At the Giant's Foot

[ferdaboy 3472]

 

Huddled around a fire, a group of Haeseni brooded over the day's events. The air was thick with the smell of broth that sat above the fire, the contents of the blacked kettle it sat in nearly emptied of food.

 

The closest to the fire sat Josef and his son, Aleksandr. The father sat in silence, seemingly awaiting for his son to finish his soup. Aleksandr brought the bowl to his lips and drank the remaining contents of his broth. A heartbeat later, Josef extended a hand expectantly to his son.

 

“The journal.” He demanded, and his son obliged. Josef began to read from the leather-bound book.

Entry 1:

 

9th of Wzuvar, 556 Ehr Sigmunda

 

Spoiler

Preparations for the journey have begun nearing their end. The packing of the sled and mules took over-long, but eventually we made for the mountain, the weight of our supplies bearing down on us as soon as we took our first step in its direction.

 

Father said I was to help Jan drive the sled, in case he tried to drive it off the road. Perhaps my father is distrusting of commoners, but I did not protest. Less walking for me.

 

Entry 2: 

 

11th of Wzuvar, 556 Ehr Sigmunda

 

Spoiler

Two days of slow progress weighed heavily on our bodies, but our eagerness remained infallible. The same could not be said for the mules.

 

We have come across what we believed to be an abandoned camp, with the only indications of such being a soot covered pot and the remains of decayed firewood sitting beneath it, and a few strewn fragments and affectations.

 

We finally arrived at the base of the mountain. I had asked father for its name, but he had none for it. I’ve contended that it should be named the “Giant” for now. It seems fitting.

 

Progress is far slower than anticipated. Both the steepness of the slope and the cold stiffens us. The Lady Vanir nearly cracked her head open whilst climbing. It was nerve-wracking to see, but we pressed on.

 

It is cold.

 

As we neared closer the crest of our chosen slope, it grew steeper again. The mules’ hooves’ began to slip on the snow and ice. They could go no further.

 

Father and Mara climbed up ahead with some rope. They wished to heave the thing up the slope, giving the pack beasts some respite before they fell over from exhaustion or broke a leg on the icey stones. 

 

Perhaps Jan misunderstood, but while father was ahead and above, he cut the mules loose, before helping me secure the ropes to the sled. Wrotek, but father called him the ‘Hound-man’, redid all the knots I had tied. Saying they weren’t good enough. My father had taught me how to tie knots, but he was no mountaineer like the Hound-man, so I thought it better not to protest.

 

I was made to push the sled with Jan, the Ser Belisar and the Hound-man, while the rest pulled on the rope. Well, most did. Villorik prayed and sung for our success, rather than pulling himself. I could barely make him out through the wind and the heaving cries of the men and women, but I made out a few names from his sonorous chant on the gales. ‘Skysent’ and ‘Waldor’ were familiar to me, I knew them from the old stories of Barbov the Black. Mother made me read them when I was younger. 

 

As we heaved the sled upwards, the hook my father had set began to loosen. With this in mind, perhaps Wrotek had been right to re-tie my knots. With some quick thinking, and with the courage granted by Villorik’s prayers, the good Ser Gentry, another Marian, hammered it back into place. Eventually, the sled crested the slope safely. I have never seen my father so red with embarrassment, I could not help but laugh. Thankfully, he did not see me. 

 

After ensuring the sled was safely lodged in place, my father and the Patriarch Villorik, with a small escort of Marians, decided to scout ahead.

 

Entry 3: 

 

12th of Wzuvar, 556 Ehr Sigmunda

 

Spoiler

The scouts returned, and my father looked angry. He ordered us to empty the sled and abandon it. I did not like the idea of leaving it out here, nor the supplies we were forced to leave behind. At least we might be able to recover what remained on the journey back, if needs be. 

 

We climbed for hours, before coming across a ravine of ice, with only a broken bridge to mark it as the path we had set ourselves on. It was a spot of colour, however dull, in the whipping white expanse that threatened to engulf us whole. While father had left to dismantle the cart with some others, I took the opportunity to look over the ravines edge. I found a dead man at the bottom. At the time, I saw myself strewn across the base of the ravine, alongside the dead man. I quickly shook these thoughts from my head.

