northclifflogs | OPEN | Blood And Ice

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OPEN | Blood And Ice

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.

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I.

No one is quite sure how the rumor started.

Some say it came from a drunken encounter at the tavern, or as joking grumblings between soldiers that escalated to reality, but what seems to be going around town is this: if you fight the smithy and win, you get a free new sword. Maybe it’s the anticipation of war, the stir-craziness of being stuck snowed-in for so long, or just good-ol’ pent up aggression, but Fíadh has been dealing with a fair amount of fisticuffs. Mostly soldiers, but even a couple townspeople have taken their chances and lost. Yet no one has been able to win their free prize.

Of course Fíadh could stop this at any time … but curiously enough she just allows it to keep going. So, anyone want to chance their bets on some sweet loot? Even if you lose, you get punched in the face by a buff lady.

II.

As always, Fíadh’s forge is open as a heat source for those who need it. She’s even begun tending to it at night to ensure that it’s available to anyone at all hours. Of course there’s the risk that someone would steal from her unattended shop during that time, but then again who wants to risk angering her? Only an idiot. Still, someone could likely run into her during her working hours or at night as she comes to check on the flames.

Edited 2020-01-06 18:56 (UTC)

Well this is alarming.

To say that the size of his weekly congregation has quadrupled since his return to the village would be an understatement: there's hardly standing room at vespers or matins now, but that has less to do with the piety of these visiting soldiers from all across the duchy and everything to do with the bitter cold that they all seek to escape. The imminent hostilities with Black Rock must have their blood up, too, for they give Adhemar suspicious glares as soon as he speaks, trying to determine whether the accent they hear marks him from the 'right' part of the country. It's unpleasant.

He should have wintered in Woodsedge, as the bishop had suggested.

This thought has occurred to him several times since his return to Northcliff Pass, but is particularly pronounced after one evening service when he is cornered at the pulpit by a bristling young man who looks like he's ready to pick a fight with anyone who makes eye contact for too long. The boy (for he cannot be older than twenty) plants himself at the foot of the steps leading down from the modest raised dais, making it impossible for Adhemar to pass without bodily moving him. "Where is it you're from exactly, Father?" Father, sneered with clear derision.

If he expects that jab to draw blood, he's picked the wrong priest to antagonize. Inscrutable, Adhemar folds his hands atop his scripture. "Griston," he answers mildly, "which is very far to the north. Have you been there?"

"No," the soldier snorts. "What're you doing down here, then?"

"Practicing my vocation, as demanded by the gods." This situation has the potential to escalate quickly, but Adhemar does not add kindling to the fire--yet. He makes an idle gesture with one hand while in a quick glance skimming the faces of those parishioners who remain in the chapel. (Searching for prospective allies, or perhaps witnesses; even he isn't sure which.)

I.

Why yes, a troop of soldiers is generally a giant troublesome bother. They eat all the food, they frighten the livestock, they make too much noise … but for some people it could be seen as a welcome delight. Some people like Elena. After all, this many new bodies is rife with potential for business! And fun! And boy does she like both those things. Plus what’s better than trying to get a man in uniform out of said uniform? While they’re here she can often be seen spending time with the abiding heroes, well out of ear-and-eye-shot of their commanding officers. Singing bawdy songs, playing gambling games, and otherwise being a lurking loveable nuisance. But she’s making friends! Some with benefits! And she’s more than happy to introduce them to her friends of the town … whether they want it or not.

II.

There was once a chandler named Beane
Whose life was all fairly routine
‘Til the cold came and snapped
Left him helplessly trapped
With a woman playing lute so obscene

The frigid temperatures have forced nearly everyone to stay shivering inside, and this has left Elena in a dangerous situation: boredom. No one is out to talk to! Or sing to! Or sell herbal remedies to! Or … okay, yeah, anything. But one day, walking by Kendrick’s shop, she has a thought: what’s everyone going to do while they’re stuck inside? Duh, the best activity two bored people can do to get warm! And what better way to help them get their combined grooves on then with inspiring music and inspiring lighting? Yes, yes, at that moment Elena becomes inspired! She’ll help drum up business for Kendrick! With purpose in her stride she bursts into his shop, grinning wide, before finding a chair and plopping into it.

