Tancred's Journal Entry: Guide to Aevos Norland

[ImmortalShadowZ 1306]

 

Spoiler

Two options of Music, Vinland Saga music and Doctor Who music… Because it’s what I watched when making the build for a full year.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IMfFexFlVR4
or

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y9BHR31BGMo
Enjoy the read. 

 

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[A heavily detailed map of Norland, crafted years before the reconstruction of the land]

Sólgaard’s necessary journal of geographical documentation within Norland's expansion and territorial lands was marked through the experience and understanding of a Norn hunter who, for the sake of his companions, took it upon himself to explore the landscape that has brought them as a landholding.

 

 

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• The Peatlands
• Ashveil Wilds
• Torridon Path
• Alisas Anstiz
• Father’s Froth
• Mölströnd Cave
• The Crimson Grove
• The Runestones
• Kaer Toreador
• Vjardengrad
• Thanes Road
• The Fallen Fjord Path
• The Great Hearth of Sólgaard

 

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The peatlands — a bog that stretches like a wound upon the earth, sinking under the weight of time. It is no ordinary place of marsh and moss but a taiga bog, vast and ancient, as though the land was dying slowly, drowning in its sorrow. The trees here are twisted, their trunks bowed as if bearing the grief of ages. They stand like mourners at a grave, their branches hanging low, draped with thick veils of moss that sway with the wind's bitter breath. I call them weeping trees, for the sap that seeps from their bark runs dark and slow as if they bleed for the land they root in.

 

The peat itself feels like the flesh of something long dead, cold and spongy. Every step sunk more deeply, and the water that bubbled up was foul, tainted with the rot of centuries. The air was thick with the stench of wet earth and dying things—no fresh pine, no crisp breath of the taiga’s evergreen life. Here, the land is sick and poisoned, as though some curse clings to the very soil. There is no song of birds, no howl of wolves to break the silence. Only the occasional creak of those weeping trees, as if the wind struggles to pass through this forsaken place. The black and still water pools between the trees, reflecting a sky that seems forever overcast, a pale sun hidden behind a veil of clouds, too weak to chase away the shadows.

 

At the heart of the bog, the land grows worse still—patches of earth floating on the water, dead and yellowed, like the bones of some long-forgotten giant. No man could make a home here. Even the beasts of the wild avoid these parts. They know what I now know—this land is not for the living. I felt it as I walked. The further I went, the thicker and colder the air became. This place is said to mark the entrance to Norland.

 

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The Ashveil Wilds — a forest steeped in eternal twilight, where trees grow like the very bones of the earth, twisted and gnarled under the weight of time. These are not the proud giants of healthy woods, but skeletal sentinels, their bark cracked and lifeless, their branches reaching upward like fingers seeking salvation that will never come.

A thick mist blankets the land, wrapping around every tree, obscuring the path ahead. The ground beneath is soft, thick with decay, each step sinking deeper into the damp earth. As air carries a sour, earthy scent, heavy with rot, surrounding the trees, which are cloaked in mosses that sway like tattered cloaks in the ghostly breeze, while an oppressive silence reigns. Not many birds sing, nor is there much  rustle of animals stirring the underbrush—only an eerie stillness.

The deeper one travels, the colder the air becomes, thick with an unnatural chill. The mist clings to the skin, biting with a chill that is not of nature. The trees here are more twisted, reaching for forgotten secrets buried beneath the earth. Stagnant pools of black water reflect a sky that is forever grey, the sun’s feeble attempts to break through swallowed by the gloom.

There are no sounds, no signs of life. Only the sound of your own breath, harsh and quick. The Ashveil Wilds are a place for the dead, a realm where the living pass through but never stay. As I stand at its heart, I know what the ancients have whispered—this place is not meant for those who still walk in the light.

 

 

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The Torridon Path, also known by the locals as the Place of Transference, is a cursed stretch of road that defies the natural order. It winds along the riverbanks, twisting through the dense forest, and though it may appear unremarkable at first glance, few who enter come out unchanged. The path is notorious for its strange, supernatural affliction—those who travel it find themselves caught in an endless loop. No matter how far you walk, you end up where you began, repeatedly revisiting the same twisted trees, the same bend in the river.

