Session 1: Fools before the Tower (Ending Jan 12)

The people of Kallbacken shuddered when they saw plumes of black smoke above the forest, coming from the horizon to the east. As Alva advised caution, no scouts ventured along the coast, or into the woods. Throughout the day, everyone was gathered, and no hunting parties set out. The village's largest building, the Shrinehouse, was the source of much gossip, as gathered voices discussed what was to come. Was this a sign of someone else's trouble, or was Kallbacken soon to be threatened by the shadowy menace people had heard so much about?

Just as the sky was beginning to turn crimson, and the familiar twilight calls came from the forest, those who had remained ready outside the perimeter ran into the Shrinehouse, loudly announcing to all in the stone-reinforced longhouse that a small party of messengers were arriving. Those in the Shrinehouse left, and as they walked towards the Eastern entrance, they were joined by the rest of the village.

The village is protected on the south by the sea, and on the west by the river Kall. A long wooden palisade runs from river to sea in an arc, easy passage only available at the entrance, or along the coast at low tide. It is at this entrance that a band of warriors presented themselves, brandishing a large banner as they did so.

The five warriors walked up to the village, each dressed in padded jackets thick enough to beat the coming Winter's cold and reinforced with small studs and loops of metal. Two carried spears and waited outside Kallbacken; the remaining three bore swords at their waists, and entered with their banner held high enough for all to see. The warriors' features were of similar descent to the citizens of Kallbacken, close enough that they may have come from the next village over, but their style of dress was more foreign. Instead of long, looped, belts and woodland colours, the interlopers wore thick, unembellished belts, and they were covered in cloaks of a yellow hem.

Their banner was far stranger. The standard stood over ten feet tall, and the banner was at least half that length. On it was no heraldric sign, but instead a detailed tapestry depicting an odd scene. A Tower of black stone, with a vertical, slitted eye at its zenith, which seemed to look back at anyone who saw it. Four people, in bedraggled rags, were depicted falling from the top of the tower, apparently frozen midair by the embroiderer's hand.As the three enter Kallbacken, they walk to the square. There, the town is gathered. Even Shadow, having seen the fires and worried for its village, was there to witness the spectacle. Here, their leader sticks the banner into the ground.

She pronounces, in a clear voice, "Hear me, people of this village. The Tower has cast its eye upon this land, and it thinks it good. Its will is that all here are spared. It is willing to be merciful in this. Its will is that all here worship it, and its brethren. It will not be denied in this. People of this village, I leave this, the Banner of the Tower. When we return, as the sun sets tomorrow, each and every one of you must bow before your new master. The Tower demands your worship. It will be merciful in this. If any of you refuse, they must be expelled from the village, or they will be put to the sword. Understand, you are at The Tower's mercy. Your village will fall if you do not worship. If you do, then you will be well treated. You will become one of us. Our blood, our sweat, and our souls will be the stone that builds the foundation of the new world. The new world will be ours."

With this, the three of them leave, taking pains not to fully turn their backs on the gathered crowd. The large banner stands still where it was placed. At the entrance, they are joined by their allies, and the group of strangers begins to walk back through the woods to the east.

As the villagefolk lose sight of the messengers, murmurs and whispers start to run through the crowd.

Vasil watches this delegation from the back of the crowd. 8 years in this village, and still an outsider, perhaps he should keep his opinions to himself. He makes Smalltalk with a few friends in town. The tension in the village is palpable.
Vasil returns to his cottage to relay the news to Oyvind, finding the old man bundled in cloaks, snoozing beside the embers of the forge.
I do not like ultimatums, Oyvind. Vasil muses while stoking the flames of the forge.
Oyvind nods wearily, in deep contemplation.
I will be urging caution at the town meeting. I do not trust these men. They seem the kind who would slaughter this village to a man. For that reason, we should take steps not to antagonize them. Not until we're ready.
The old man nods again, shuffling his bundled form away from the now raging forge, and settling in the corner of the workshop. He is slow in his old age, deliberate. As Vasil prepares the workshop, Oyvind begins to speak...

Taft stands near the edge of the crowd, with a group of fishermen and hunters who are good friends of his.

He listens in on the conversation but doesn't contribute more than a few thoughtful nods.

Confused and upset, he steps back a bit and stands in the darkness, looking at his people and feeling the disruption.