“Kendrick! I’m about to get you some coin with the power of romance!”

Throughout the days, Elena can be found in this spot playing fantastic, innovative tunes that could inspire masses of composers for centuries to come if they could only hear. But who cares about changing the meaning of music in this day and age when the real goal is getting people to fuck?

She’ll remain there until the kindly, beautiful, wonderful, and non-deserving-of-this proprietor finally manages to kick her out.

Pippa knows what she's good for, and while she can throw a decent punch and can hold her own in a street fight if she's got to, she knows a lost cause when she sees one. That free sword will never be hers--at least, not unless Fíadh decides to take pity on her and grant her one out of the goodness of her heart.

But in the meantime, Pippa has plenty of interest in watching some of these abrasive newcomers get knocked down a peg or two. That's what she's doing at the moment: hanging out near the smithy with her hands stuffed into her pockets, watching with rapt interest while Fíadh introduces her latest challenger to her fists.

II.

Adhemar's arrival coincides with the bitterest cold temperatures to afflict the village in years, and it occurs to him as he nears the crumbling stone walls surrounding Northcliff Pass that if he were to die of something as trite and idiotic as exposure, he would at least have one thing in common with his parents. That he is having this thought at all brings to the fore a haze of childhood memories, words of warning from the parish priests who had reared him in plain sight of the glaciers of the Fjords. A man's mind takes leave of his senses, they'd said, when his body has grown dangerously cold.

Shit.

This moment of clarity is ultimately what sees him venturing off the slippery road and towards the distillery. When he reaches door, he has to catch himself against the frame for a moment before knocking. "Johanna."

II. (closed to Dain & Vervain)

A lifetime of susceptibility to the cold means that Tuo has taken certain measures to ensure that the wagon that serves as his home is properly equipped to handle the worst that winter can throw at him. That was the guarantee by the builder, and for the last several years, Tuo has had no reason to complain.

Even this year, he can't blame the builder. It was his own fault that the damp got into his store of firewood. What good is a wood-burning stove if the wood won't catch light?

No good at all, although he finds he has little energy to spare in chastising himself. Instead, he has nested himself in his bed under as many furs and cloaks as he owns, doing what he can to keep himself and the magpie Alvi from freezing during the night. In the morning, he resolves he will make the trek past the soldiers' encampment to reach the Town Hall. He has no choice.

III.

The howl wakes him up from his shallow sleep. Tuo sits up abruptly on the sleeping pallet that had been set aside for him within the chapel sanctuary, and looks around in alarm to see if he is alone in having heard the noise.

A few other people are stirring where they sleep, but none wake fully. Gathering up cloak, he hastily wraps his headscarf around his head and shoulders, stuffs his feet into his boots, and ventures outside just beyond the threshold of the church to look about outside.

(A fool indeed. Who hears a mysterious animal's cry and decides to investigate it all on his own? This one, apparently.)

Johanna is a woman who sleeps heavily or little and lightly, with no comfortable in between. Tonight, he is fortunate, because it is cold enough that it keeps her from settling and she hears him at her door. She debates leaving him, she is just this side of annoyed with him, but it is too cold to entertain that thought.

A moment passes before the wooden door is cracked open and she reaches out and fists a hand in his clothing. She hauls him inside and slams the door in his wake--the whole of it an attempt to keep from losing the heat.

It is very warm inside her home. In the dark it would have been a challenge to see the steam rising from the roof, but inside the heat is heavy, almost stifling in its humidity. It smells strongly of juniper. The sounds of the stills and their boiling flames are loud enough to drown out the creaking waterwheel as it rattles on its axle. There is a low orange light that fills both the distillery and the small apartment, from the flames burning beneath the copper tubes and the candles she had lit.

"Idiot," she accuses and at once sets about looking him over, making sure none of him is turning blue or black. That he is infinitely more familiar with cold than she is hardly worthy of note. "What are you doing outside? You want to catch your death?"

Lance, a devoted attendee of the evening service, has his eye fixed on the troublemaker from a few feet away, with an air about him like a collie watching a sheep, waiting for it to stray so he can dart forward and snap at it.
No violence has broken out yet, nor does it seem that it's going to, but Lance is here if it does-- and he meets eyes with the vicar, with a little nod. Just say the word.