The very nature surrounding the path has corrupted it, warping time and space so that it seems eternal. Travellers often speak of a strange fog that clings to the trees, making the air thick and heavy, while the distant sound of the river never seems to grow closer or fade away. The path twists deceptively, creating the illusion of progress, but it is merely a trick. Minutes, hours, even days can pass, yet you’ll find yourself in the same place as if the land refuses to let you go.

Legends speak of an ancient magic that runs through this land, a force older than the river and trees. Some say the path is a prison for lost souls, cursed to wander endlessly. Others believe it is the will of the forest itself, a defence against those who seek to pass through. Whatever the cause, few dare to tread Torridon Path for long. The feeling trapped within its looping embrace drives even the strongest minds to madness as reality warps around you, and the way forward dissolves into the mist.

Those who escape the path speak of an overwhelming relief, as though they’ve passed through a veil separating two worlds—the living and the lost. But they always leave with a lingering feeling that part of them remains behind, forever walking the path they thought they had left.

 

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Alisas Anstiz, or “Alisa’s Favour”, once a temple now crumbling into ruin, lies deep within a grove of red maple trees. Its ancient stones are shrouded in fiery autumn leaves that cling to the broken walls, a place of haunting beauty and quiet reverence. The site, long sought out as a sacred ground for marriage rituals, is dedicated to Alisa, "The Matriarch" of the Camian people, whose legend speaks of love, sacrifice, and the strength of family. It is said that couples who wed here under the scarlet canopy are blessed with unshakable bonds—if they survive the night.

 

But beneath the romantic veneer lies a darker history. Evidence suggests the temple was once a Svarling graveyard, a place of the dead before it was claimed by the Norlanders and repurposed to honour their Matriarch. The foundation's whisper of ancient rituals was far older than love, where bones were laid to rest in the cold earth, and the dead walked in the shadow of the maple trees. Some of the stone carvings that remain bear symbols that are too worn to decipher, yet they seem older than the temple itself, marking this place as cursed long before it became a shrine to union.

 

A chill lingers here, something unnatural in the air, as though the past refuses to lie quiet. Couples who come to wed sometimes speak of strange sightings—pale figures in the distance or a cold hand brushing against them where none should be. Locals warn that the spirits of the dead are still tethered to this land, reluctant to let go of what was once theirs. The red maples, beautiful as they are, seem to drink in more than sunlight, their roots tangling deep into the bones of a forgotten age. Though the ruins now stand as a place of love and binding vows, the temple carries the weight of the living and the dead. And in these woods, it’s never quite sure which one answers when called.

 

 

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Fadurz Fruþǭ, or The Father’s Froth, is a river of legend and lifeblood, winding through Norland’s most storied lands. Known for the frothing whitecaps that churn where its waters rage against the stone, the river holds more than just natural power—it symbolises the region's ceaseless struggles. One of the most famous tales that unfolds around its banks is the War of Beaver and Otter, a battle that embodies the primal forces of domination. According to the myth, both sides laid claim to the streams that feed into the waterfall at the river’s heart, and their relentless fight for control was as endless as the river itself, reflecting the warlike nature of those who settled along its shores.

 

In practical terms, Fadurz Fruþǭ is a crucial defensive moat for Vjardengrad. The river encircles the fortress city, its fast-moving waters offering protection from would-be invaders. Any army attempting to breach Vjardengrad’s walls must first contend with the swift currents of Father’s Froth, a natural barrier that has turned the tide of more than one siege. Yet, while the river protects the city, it carries a far darker fate downstream. Beyond Vjardengrad, Fadurz Fruþǭ cuts its way through the Peatlands, where the land sickens and drowns beneath the weight of decay. The river’s once-clear waters grow darker here, tainted by the bog’s rot and stagnation. It is said that the river, much like the land it runs through, is cursed, touched by some ancient sorrow. As it flows more profoundly into the Peatlands, the river becomes more than just a lifeline—it becomes a harbinger of death, bearing the weight of history and the struggles of those who have fought and died along its banks. 

