lies a pile of wood, stone, and broken dreams covered in dust and cobwebs. Fíadh stares wearily at it.

"... A few months ago my grindstone cradle broke. I need a new one."

[ragweed]

Kit joins her in grimly regarding the pile of workshop. At her assessment of the situation, he arches his eyebrows in clear agreement. "Yeah, you do," he says.

He tucks his cigarette back into the corner of his mouth and takes a few careful steps over to the heap, then crouches down next to it to see if there's anything there worth salvaging. He sets a calloused hand on the grindstone itself and searches it for any indications that the broken cradle compromised its integrity. "Sandstone still seems solid," he says after a moment, gives the stone a pat, then pushes himself back up to his feet. "I've got some good lumber that should do the trick. You ever need to move it around? Shouldn't be too hard to build a wheel for the front."

[ferruginous]

She nods at his assessment of the stone and woodpile, thanking her luck that the stone managed to survive the entire debacle. But when he mentions a wheel she quirks her brow. Look, nice is nice but the last thing she needs is for him to overwork it for her.

"I don't need it fancy, just functional again."

[ragweed]

"Functional I can do," he answers with an easy, lopsided grin, and lets it go. (He makes a note to himself, however, to think about adapting something like that to the front axel of his tool box. Might be handy.)

"Anyhow," he goes on, "I don't have my tools with me now, but I can come back and take some measurements."

[ferruginous]

She gives a mild shrug.

"Whenever you can. I've worked around this problem until now, I can do it longer."