One man in uniform is not excited about the prospect of villagers mingling with the other men in uniform, and he's standing at the edge of their camp, watching her with a weary look and shivering.
Being bundled up moreso than usual makes Lance look like he weighs about double what he actually does, but a cold snap is no excuse to leave the town unguarded, so patrol he must. However, the only indication it's him at all is the disapproving blue eyes visible above the heavy scarf that covers his nose and mouth.

Though Finian isn't poor, per se, he does live in a decent-size house by himself, and keeping it heated in weather like this is far more effort than it's worth. So he too is in the chapel, and sits up at the same time Tuo does, his eyes wide and his freckled face pale.
"Wait," he whispers, scrambling to put on his gear as well, "don't go alone."

The familiar plume of wood smoke rising past the village wall is missing tonight.

Tuo left abruptly once without warning, and Dain can't honestly hold it against him to do so again, not when they can't speak openly. But he has to check, just to be sure. What if something's wrong? What if he can still catch his friend, still bid him farewell?

At least one of those suspicions is well-founded, because when Dain arrives, the wagon is still there -- just dark and cold. Fear grips his heart and he knocks quickly, uncharacteristically heedless of whether anyone might be watching.

"Tuo? Tuo, are you there? Alvi?"

Any other sensible adult would probably instruct Finian to go back to sleep, but Tuo comes by his moniker in his native tongue honestly. When Finian comes after him, he merely holds up a slim finger across his own lips in a 'shh' motion, lest they wake the rest of the sleeping bodies in the sanctuary.

"Quietly now," he whispers, eases the door open on its hinges, and slips outside. He holds it ajar for Finian to follow him.

From within the wagon comes an alarmed sound somewhere between a caw and a chirrup; if it isn't Alvi, it's definitely not Tuo. But the soft, chiding, "hush, now," that follows can't be anyone else.

"Coming," he calls--or he would, if the cold hadn't sapped the strength from his voice, and it only gets worse when he disentangles himself from all the blankets and furs and feels the air bite at his skin. He shudders, swearing an oath under his breath, and refuses to part with the last cumbersome layer as he fumbles his way towards the door. It takes a moment for him to flip the latch with such cold fingers, but when he finally manages it, he pushes the door open enough to quickly beckon Dain inside.

"In," he whispers hastily, "before what's left of the heat escapes." From his nest of blankets, Alvi watches the pair of them with suspicious black eyes.

Currently Elena is situated near a fire raucously playing cards with three soldiers. She too is well-bundled, although somehow her bosom seems unaffected by the cold as it is bared for all to gaze upon. And the soldiers certainly do. She giggles as she slams her cards down on the table.

"I don't think you can beat that! Pay up!"

The soldiers react with groans as Elena rakes a small pile of coins towards herself. Well, two of the soldiers react, the third is eyeing behind Elena warily. She turns to follow his gaze and meets eyes with one (1) very disgruntled-looking watch guard. But of course she chooses to ignore his mood as her eyes light up and she waves heartily.

"Lance! Come join us!"

Today's current contender is a rather trim young fellow, probably around Fíadh's own age. He had approached her with a few of his fellow soldiers, full of bravado, swagger, and confidence. Nevermind by that point she'd already beat down at least four or five other fighters, no, he looked convinced he was going to win.

Well, with the way the match has now been going, he wouldn't.

Fíadh's fist connects with his already swollen jaw in a ferocious uppercut and blood spurts from his mouth, likely from biting down on his own tongue. He stumbles backward and collapses to the ground. Lethargically he begins to scramble with his hands, pushing himself up, only to be shoved down once again by Fíadh's boot on his chest. Through one good eye and one very blackened eye he angrily stares up at her, met only with her bored gaze and a raised eyebrow.

"Finished?" Fíadh asks. He doesn't reply, but he doesn't move either. Fíadh nods, removes her boot and holds out her hand to help him up. The soldier pointedly refuses, pushing up on his shaky arms and stumbling like a fawn to his feet. His brothers-in-arms laugh heartily, maybe also a little in awe and fear, as they help him limp off. Fíadh's face remains impassive as they walk off, but there is certainly some sort of spark in her eyes as she trains them on Pippa. Of course she's noticed the other woman watching, many people have stopped the watch, but the fact that's she's staying is the most curious part.