 

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Mölströnd Cave, named after the gravel-strewn shoreline it looms above, is a relic of Norland's once-thriving quarry trade. Carved into the cliffs, its jagged maw swallows the light, leading down into a network of dark tunnels that once provided rich stone to the region. Now, it lies forgotten chiefly, forsaken by miners who found its riches not worth the increasing risk. Unstable air pockets, deep within the rock, have rendered the cave perilous—prone to sudden, unpredictable cave-ins that have claimed more than one life over the years. Those who venture too deep seldom return, and those who do often speak of it in hushed tones.

 

The local spelunkers, driven by curiosity or madness, tell tales of more than treacherous stone. Whispers of giant spiders weaving webs in the deepest chambers and more sinister creatures lurking in the shadowed tunnels have given rise to unsettling folklore. Some claim that the cave’s bowels are cursed and that something malignant stirs in the blackest reaches where no light has ever touched. Whether these are mere stories to keep fools away or warnings rooted in truth is uncertain. What is certain, however, is the silence that clings to Mölströnd's depths—a silence that feels thick, unnatural, as though the very cave is holding its breath, waiting.

 

It is a place of old echoes and new dangers. Those foolish enough to enter at their peril the wise passing by or in parts of the main capital can hear prolonged echoes of them. 

 

Though the cave still calls to me, its mysteries untouched, it is one of those places best left in peace, lest it reveal secrets darker than the world is prepared to face. I’ll tread cautiously around its edges, though I know my path will eventually lead me into its heart.

 

 

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The Crimson Grove is no natural forest but one hand-grown by the Norlanders with a purpose. It is a deliberate expanse of maple trees planted with a dual purpose: to harvest their sweet syrup and to serve as an icon of the Father’s power. The Grove stretches alongside one section of the river, and the red-leaved trees create a vivid, fiery contrast against the endless snow of Norland. They mark the land with more than just their presence—they mark the faith of the people who dwell here.

 

At first glance, it seems practical, a farming place, but I sense a deeper meaning. The red leaves, striking and unmistakable, feel more than just a natural feature of the landscape. Perhaps they are metaphors for the influence of the Father, whose teachings shape the lives of Norland’s people. Like fire, the trees burn brightly against the white landscape—symbols of protection and power, much like the revered Ashwood, though these maples stand as lesser cousins to the sacred tree. Their purpose, it seems, extends beyond harvest. They are living emblems of the Father’s watchful presence over Norland, perhaps even representations of the Paragons themselves, whose spirit is said to protect Vjardengrad from the wilds beyond.

 

The red leaves serve as a beacon for those returning home. From a distance, a traveller would spot the crimson canopy and know they are nearing safety, the trees marking their passage toward the city. The colour red, rich in symbolism, reflects blood, sacrifice, and courage—vital elements of Norlandic identity. Their dark wood and crimson leaves mirror the colours of the Norlandic flag itself: red for courage and sacrifice, black for resilience and strength. Like the people who planted them, the trees are deeply rooted in the land; though the grove lacks the profound sacredness of the Ashwood, it stands as a testament to the strength of Norland's faith, bloodlines, and the All-Father’s eternal flame. 

 

 

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The runestones—silent, mysterious sentinels—dot the landscape of Norland, holding near-forgotten memories which have been immortalised as stone carvings. These towering monoliths, etched with intricate markings, have been raised for various reasons over the centuries: to mark territories, commemorate significant events, or pay tribute to the Father and his Paragons. Each stone tells a story; though some have been weathered by time, their meaning is lost to the ages, while others remain stark and clear, a testament to the enduring faith and tradition of the people.

Most of the runestones scattered throughout the land were erected in more recent times, the work of local artisans and citizens who sought to honour the old ways. Yet, some of these stones predate even the arrival of the Norlanders, their origins shrouded in mystery. These ancient stones bear symbols and runes that no one alive today can fully decipher—marks from before written history. They seem almost otherworldly, relics of a forgotten age, perhaps even erected by civilisations long since turned to dust.

