Chapter 1: The Council's Call

Going to reply specifically to @Synaptic.

As Kish moves up towards the assembled gear, his mother stops him with a gentle outstretched hand before he starts pawing at everything. "Kish," she says, her gaze like ice, "your words say one thing and your actions another. This is not the time for vain mockery. Myrefall burns, and we stand on the edge of darkness. You're better than that."

Yenna's eyes narrow slightly as she processes the Bard's words. She seems to be choosing her words carefully. "A Leshen," she says slowly, as if testing the word. "That would explain much; the animal behavior, the strange attacks..." Her voice trails off as she looks to Thorgrim, her gaze briefly flickering to the empty chair at the council table, where Kethra's father, Aldric, should be sitting.

Thorgrim's shoulders tense visibly as he continues, "they're said to have power over the forest itself. The wolves, the plants, even the very air is said to answer their call."

Yenna's voice takes on a new urgency. "If it's truly a Leshen, then Myrefall is in greater danger than we thought. The forest itself may turn against them." She looks to Thorgrim again, and there's a silent understanding between them. The air in the longhouse seems to grow colder, despite the roaring hearth.

Thorgrim's hand hasn't left his sword hilt. "Aye, and Ormskirk might not be far behind."

Yenna shakes her head slightly, as if she is having trouble processing the gravity of the situation. She focuses her attention on Leta, "you have seen it? Where? When?"

Thorgrim steps forward, his stout dwarven frame in direct contrast to Johan’s slender height. Yet his presence presses into the room like a sharpened blade. He rests a calloused hand on the young man’s bicep.

"You brought it to me first, lad," Thorgrim says, voice low and rough. He looks down, throat working as he swallows hard. This is not a man used to apologizing. "I was a fool to brush you off."

A hush falls. The crackle of the hearth is suddenly too loud.

"If it truly is a Leshen," he continues—each word deliberate—"then I owe you more than an apology."

Yenna’s rigid posture eases as she steps forward and lays a warm hand on Kish’s forearm. "You speak wisely, my son. I was too quick to doubt you—thank you for reminding me." She draws back and reaches into the chest.

She holds aloft the lantern. "This is the Winterlight Lantern. Its glow keeps the air above freezing—a small mercy on the coldest nights." The Latern needed no introduction; all of you know of it, as it typically hangs in this very longhouse and has been in the village for as long as anyone can remember. She nestles it back in its furs and Thorgrim steps up, taking his turn at the chest.

He produces a dark smooth stone that is otherwise uninteresting in appearance, turning it in his rough palm. "The Tracker’s Stone. Swipe it in an ‘X’ across an item, and you’ll always know its direction—until dawn, at least."

Yenna draws out the horn last. "And this is the Scout’s Horn. In the howling north wind, only its call carries—up to three hundred feet—and only those you choose will hear it. Three uses, three lifelines."

She places the three tools on the map-studded table. "These are more than gifts," she says, voice soft but firm. "They are our trust—our hope. Go, and use them well. Make us proud—and come home safe."

Thorgrim lets out a gravelly chuckle. "Remember, you carry not just our tools, but the spirit of Ormskirk with you." He lifts a horn-rimmed mug from the table, then lowers it. "Myrefall awaits. We, and the entire village, stand with you."

The fire crackles, shadows dancing on the council walls, and the wind beyond the doors howls like a warning.