"Do you want to fight too?"

So much for pleasantries. He never had much time for those anyway.

The heat emanating from the stills is immediately too much for him to bear, and even with the cold still gnawing at his skin, he suddenly feels as though the very marrow of his bones will catch fire if he doesn't shed a few layers. So he does just that while Johanna chastises him, pulling off his cloak and coat and unwinding scarves from around his neck. All are dropped onto the floor; he'll deal with them later.

"Wagon axle split halfway up the pass," he replies, winded, and turns to face her at last. He gestures wearily in the general direction of the city. "The rest of the caravan went back to Cliffside, but I thought I could make the return trip on foot before sundown. Clearly," he finishes, "I was incorrect."

None of those were the words he'd intended to greet her with, but whatever he'd had prepared seems to have fled him now. He regards her in the dim light with something like uncertainty in his expression; a different man would know how to greet a lover after months of separation, but Adhemar is not that man.

"Which gods?" snaps the troublemaker, who has not yet moved from the foot of the stairs (and who is oblivious to Lance's presence). "The way I hear it, you Northerners have your pick of gods up there, don't you? So how do I know you're not bringing that heresy down here?" Now he places one foot on the first step, grasping the wooden railing.

The vicar remains very still, but he lifts his eyes to look beyond the soldier's head. He meets Lance's gaze. "Captain," he greets, just loud enough to make it clear that yes, this is the word.

"Do you want to fight too?"

Listen, there's something immensely satisfying about watching a powerful woman sock a man in the jaw so hard he fountains blood, but there's also no socially acceptable way to communicate this without coming across as a lunatic. So instead, Pippa's eyes widen and her jaw works a time or two without producing any words. Then she straightens up and smooths a couple of wrinkles out of her shirt, like she's about to be inspected by a drill sergeant and wants to do her best to impress. (Next time, put on a clean shirt; that jam stain is visible a mile off.)

"How'd you learn that?" she asks, a little awed, then gestures with one hand at the spot on the ground where the blood is now drying. "To fight like that, I mean."

"Clearly," she repeats with just an edge of mocking. Her tone, an imitation of him, sounds a bit nasal with her thick accent. She does not miss the unease in his face, but she doesnt comment on it either. Instead, Johanna looks at his frost laden (and soon to be damp) outerwear with no small amount of disdain. She then reaches out and takes him by the forearm, all but dragging him away from the door. That he moves willingly is of little consequence.

She is clad in trousers, a long shirt, socks, and has a blanket draped around her shoulders like a shawl. It was clear she had hauled the thing, wholesale, from her bed when she rose to answer the door. Unlike him, she is not willing to part with a single piece of her "outfit."

Once they are far enough from the door that she cannot feel a chilly draft creeping in around the wood, she shifts her blanket shawl just so a draws him in for a hug, undoubtedly smothering him in more warmth than he can tolerate. (Which is fair, she thinks with a very slight vindictive edge, because she is still mad at him and he will have to put up with it because she is his best friend. That she is, in turn, suffering the chill of him inside her carefully cultivated warmth is, like his willingness to move, of no consequence and is summarily dismissed.)

"Technically, I suppose, you did make it but I would not suggest explaining technicalities to weather."

Fíadh pays no attention to Pippa's state of dress, focusing only on her face. The spark in Fíadh's own eye is practically reflected back at her, and in that moment she comes to a decision: she likes whoever this woman is. Still her mouth retains its straight line and she glances over to the blood.

"My friends taught me." There's a brief pang at the thought of the men who raised her, but it passes just as quickly. That's getting better.

A flood of relief, quickly subsumed by even deeper concern. Tuo does not sound well, nor does he look well when he finally manages to get the door open. What little is visible of his face under the blanket is even paler than usual, and Dain could swear he sees a hint of blue in those lips.

"What heat?" he asks briskly as he slips inside. "You haven't run out of firewood, have you? You know better than that. What's happened?"

It's not the first time Dain wishes he could manipulate fire. A quick solution here might save Tuo's life, especially if he's stubborn enough to forego the warmth in the town hall or the vicarage for his own frigid wagon.