 

We waited many hours for my father’s return, and a strange figure had appeared in the distance on the opposite cliff-face. At first I had assumed it was the lingering spirit of the dead man, or some other adventurer that had died here, but then others saw it. This troubled me, but we were too cold and tired to pay it much mind.  It disappeared beyond the snowy banks as suddenly as it had appeared.

 

My father returned with some supplies to fix the bridge; parts of the sled bed, and nails. After an hour or so, my father had finished building some shoddy bridge. My father, in his stupidity  haste, crossed without tying a rope to himself. Luckily, he crossed fine, as did the others, until it was only Villorik and I. My preparations to cross were nearly complete, before my father ordered that I go last. Maybe he did see me laugh the day prior, and this was his punishment. 

 

Villorik attempted a crossing, and our makeshift bridge nearly collapsed. He bade that I pray with him, and when my eyes opened once more, he had disappeared! Puzzled, I crossed alone. After I had crossed, I finally realized the dagger I held in my hand; I was not sure when I had drawn one. I blinked once more and the Patriarch was in front of me once more, but the dagger was gone.

 

Hours go by, and it is cold. Nothing but the wind, snow, and the occasional banner stood before us. Eventually, we chanced across another abandoned encampment, but this time it had a tent and a fire pit. The others convinced father it was time to rest, so we set our tents. My father did not help with this. I think he was displeased with stopping so early.

 

The fire warmed every fiber of my being down to my soul! I hope to God that tomorrow is a better day.

With a sigh, Josef shut the journal and handed it back to his son. He shook his head as his son looked to him. 

 

“Vy are niet a storyteller. Less is more, boy.” 

 

 

Spoiler

((Contents of the post are only known to those part of the event group

 

[ContestedSnow 1435]

The young Barbanov-Bihar slumped back at the fire, crestfallen at the reception of his work, and carefully tucked the journal away in his parka.

 

His gaze turned out, away from the party that surrounded their simple fire, and towards the icy gales that whipped the trees around their camp, and the howls of the Giant's peaks that threaded the snowy valleys, cliffs and ravines. He could not help but feel that they were at the mercy of these grand elements. This ancient place could snuff them out whole, and swallow them up that their families might never even read these notes, let alone see them again. The thought filled Aleksandr with a deep chill.

 

They must persist, else they will perish.

[MunaZaldrizoti 8037]

Atop the Karodur, a dour Princess Milena had come to brood over a letter left behind by her husband. Their last conversation had been a bitter argument, something that was rare for a pair so well-matched in temprement. She prayed that would not be their final conversation--that she might see the Oracle and her eldest son returned to her, with a glorious tale to tell and apologies to be exchanged.

[Terry 2680]

Sigmar var Ruthern ran a hand across his forehead, wiping the cold sweat from his brow as his axe lay embedded within a log nearby the camp. He'd take this moment during his turn to keep watch, gazing around as the sounds of nothing but the campfire and roaring cold winds battered his ears.

 

Such was something he was used to, growing up in Vidaus. The snow was like kin, everywhere when he wanted it, and everywhere when he didn't, but not even growing up around such a climate could prepare him for this weather.

 

He buried the thought akin to the ground beneath them buried in snow, retaking up his axe. With a couple foggy exhales, would he go back to chopping wood for the fire which surely saved them from what surrounded, the exertion alone beginning to warm him up.

[TheGentleDuck 55]

Wrotek Pankiewich took a deep breath, the cold and thin air making the action difficult. It wasn't entirely unpleasant, as it took him back to his youth, to the mountains above Aaun. His clan, the Cingedoz, had often made expeditions like this as they braved the elements mapping out their home. And although numerous, none had been as difficult as this one.

 

Deep in thought, he crushed a piece of hardtack before putting the crumbs in his mouth. It was fair to say he was much older now, but this mountain was taller than any other he had climbed before. And the blizzard they were facing was so fierce even his wolfhound was starting to shiver.

 

He glanced over to Bobdr. His faithful companion stood guard, slowly patrolling the edge of camp, looking out into the snow beyond. The occasional ear twitch indicated nothing but the raging elements was out there.

 

For now at  least.

 

The old veteran turned his gaze towards the tents. Some of his group rested, others still worked well into the night. Brushing snow off his knees as he rose to his feet, Wrotek readied himself to get back to work.

 

Older I may be, but I will make sure everyone gets back home.