Chapter 1: The Council's Call

The Council's Call

Snow falls silently over Ormskirk, adding another layer to the already deep drifts that line the village streets. The setting sun paints the white landscape in shades of purple and gold, while smoke rises from dozens of chimneys, each plume a testament to the hearths keeping families warm against winter's bite. Along the frozen Criss, fishing boats lie dormant, their hulls wrapped in protective canvas, waiting for spring's thaw.

Through this winter twilight, six figures make their separate ways toward the council's longhouse. Each received the same message, delivered by grim-faced guards: "The council requires your presence. Now." Such a summons is rare enough to set tongues wagging, but in these troubled times, with one council seat standing empty for three weeks, it carries an even heavier weight.

The longhouse rises before them, its peaked roof crowned with snow, warm light spilling from its windows. The great hall within holds centuries of Ormskirk's history in its timber bones and smoke-darkened beams. At its heart, a massive hearth pushes back the winter's chill, while ancient banners hang between the roof beams – the crowned wave of Valkur, the peaceful pool of Eldath, and the crystalline snowflake of the Frostwell Clan.

At the head of the hall sit the remaining council members, their presence commanding attention even before they speak. Yenna Frostwell, Kish's mother, is resplendent in her position as both council member and matriarch of the Frostwell Clan, cuts an imposing figure. Her white dragonborn scales catch the firelight like freshly fallen snow, and the crystal atop her ceremonial staff pulses with a cold blue light that seems to match her heartbeat. Her bearing speaks of diplomatic grace, but there's a warrior's strength in how she holds herself, and her eyes hold the wisdom of one who has guided her clan through many winters.

To her right sits Thorgrim Steelbeard, the dwarven guard captain who seems to wear the weight of Ormskirk's security in the set of his broad shoulders. Despite the late hour, he remains in his armor, the steel rings braided into his white beard catching the firelight as he shifts in his seat. His weathered hands rest on the pommel of his sword – not a threat, but a reminder of his readiness to defend the village. The scars on his armor and the calculating look in his eyes speak of battles won through both strength and strategy.

Between them, Aldric Frostwind's empty chair stands as a stark reminder of recent troubles. The progressive councilman's absence has left more than just an empty seat – it's created a vacuum of uncertainty that seems to draw all eyes, a physical representation of the unease that has settled over Ormskirk like the winter snow.

The serving girls make their final rounds, ensuring cups are full of mulled wine before quietly withdrawing. The crackle of the great hearth fills the silence until Thorgrim straightens, his voice carrying the weight of steel:

"Thank you for coming. We wouldn't have called you here if the matter weren't urgent."

Yenna's voice follows, cool and measured like the first breath of winter: "Indeed. We face a threat that requires... particular talents. Talents that each of you possess."

In this moment, as the summoned individuals stand before the council, the weight of winter and worry hanging heavy in the air, one thing becomes crystal clear:

Everything is about to change.

Thorgrim reaches into a pouch at his belt, withdrawing a smooth, dark stone marked with angular runes. The guard captain's expression grows even grimmer as he places it on the table before him. You all recognize this as a Sending Stone and you all know that each of the villages in the area have one.

"An hour ago, this stone carried a message from Myrefall." His weathered fingers traced the runes. "What we heard..." He pauses, jaw clenching. "Yenna, perhaps you should. Your voice is steadier than mine."

Yenna Frostwell rises, her white scales catching the firelight as she moved to stand before the gathered heroes. The sword at her hip gleams with a sheen, its craftmanship evident and a reminder that the Frostwell matriarch earned her position through both leadership and martial prowess.

"The message came in fragments," she began, her voice carrying the chill of a winter wind. "Screaming first. Then Elder Margot's voice: 'They came through the storm - like wolves but walking as men - taking people, killing others - need help - they're breaking through the-'" She paused, letting the words hang in the air. "Then silence."

Thorgrim stood, his armor creaking in the tense quiet. "The storm between here and Myrefall has grown worse, unnatural in its fury." His hand rested on his sword hilt. "We need eyes there. Now. But I cannot send the guard - not with the storm growing stronger and our own defenses needing bolstering against whatever this threat is."

"Which is why we called you," Yenna continued, her gaze moving from face to face. "Each of you brings skills we need. You've all proven yourselves in different ways - some through steel, others through wisdom or healing." Her expression hardened. "And you understand what winter can hide."

Thorgrim looked out over the gathered party, pointing at a crude map on the table in front of him. "As you all know, Myrefall lies a day's journey away, through the Wilds," he pauses before continuing, "but that is in good weather." His finger traced the route. "In this storm... longer."

"We're not sending you blind," Yenna added, moving to a chest near her council seat. "We've gathered supplies, and some items that might aid your journey. But time is critical. Whatever struck Myrefall..." She looked to the empty chair, her voice hardening. "We've lost too many already to the winter's dangers. We cannot lose an entire village and we must provide what aid we can."

The fire crackled in the hearth, and outside, the wind howled with renewed fury, as if in challenge to the task being set before them.

"Will you go?" Thorgrim asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer. "Will you be our eyes, our hands, and if necessary, our sword arm in Myrefall?"

Odin Borrson stands at the back of the great hall, shadows flickering against the walls as the firelight dances. The weight of the council's summons hangs heavy in the air, and he senses the urgency in the room. Taking a moment to gather his thoughts, he steps forward, his half-elven features illuminated by the warm glow.

"Council members, fellow villagers," he begins, his voice steady but tinged with the chill of winter. "I have heard your call, and I understand the gravity of our situation. The message from Myrefall sends chills down my spine—unnatural storms and creatures that walk like men? This is a darkness that must be confronted."

He glances at the empty chair, a reminder of Aldric Frostwind, and his expression hardens. "We cannot let fear dictate our actions. I stand with you, ready to lend my abilities. If there is a threat that needs facing, then I will not shy away from it."

Odin pauses, looking around at the assembled heroes. "Together, we will uncover the truth behind this darkness. I will ensure that we bring light where there is only shadow."

He raises a hand, a flicker of energy sparking at his fingertips. "Let us prepare for the journey ahead. We will not let Myrefall fall to despair."

With resolve, he steps back, ready to follow wherever the council leads them.

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.

As Leta is shifting through the healing potions, they notice that there are exactly one for each of you. Thorgrim bites his lip before saying, "we can't give you everything we have, but we can spare a potion each. You're our lifeblood out there."

Kethra will take one healing potion, if anyone needs her to carry an extra one just let me know please.

@WanderOne