He shakes his head mutely, meeting eyes with the soldier behind Elena, then straightens to start patrolling again-- if he's just standing here watching, it's far more likely that there will be heckling, and he's in no mood for it.
As long as Elena's there, though, he'll be listening for screams (hers or theirs? who's to say) and ready to run back at a moment's notice.

Stepping into motion, Lance approaches the troublemaker and claps him on the shoulder with one gloved hand.
"Time to be on your way," he says in a low voice, giving him a chance to disengage of his own volition before any force is used.

I.

The news of war in Cliffside does nothing to make Dain ready to attempt the journey home. As luck would have it, the war comes to him, and Dain can't quite tell whether he should be regretting his decision or not. Certainly the first day or two of the soldiers' regiment settling in the festival grounds are filled with conflict and altercation, and Dain has his hands full resolving those he can, taking full advatange of the respect a Shepherd demands.

Harder to calm are the animals. Particularly towards dusk, when the soldiers get rowdy and their voices tangle with the loud clanking of armour and metal, and everyone's on edge enough that some of the younger horses get spooked.

One's just gone galloping off down the street in the wake of an escalating argument, and it takes Dain a precious few minutes before he can go after it, by which point he's lost sight of the poor thing. Did it go out the gate, or did it go towards the stable? Dain checks the stable first, tucked out of the way behind the tavern, hoping fervently that the animal is A) there and B) wasn't spooked enough to hurt itself.

I. War has come marching unceremoniously into Northcliff Pass. Civil war, no less. Lorne has never much cared for politics save when it came to affecting his life, or the lives of those he cared for. Now, though, with Duke Galein's men occupying the festival grounds for the foreseeable future, politics has just come and stomped all over his home.

From what little Lorne has been able to glean from his father, he's got a strong dislike of military on principle. These soldiers have an undeniable authority in the form of sheer force, so Lorne doesn't go out of his way to antagonize them. He does, however, keep an eye on them. Whenever the weather allows, whenever he can take a patrol route that way, he passes the garrison. It's hard not to, really, in a town this small. He even makes a few careful overtures at amicable conversation with some of the lower-ranked soldiers, just in case it gets him useful information or tidbits.

He's ready to jump between the soldiers and any of the townspeople if it becomes necessary, regardless of who starts such an incident. Preventing a clash from getting wildly out of hand might be the best to hope for, in that case.

II. The bitter cold that follows the arrival of the soldiers heralds a different kind of danger. Spending any length of time outside is inadvisable, but a certain amount of activities require short trips from one bastion of warmth to another. Even those short stretches can be hard for some people; and the necessity of gathering in the Town Hall and the chapel raises the usual concerns about close quarters.

Seeing as the Town Hall is effectively next door to the magistrate's house, Lorne runs errands for supplies for the people staying there, when he can. Same for the chapel, since that's only across the main road. There's not a lot that's needed, but he wants to check on them and ensure no one is freezing or hungry. He's got a fairly strong constitution and a stubborn streak to match Pippa's, so Lorne also continues patrols as he's able. If Lance is going to be out there, so is he; a hard freeze doesn't mean their job suddenly goes away. They're shortened patrols, and he's bundled so thoroughly that he'd be slow in the event of a fight, but thankfully everyone seems too cold to get into much trouble. Or comment on how ridiculous he looks.

III. Lorne is typically a light sleeper, ready to spring out of bed at a moment's notice. Whether this is the result of helping to care for his younger siblings for so many years, or the Watch training he's received more recently, or both, doesn't really matter. The shrill cry pulls him from sleep, shoving off the thick blankets before he's fully processed what he's hearing. The cold outside the bed has him shivering and clears his head, and now he stops long enough to wonder what in all the gods' names that noise is.

It sends a different sort of shiver down his spine. Lorne ignores it in favor of tugging on pants and boots and enough layers to keep out the utterly frigid night temperatures for a little while. After he checks on his family (read: makes sure Pippa isn't sneaking out), he trudges out to ensure that the village is safe from-- whatever is making that sound. Hopefully Lance or Deron have the same idea.

IV. Wildcard!

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Page 1 of 13

OPEN | Blood And Ice

Civil Blood

I. News from the West

II. Cold Snap

III. A Howl in the Night

OTA

OTA but first come first serve

OTA

I

the night he arrives back in Northcliff Pass; closed to Johanna

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Closed to Detlef

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