The stones radiate a strange energy, an aura that can be felt by those sensitive to such things. Some believe they are imbued with protective power, while others whisper of darker forces that cling to the oldest among them. Travellers and locals revere these stones, leaving offerings or bowing their heads as they pass, for no one can be sure what forces still linger within them. Whether they were raised in honour of gods or to mark the edges of forgotten empires, the runestones remind them that the land holds secrets far older than any living soul.

 

 

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I write now of Kaer Toreador, as I was told by my kin and hunters who have walked the cold woods near its cursed stones. This is no tale for the faint-hearted, for it speaks of giants, ruin, and the wild’s relentless claim on what men once thought theirs. The story was given to me, so I set it here so you may know it too and remember the fate of those who consider themselves masters of the land.”

 

Long ago, they say, Kaer Toreador stood high on the mountain, a fortress of stone that could see for leagues in every direction. It was a mighty stronghold, its lords looking down over the farmland below, where crops still grow today, even in the shadow of that place. The thick and ancient taiga stretched on all sides, a wild sea of pines and firs shrouding the land, but the castle stood firm against it—so it seemed.

 

Yet no wall, no tower, can stand against the giants' will. From the far north, they came, born of the cold and the fury of the high mountains, their wrath as old as the land itself. They came in the night, great shapes darkening the sky, and laid waste to Kaer Toreador. Stone walls that had withstood armies crumbled beneath their blows. The castle fell not by the hands of men but by the giants’ fists, and in a single night, the proud towers of Kaer Toreador were brought low. The screams of the fallen were said to echo through the valley for days, though by morning, none were left alive to hear them.

 

Time passed, and the ruins lay quiet. Slow but unrelenting, the woodland began to creep up the mountain. Pines and firs twisted their roots through the shattered stone, and vines crawled over the fallen battlements. The forest swallowed the ruins as if the earth sought to hide the shame of the giants’ wrath.

 

But men are always drawn to places of power, even ruined ones. Bandits came in the years after, taking the castle as their own, thinking it a place of strength—hidden in the wild, out of reach. From there, they sacked the farmers below, raiding the fields and stealing from those still working the land in the mountain's shadow. The bandits made their lair in the ruins for a time, thinking themselves safe from both men and the gods.

 

But their fate was sealed, as it always is for men who seek to claim what belongs to the wild. A band of warriors, fierce and silent, came for them one night. Some say it was hunters from the village, and others whisper it was the spirits of the dead castle folk seeking vengeance. The bandits were slain, their blood soaking into the cold ground, and their bones left to join the stones of the ruin. None dare claim Kaer Toreador now, for the wild holds it in its grip.

 

And so, Kaer Toreador stands on the mountain, its bones cradled by the forest. Though still tended by those brave enough, the farmland below lives in the shadow of the castle's curse. The taiga grows thick around it, tightening its hold year after year. And the wind that howls through the broken walls of the ruin carries the whispers of giants, bandits, and the ruin of men.

 

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Vjardengrad rises like a fortress of stone from the waters of Father’s Froth, its walls towering and unyielding. Encircled by the endless green of the Ashveil Wilds, the city stands as a sentinel on the edge of the untamed, its silhouette etched against the northern sky.

 

The streets are narrow and winding, flanked by buildings of timber and stone, their Blackstone roofs dark as storm clouds. Spires and battlements pierce the skyline, their edges sharp and proud. Everything here feels built to endure, from the sturdy bridges that span the river to the fortified gates that guard its borders.

 

At the city’s heart stands the Ashwood tree, its fiery branches reaching skyward, flickering with an eternal blaze that defies the laws of nature. Around it, perched on the upper tier of the city, is a quiet birch grove. The grove’s pale trunks gleam in the filtered light, standing in serene contrast to the fiery brilliance below. Beneath the Ashwood tree lies the Temple of the Divine Manifestation, an underground sanctuary where the High Keeper guides the faithful and commands the city’s affairs. The air here feels heavy with reverence, the carvings on the temple walls whispering of ancient tales and divine purpose.

 

The marketplace hums with life. Merchants peddle their wares beneath colorful awnings, the aroma of spiced meats and fresh bread mingling with the tang of river mist. At the heart of it all is the Golden Lyre, a tavern renowned for its warmth and lively spirit. Its walls echo with the laughter of hunters, sailors, and traders, all swapping tales over mugs of frothy ale.

