OPEN | Blood And Ice

[northcliffpass]

Civil Blood

I. News from the West

The story of why gets twisted and distorted between its departure from the Crags and its arrival in Northcliff Pass, but the town criers maintain consistency on a few points: Althea of House Jessamy, Duchess of Black Rock, has at last thrown down the gauntlet against the Duke of Cliffside, and has called on her vassals to rally their bannermen. It seems there will be war within the borders of Maireglenne for the first time in a hundred years.

Given the state of the roads leading through the pass, it is understandable that the news is a few weeks’ stale by the time armed soldiers sporting Duke Galein’s colours march (or gallop, if they are astride a horse) past the village walls and garrison themselves on the festival grounds. Anyone objecting to this new arrangement is encouraged by the soldiers to bring their objections to the garrison commander (who, rumor has it, personally oversees the flogging of objectors himself).

Like it or not, the regiment is here to stay, at least until they receive orders instructing them otherwise. On the bright side, the soldiers did the hard work of clearing the pass for the season; travel between Northcliff Pass and the city of Cliffside just got a heck of a lot easier this winter.

II. Cold Snap

And it’s highly likely that those orders will be as delayed as the news, for the regiment has hardly been within the city walls a week before the temperatures plunge to dangerous lows. This is not the seasonal frigidity accompanied by blustery blizzards that encourage snowball fights and a bit of ice fishing down by Sands Creek, but a cold so biting and bitter that any prolonged period spent outside in it runs the very real risk of hypothermia and death. This is the kind of cold that leaves the air clean and clear, with nothing to impede the watery white light of the sun for the few hours it spends above the horizon each day before setting again; it cuts the lungs when inhaled and bites straight through to the bone. Many of the village’s poor are brought within the sturdy walls of the Town Hall and the chapel, because the alternative is finding them frozen solid in the streets.

The silver lining to this development is bare indeed; avoiding the cold means that, for a time at least, the village residents and soldiers are too preoccupied hunkering down to endure the cold to be at cross purposes.

III. A Howl in the Night

On the third night of the deep freeze, an animal’s piercing howl shatters the oppressive silence that has settled over the village.

It’s not a wolf’s howl; it is far too shrill and keening, and comes from a great distance away, that much is clear. The few villagers brave enough to risk exposure to the cold will find nothing of immediate danger within the city walls--but should they lift their eyes and look to the gossamer clouds near the summit of Gods’ Reach, they will glimpse the dark silhouette of a massive winged beast circling the mountaintop in search of a safe place to roost.

Comments

[sampler]

[OPEN]

During that terrible blizzard, Faro and Detlef came up with a plan. If another heavy snow or other hazardous weather came on again, Faro would pack his necessities, close shop, and move to Detlef's house at the stables. For safety and practical reasons, of course. That way they could see each other without risking life and limb, and not waste fuel heating two homes.

The definition of 'necessities' to Faro is probably more than Detlef was expecting. He didn't want to try and wrangle a handcart through the streets and over the ice, so he's done his best to compress everything down so he only needs to make a few trips from his place to the stables.

By trip three instead of carrying it, he's simply dragging his cargo -a chest with several bags tied to the top- down the lane, desperately wishing he'd borrowed a cart.

Also he's decided to stop experimenting with winter clothing and just wear the fancy white fur and goldwork cloak he made, since he's been talking it up to everyone about how good it would be at keeping out the cold. It works just as well as he hoped! Except its so glitzy that he feels like some kind of exasperated wedding-specter as he tries to keep his footing.


[Closed to Kit]

During one of the earlier trips, it's not him that slips. A local farmer heading uphill with a bulging sack full of produce over his shoulder stops to wipe his brow and begins to tip over backwards. He and Faro reach for each other at the same time, stopping him from fully falling down (barely), but alas, perhaps the man should've tied his sack closed better.

"My cabbages!" wails the merchant as his goods spill out of the bag and tumble down the lane.

yooooo

[ragweed]

Well it's not his most daring of interventions, but it at least should make a difference to that one cabbage farmer. Kit jogs down the lane and intercepts first one, then another rolling cabbage--how the heck are these things even growing, nevermind, don't ask questions--scooping them up into his arms until he's got a fair number of them clasped to his chest.

"I've got, um, some of them," he says, and turns to watch the last few cabbages tumble out of sight. Welp. :T

[sampler]

Truth be told the cabbages are basically frozen, so there's essentially 5lb balls of leafy ice tumbling down the path. They probably would have stubbed some toes or bruised some shins if Kit hadn't collected them up.