He sighs and looks upwards to the stars. It feels better, looking up there. He feels small, and humble, and he knows that his job is merely to listen.

Taft backs deeper into the shadow of the wall, then skulks along its edge, finding pleasure in the practice of being unseen. Of being an animal.

At the edge of the water, he carefully unwraps his footwear and enjoys the pressure of the barnacles against his calloused heels.

He climbs around the edge of the wall, then makes his way up to a nearby hummock of cranberries outside of the village. He nestles in for a moment, to ease his mind and listen to the waves.

...

Soon after, he hears a heavy breath and turns to see that Shadow, the Wolf, is standing at his side.

He says nothing, but feels a thrill that his mysterious companion is here.

He knows that there is nothing he can say. Shadow already knows what has passed.

It is Taft's job to listen. He will wait until Shadow speaks.

Eiríkr quietly waits along with the group of fishermen and hunters near Taft, his cloak pulled tightly around himself to keep warm in this gods-damned cold. He seems confused at first by the ultimatum, but if this Tower could protect the village, why wouldn't he worship it? After the crowd disperses, he goes to meet with some of the other men of the village at the barracks.

Shadow watches Taft from a short way away. Concealed in the leafy undergrowth, all that can be seen of the massive wolf is two yellow eyes, blinking in the foliage. "On his own," it thinks. "Should be more careful."

The wolf steps out of its hiding place, padding on silent feet up to Taft. "I saw," it growls softly. "This is bad, stinks of the Spirits. We need to know more." The wolf then raises its head, and lets out a strangle, almost whistling howl. A passing raven hears it, and echoes the call back. The wolf lowers its head, closing its eyes. "They will come soon. The Ayes. They can tell us more."

As Vasil begins to forge himself a new weapon, Oyvind rhythmically pumps the bellows with his foot, adding a strangely legato sound to the rhythm of hammer on steel. Luckily, Vasil had foreseen the need for weapons, and instead of beginning to forge down from a bar, he had most of a blade ready to work from.The crowd does not disperse. The ultimatum given, the whispers evolve into words, and quickly the village has disintegrated into pockets of loud discussion. Some of the villagesfolk are obviously willing to do anything they can to protect their village, and its spirits, including Freyr, who Eiríkr sees speaking to the other shrinetenders, and discussing what they can do, if anything, against such a seemingly powerful foe, one who can speak so boldly about killing an entire village.

The conversation seems endless, and it is clear that someone will have to bring everything to order. Eiríkr can see his mother, Alva, looking around for the support of Taft, who seems to have disappeared.

Vasil readies the smithy as best he can. Cleaning and tidying, preparing his best chance for success. It has been a long time since he has made a weapon of war. Seven years of horseshoes, nails and tools - the staples of a village blacksmith - left him feeling rusty. He still recalled his training, but it felt so long ago. Another time, another place.

With preparations done, there was ought to do but wait. Placing the thick black kettle near the forge, Vasil settles himself on the floor, already exhausted. His right leg aches, the dull throb that never quite leaves. He runs his calloused fingers along the series of craterous scars on his calf, and for a moment relives the memory. Shaking his head to purge the phantom, he focuses on a nearby sack of charcoal, describing it in detail to himself. Brown, hessian, bulging, black stained, fibrous...

Vasil lies in the warmth of the fire for a time, enjoying the short rest. He and Oyvind enjoy a mug of tea together, the leaves having been fermented in river clay, giving it a complex, earthy flavour. Vasil had needed to teach the process to Gami - wife of the forager who harvested the leaves from the forest's edge, as fermented tea was not customary to this part of the world, unlike Vasil's home. This, one of the few things he brought with him, brings great comfort.

Eventually, with a sigh, Vasil gets up from his spot by the furnace. It's time to go to whatever gathering or meeting has eventuated.
Vasil grabs Oyvind an extra coat for the cold. Oyvind scolds Vasil playfully for mothering him, his smile giving thanks. Finishing their tea, they open the door, the cold air an unpleasant contrast to the heat of the forge. Pulling their furs a little higher, Blacksmiths Vasil and Oyvind step into the night.

Knowing full well he has a full night of forging ahead of him, tonight will be a long night.

Taft crawls back into the shadow of the low pines as ravens start to gather. They are capricious and mysterious beings to the woodsman. He leaves food for them in his yard, and always leaves carrion behind for them after a hunt, out of respect and appreciation. They do not always return the gesture, and have tricked him more than once.