 

Yet, even amid the bustle, there is a weight to Vjardengrad—a sense of age and resilience. The river flows relentlessly beneath its bridges, its dark waters mirroring the city’s resolve. This is no mere settlement; it is a symbol of Norland’s strength, its culture etched into every stone and rooted in the flames of the Ashwood tree.

 

To walk its streets is to feel the pulse of the North. Vjardengrad is not simply a city. It is defiance made manifest, a haven in the wilds, and a home to those who bear the spirit of unyielding will.

 

 

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Thanes Road - a grim path winding northward from the Torridan pass, the only route into Solgaard from the southern reaches. The road skirts the source of the river Fadurz Fruþǭ, its dark waters flowing silently alongside. What strikes the traveller first is the oppressive canopy of trees that looms overhead, their branches twisting and gnarled, locking out the sky. The light that does filter through comes in pale, sickly shafts, casting long shadows that seem to shift with each step. 

 

The woods that border the road are alive with sound, though none of it is comforting. The creaking of old wood, the rustle of unseen creatures, and the occasional distant snap of a branch create an eerie backdrop for the journey. The air feels heavy and thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. It is a place where the world feels older, where the weight of time presses down upon the land, leaving the traveller with the sense that they are being watched, though no eyes can be seen.

 

Few dare to linger long on Thanes Road. The villagers speak of strange sightings—figures glimpsed between the trees, moving just at the edge of vision, and unnatural shapes flitting through the mist that often rises from the river at dusk. Some claim the woods themselves are cursed, that the ancient spirits of the land still walk these grounds, their presence felt in every whisper of wind. Whether these tales hold truth or are born from the fear this place inspires, I cannot yet say. But there is a darkness here, old and patient, waiting in the shadows beyond the road’s edge. 

 

The road is narrow, and its dangers are not all the world’s making. Travellers here do well to walk swiftly, for Thanes Road is where the unwary disappear, swallowed by the woods and never seen again. A place where the boundaries between the living and the dead feel thin, and the shadows themselves seem hungry.

 

 

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Fallen Fjord Path, the northwest entrance into Norland, winds along the edge of a steep mountain cliff, overlooking a vast grassy fjord below. The path is narrow and treacherous, with jagged rocks protruding from its uneven surface; whilst wind is ever-present, carrying a chilling howl as it rushes through the ravine, while the echo of distant waterfalls adds a haunting rhythm to the journey. Despite its dangers, the path offers a breathtaking view of the fjord's rolling greenery and glistening waters far below, a stark contrast to the rugged cliffs above.

Legends surround the Fallen Fjord Path, suggesting ancient hands carved it to guide travellers towards the coast. The cliff face is said to whisper to those brave enough to listen, carrying the voices of long-lost wanderers who never reached their destination. The fjord below, tranquil as it seems, is rumoured to be home to restless spirits, drawn to its reflective waters that mimic the sky’s endless expanse. For those who traverse the path, it is both a test of endurance and a pilgrimage through Norland’s natural splendour.

Many who walk the Fallen Fjord Path speak of its duality—beauty and peril, history and mystery. The path leads to Sólgaard’s ferry, a vital crossing that connects Norland’s northern wilds to its heartland. The journey, though fraught with danger, is a rite of passage for those seeking to know the land’s spirit, where the elements rule unyielding and the echoes of the past linger in every gust of wind.

 

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I write of my home, Sólgaard—where my bloodline was born and where it shall end. There is no land like it in the entire north, and few who have seen it ever forget its fierce beauty. Deep within the Bay of Seals, where the winds howl, and the sea thrashes against the cliffs, Sólgaard stands, proud and unyielding, just like its people—the Norn Vikings.

 

Our village is nestled against the rugged coast, sheltered by the high cliffs that rise from the sea, battered by the eternal storm that never seems to leave these shores. Sólgaard is a place shaped by the wildness of the land and the sea. The waves crash against the rocks below, but we, the Norn, stand tall. We are seafarers and warriors, taught from birth to honour our ancestors and the High Keeper, who guides us in faith and war. Our people are bound by tradition, by the sea, and by the blood we shed to protect what is ours.