While their dashing hero does that, Faro and the farmer wobble and teeter until they've both found their balance on the packed down snow. The fellow then fucks that up by sliding the straps off his shoulders and begins another round of them trying to stay upright, with all the accompanying 'oops', 'ah', and 'oh no's one might expect from two people trying not to fall over. As Kit returns, they've again found their footing, finally.

"Oh thank you! This is the last harvest, without this we..." The farmer is grinningly grateful as he holds open the sack to allow Kit begin to deposit them back in with the others. At least until he does a quick count and realizes that some are missing. "Wait, where's the rest? Oh no I gotta- watch these, will you?"

He doesn't wait for an answer before he takes off to retrieve the last of the wayward produce, leaving Kit and Faro literally holding the bag.

[ragweed]

"They'll probably be fine, you know," Kit calls out after the farmer, "not like they're in danger of thawing for the next, oh, four months or so." But the farmer is out of sight--and all Kit has to show for his good deeds is a bag of frozen vegetables and Faro's company.

He sends a 'what now?' sort of commiserating look his way. He holds up his half of the bag questioningly.

[sampler]

Kit's unspoken question gets met with an equally confused shrug. After a beat, he grabs the drawstrings, pulls the taut, and ties a tidy bow. Now they won't lose any more cabbages if it tips over again or someone stumbles into it.

"Lets- out the, the walk at least," he suggests as he does his best to pretend it's purely a helpful choice and not because there are a couple of soldiers headed their way. Faro starts to lift the bag, then frowns and switches his grip to a dragging one because, look, it's a lot of cabbages, okay??

[ragweed]

"What--oh, yeah," Kit agrees, oblivious at first to the soldiers' approach--not because such things escape his notice ordinarily, but because they tend to if his left ear is turned to them. Which it is.

As he helps to heft the bag of frozen cabbages out of the street, however, he catches sight of their approach and grimaces, quickening his pace some. Strolling past them, one of the soldiers gives them both an exceptionally unfriendly grin and spits onto the stone in front of them.

"Keep the road clear, lads," he says.

"Whatever," Kit mutters.

[engravitas]

Ben is only passing when Faro appears wearing that ensemble. He doesn't need to speak: the expression says it all.

[harpbinger]

And then, without even a moment's warning, the opposite. A sizable clump of snow detaches from the road and rises, necessarily expressionless, to speak:

"Wind-lover's tits, man, the shine off that gold's enough to wake the dead!"

[engravitas]

With a high-pitched gasp of alarm, Ben attempts to jump a step back and instead just falls on his ass.

[sampler]

If it were anyone else giving him that look, he might purse his lips and shrug, or raise his chin to challenge them to say their peace. The cloak is gorgeous and fashionable, far too formal for the small town, and he knows it. That's why its hung on his wall for so long and is only being worn because the weather calls for warmth.

But as far as Faro can tell, that's just Ben's normal face.

So he simply nods in acknowledgement/greeting, thinking nothing of it, until a man sits up from the snow and startles them both. At least Farogil's backwards flinch puts him against a wall and not on his backside like Ben.

Clutching his chest in shock, he gives an uncomfortable chuckle and asks, "Th-thanksareyou alright?"

It's directed at Thom, because obviously the old man covered in snow needs checking on first.

[harpbinger]

The old man covered in snow is shaking himself free of it like an ungainly dog, for all the good it does. At the end he's still largely encrusted, and the appearance of his bright lively eyes and manic grin actually makes him look a good sight worse.

"Oh aye, as rain!" he exclaims, in a rather hoarse way that suggests perhaps he's only right as a light mist. "Nothing a nip of whiskey and a spell by the fire won't fix." He begins feeling around in the snow, "Now where've you gone my beaut—ha!" An equally encrusted leathern pack is heaved out of the snow just beside him, and Thom kisses the bag that encloses his harp with great abandon. His lips stick to a buckle.

"Ah 'hite."

[engravitas]

Ben continues to sit in the snow, staring, horrified. What the fuck

[sampler]

While the snowman shakes himself off, Farogil glances across towards Ben and, oh it turns out, he DOES have other expressions. Or at least, degrees of disgust. This time Faro gets it, this is weird.

"Oh, are you-" Stuck? He's stuck, isn't he. A red-gloved hand lifts to cover his own mouth in sympathy, while his blue-gloved one (its Fashion) reaches out towards the frosty case. It stops short of touching it because, well, "Do you- sshould I-?"

He shrugs, putting both hands up in a 'what do' sort of gesture.