Die Eisigienacht

[Aetosion 2062]

Die Eisigienacht

 

 

‘Twas seven fortnights past in the dark of the high-pines of the Vander-woods, that an inconspicuous man of average height and slim build walked hunched in the cold, clutching his black wool overcoat tightly to his meager frame. A steady pace he kept, one two, one two, his fur-wrapped boots crunching into the settled snow, the cold biting at his bones.

 

The soft hooting of ein käuzchen, a little owl nesting in the forest’s canopy, broke through the tones of the lingering wind and snow crunching underfoot. The branches of the pines rustled with the night air. The lightly falling snow made no sound except silence.

 

A warm light could be seen several hundred paces ahead, softly peeking through the low-hanging branches of an elderly pine. As the traveler walked still nearer, he could make out a small cabin. It was a woodsman’s cabin, the man mused, and a good soul must sit inside, warming his hands by the fire with a bag of freshly caught rabbits.

 

The käuzchen cried again, its soft tones now more urgent. The man shuffled forward through the mounting snow, drawn hastily towards the light by the promise of a warm hearth.

 

The cabin was in clearer view now, its walls were of tightly bound pine logs, its windows were opaque with warmth, and smoke was rising lazily from its stone chimney. The shivering man squinted his eyes against the wind, and thought he could just make out a figure on the inside.

 

As the man walked his last few paces towards the cabin, and reached out to knock smartly on the thick pine door, the käuzchen cried again, more shrilly still. The man brought his mitten-bound knuckles against the door thrice in the manner of his countrymen, the sound echoing through the wood. Snow shifted on the branches of a nearby pine, and a clump or two fell to the white-blanketed ground with an almost imperceptible thump.

 

Hearing no response, the man rapped again on the roughly hewn wood of the door. It creaked inwards, warm air buffeting out.

 

“It was the wind,” thought the traveler, as no one came to answer the door. “I musn’t be impolite, barging my way into a poor fellow’s residence like this,” but as the door creaked further open still, the traveler reconsidered, “Why, now all the warmth’s getting out. The poor man inside must have drifted off to sleep. I shan’t leave his door open, and my is it awfully cold. I’m sure no true Vander-man would be opposed to giving his fellow countryman shelter and warmth during the Deep Cold.”

 

With that, the traveler gingerly opened the door and stepped inside, reaching back to shut it against the frigid night air. He turned to the coat-rack and shrugged off his coat, hanging it from the collar, and removed his mittens and scarf. Beginning to thaw from the frigid night air, he turned to see if he could rouse his host. A tall chair sat by the hearth, its back to the traveler, surely the resting place for a weary woodsman who had fallen into a deep slumber to the sound of the crackling fire.

 

The slight man shuffled to the side of the chair, intending to rouse the sleeping woodsman. To his surprise the chair was empty. The käuzchen cried again from its perch, its alarmed call muffled by the walls of the cabin.

 

The traveler was confused, but upon noticing a back door on the other side of the room, assumed that the cabin’s owner had left to gather more wood for the fireplace.

 

The tall chair was inviting. Its supple, dark red, cushioned seat beckoned to the traveler in the tones of comfort, warmth, and sleep. Seeing no reason to deprive himself of rest after such a long trek through the pines, he sat upon the chair, facing the warmth of the fire.

 

 

‡ ‡ ‡ ‡ ‡ ‡

 

 

 

When the snows began to thaw and the rivers flowed freely on the sixth day of Malin’s Welcome, a hunter went into the wood. He arrived at his cabin that afternoon, the chirping of spring’s birds in the air. The door to his cabin had been left unlocked, and snow drifts had piled inside and melted away, leaving a puddle on the floor just inside the door. “By Rovin, there’ll be mold up t’ me eyeballs in there,” thought the woodsman.

 

He marched inwards, leather boots splashing through the entryway, and was greeted by the most foul stench. Flies were thick in the air by his chair facing the fire. The woodsman crept warily to the side of the armchair, apprehensive of what he might see there. His eyes were met by the corpse of a man sitting hunched over, clothes moth-eaten, and some bits of flesh and meat clinging lazily to his bones.

 

The hunter stood frozen, his stomach contorted like a tortured elf. The shrill cries of some bird outside reached his ears. He took a step back in fear, jarring the stuffed head of a stag he had brought down in a hunt. He began to turn towards the door, intent on leaving his cabin and finding the nearest reichmann’s post, but before his eyes left the corpse, it moved.

 

The bones righted themselves, and the head turned towards the woodsman, its sunken eyes boring into his own.

 

“Pardon my intrusion, landsmann, it was quite cold outside.”

 

 

 

-Sr. E. W.

[yopplwasupxxx 5946]

"Hrmph, trully makes you wonder what things be out zhere in wilds away from Vanderfell.." Prince Otto Rovin gives a small shiver, tucking the short story away.

[Glyc 234]

Moved to the Great Library. It shall be sorted into appropriate category shortly.