 

Sólgaard was once even grander than it is today, though now it bears the scars of a time when the gods turned their gaze elsewhere. Once a mighty fortress overlooking the bay, the castle is now wounded. Once tall enough to scrape the sky, the sea has claimed one of its great towers as though dragged down by the spirits that dwell in the depths. The rocks around it have crumbled, leaving only jagged ruins. No one knows what caused its fall—whether it was the anger of the gods or the work of some unseen enemy, but its loss is a mystery that haunts us still.

 

Off the coast of our village, an island stirs unease in all who gaze upon it. Shaped like the remains of some great sea monster slain long ago, its fossilised bones are still pierced by the trunk of a tree that grows from its heart. Once, the tree stood tall, a strange and terrible sight, but it was felled—chopped down by our people to create the Holmgang bridge, now stained with the blood of those who settled their disputes through the ancient duel. When a man’s honour is questioned, it is on that bridge, with the sea roaring beneath, that the matter is decided.

 

The heart of our village is the thegn hall, where our people gather to feast, to speak of war, and to honour the High Keeper. At its centre sits a boulder as large as a bear, with a stone arch reaching the mainland. The rock has stood there for as long as anyone remembers, a symbol of the strength and endurance of Sólgaard itself. Though the winds beat at it, the sea gnashes at its edges, it remains, just as we remain. Surrounding Sólgaard is a vast woodland that stretches across the land, a thick forest of pine and fir that whispers with the voice of the old gods. The trees grow strong and tall, and it is from this woodland that we gather what we need to build our ships and our homes. A lumber mill stands close to the village, where the wood is harvested and prepared, the lifeblood of our settlement. The forest may seem dark and endless to those who do not know it, but to us, it is a part of who we are.

 

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This project has been one that started with a quality of life upgrade towards Tile 6 acknowledged now as Sólgaard, but many months afterwards followed the terrain revamp of the Norland tiles as I wanted the land to fit a narrative immersion of a blended landscape that worked alongside core Roleplay locations/aspects, and also provide a much clearer vision to what LOTC environments could be.

The build project lasted from January of Last year to Early February this year and to establish what I wanted with this landscape: there was a fair quality of IRL pictures of rural Wales, England and Scotland used, followed by video game and fantasy Artwork aesthetics implied to make established shots. For most of the referencing, the terrain follows a narrative video of the Skellige landscape from the Witcher 3 to visualise a proper northern landscape with a heavy fantasy medieval vibe to it. The main predominant video can be found below with the referencing links in case anyone wishes to view or experience the landscape of Skellige from the Witcher 3, which is a powerful emotional game.

Big thanks sent towards TheNamesMCQ for supporting me with the long, lengthy (sometimes rambling) discussions about Viking and Pagan history and metaphoric symbolism. Many reading this will not know the dedication towards the heavy-world building and the translation work for the scattered runestones that are in-game for you to find and explore that the Names have helped craft. Also to Elrith who didn’t care that I basically destroyed Norland, crashed his build server a few times and now cost him fortunes for my terrain. Now excuse me as I go to sit on a hill and watch the sun set fall over Norland.

All Screenshots of the build were captured by myself with low-quality BSL Shaders for 1.21.1

Font Generator - https://www.fontspace.com/norse-font-f21080
Warrior Image  - https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/610519293265630114/ 

Skellige walk - https://youtu.be/0LkJBvocY10?t=11 

 

[_Elrith_ 4525]

The High Keeper documents the Journal of Tancred within the Hearth Temple's library.

[Wavey 2568]

“Careful on Thanes Road.” 
 

“Hmm?” The Cardinal’s head craned upwards for the moment to meet the innkeeper’s eyes whilst the man spoke. His rugged fingers rested upon the open book to ensure he did not get lost in his reading. 
 

“I said, careful on Thanes Road.” The innkeeper’s lips curled into a light smile as he said those words. The bearded man’s lips were slightly cracked whilst his teeth were a slight shade of a daffodil’s yellow. 
 

“I noticed you are reading about our lands here.” The man set the warm bowl of salmon head soup and the complementing wooden cup of black tea down upon the counter before the Cardinal. 
 

The Cardinal’s stoic gaze did not falter. Rather, his lone cobalt eye returned its attention to the written tome; his finger rested upon the chapter regarding Sólgaard. 
 

“Da. Your lands intrigue me.” 
 

He took hold of the wooden spoon, using it to help himself with a taste of the Norn dish. 

 

“Intrigue you?” The innkeeper echoed those words as he raised a brow towards the Cardinal. He noticed the ivory and aurum rosary wreathed around the holy man’s neck, right above his armor. 
 

“Are you one of those grailmen from the heartlands?” 
 

The question prompted a snort from the Cardinal. He set his spoon down before reaching for the wooden cup of the piping hot tea which he then took a sip from. He held the tea cup in his hand; his gaze returning from the tome to the inkeeper. 
 

“Tell me…have you heard of Sólgaard?” 
 

Now it was the innkeeper’s turn to laugh. As he did so, another patron who sat two stools away from the Cardinal turned his head towards the innkeeper and the holy man in confusion. 

 

“My friend. Who has not heard of Sólgaard? The Norns who originate from the hearths of that village have all made names for themselves.” 
 

The Cardinal did not react to the laugh, nor to the answer. He remained silent, his curious gaze still focused upon the innkeeper. Another singular moment passed before he then spoke. 
 

“Where is it?” 
 

The amused look of the innkeeper then changed to that of confusion. He was taken aback by the Cardinal’s straightforward questions. Nevertheless, he answered for he was oath bound as a host to the travelers and the tired. 
 

“If you travel east through Thanes Road you may find it, nestled by the rugged mountains and accompanied by the temperate coast.” 
 

Satisfied, the Cardinal took a more generous swig of the cup of tea until he finished its contents. He ignored the burning rush of the heat as it travelled down his throat.

 

”Thank you.” That was all he said as he set the wooden cup down before getting up from his seat. 
 

“If I may ask…” the Innkeeper would say whilst the Cardinal now arose, “Why do you wish to go there?” 
 

The Cardinal did not speak. He merely brought his hand to his satchel before producing a large handful of minae. He did not count them either; rather, he merely pressed them all in unison upon the counter. 
 

“A brother of mine once told me-” He began, “That the Light’s path is never-ending, but it requires the strength of many to overcome the challenges before us.”

 

He took hold of his right gauntlet, carefully equipping them to his right hand. 
 

“I wish to see what fire he saw in the souls of those that come from Sólgaard.”

He did the same action now with his left gauntlet upon his left hand. 

 

“For if I am to shepherd my flock down the path he set before us…I must learn what it means to share the same ideals that transcend faith.” 
 

He picked up his plated helmet from the counter before dipping his head. 

 

“Thank you, friend. Light Preserve.” 
 

The Cardinal now turned about, his plated boots clinked against the wooden floorboards whilst he walked away. 

 

The innkeeper pondered the holy man’s words. Yet, it was the farewell from the Cardinal that brought a smile to his lips. 

 

“And prevail.” 
 

The Cardinal stopped before the front door of the inn as he heard those words. His stoic gaze finally faltered as a smile formed upon his lips. For he now understood. Regardless of faith, their goal was the same.  
 

He opened the door now as he disappeared out to the unknown of the eastern tundra. 
 

“You gave him the wrong direction. He does not need to go through Thanes Road to reach Sólgaard.” 
 

The voice came from the very same patron who had watched the exchange between the now gone Cardinal and the innkeeper. 
 

The innkeeper merely turned towards the patron as he raised his shoulders in a shrug. 
 

“Let us see if he means what he says. The All Father knows best.” 
 

And with that, his gaze returned towards the front door again. Where the Cardinal had departed from not so long before. 

 

[Frisket 4538]

Spoiler

I love it

 

[Monty Cobra 921]

As Mons read through the poetic description of his homeland, his heart swelled with a fond familiarity. He thusly kept the journal to one day teach his infant son of the beauty of their shared birthplace.

[Maiyun 362]

I think I need to travel to see all these new locations ..