The salty air picks up from the East, as it does this time of night. The smell of smoke from a campfire carries towards him: The visiting humans are camping on The Ridge.

He smiles. It will be an uncomfortable night for them there, when the wind increases. But it is a good place to camp if they wanted to prevent the villagers from leaving. The Ridge lies twenty minutes East of Kallbacken, and extends from the ocean straight inland for a long ways.

The main trail from Kallbacken to the neighboring villages bisects the ridge. They will have camped on the trail. There are large boulders and the ridge is crowned by a long tor where they could defend themselves easily from high ground.

Taft could sneak up on them quite easily, and might even be able to lead a guerrila-style raid.

If the people of Kallbacken were willing.

He thinks about Alva. She is probably waiting for him.

He nods to Shadow, and points to the shoreline with his chin.

[I]You are always welcome in the town, dear friend.[/I]

..

Taft returns to the village and finds his place near Alva's side. He looks around the crowd for signs of his son.

"How are people taking it?"

He keeps silent about the location of the visitors' camp, for now.

A raven swoops down out of the sky, landing on a rock nearby. It caws in a mocking, almost laughing tone.

The fur on Shadow's hackles raises, and its ears lie flat against its head. "You," it growls. "Why?"

The raven preens itself, nonchalant. "I was nearby, chick-chaser," it caws.

"For the last time, I saved that hatchling from a spirit," Shadow growls. "I didn't mean to scare it."

"Uh huh. Sure," the raven responds. "What do you want? Make it quick, I have better things to do."

Shadow's fur settles, and it speaks in a series of growls. "The Tower. It's come here to my village. What is it? What does it want? Why does it threaten this place? Has it killed many others, like the humans have heard?" It growls again, this time more threateningly. "You'd better tell me the truth."

"They do not welcome change, but they fear destruction." Alva says, simply, as she is reassured by the presence of her beloved. "I do not know which way will end happiest, but I feel it would have grave consequences indeed were we to turn our backs on the spirits and worship this more vicious fledgling."

Looking at the villagers, who are outside the Shrinehouse as much as in it, it is clear that few of them are going to sleep well tonight. Bram, a drunkard and a braggart, seems to be blaming the townsfolk's troubles on being too kind to outsiders such as Vasil. Everyone else is far more preoccupied with the immediate problems: could Kallbacken surrender; if it did, would that save the village; if it did not, could they survive the repercussions.

To Taft, the answer is quite clear. Eiríkr and some of his friends, although not his husband, Freyr, are joined by a few hunters; they either believe the story the emissaries of The Tower have sold, or are too scared to stand up against it. The rest of the village is scared, and without a leader to safeguard them look like they might talk themselves into leaving before they are pushed, or even giving in completely. The only people who will hear nothing of bowing down to a spirit are the tenders of the Shrinehouse; Freyr and his functionaries, who view the proposed changes as anathema to their way of life. it is unclear where Oyvind and Vasil, who have just arrived together, find themselves on this continuum.The raven, Riverswift, unleashes a torrent of mocking caws "Our great feeder, eh? It has come to Kallbacken, has it? Well, I can tell you about what always happens to those who do nothing, and maybe what happens to those who fight back!"

Taft saunters up to some of his own friends and Eiríkr. These are the fellows who can be seen almost every morning at his home, taking Alva's tea and bread and filling up his living quarters with warmth and chatter before heading out to work for the day. These are also the men who take drink with Taft. He has hunted, fished and trapped with them for his whole life. He has build their houses with them; and they have built his. As it should be.

Taft nods and listens to them for a while. He is surprised and disturbed by some of the cowardice he's hearing, but does not show it outwardly.

Eventually, he elbows his old friend Ake - a wiry trapper and fisherman with a thick accent. His skin is dark and leathery from many years on the water and in the bush. Taft and Ake have shared many hunting trips together, and have built a respectable number of 'camps' (small shelters) along the network of game trails that weave throughout the land.

Taft talks quietly to Ake, but welcomes the ears of anyone else who is nearby. Taft doesn't talk much, so when he does, people like to hear what he has to say.

"It's naught to be afraid of. I jus' went out and had a sniff. They're camped up on the Ridge." He smiles, like he's just told a joke. "Gonna be a cold night for them up there, you think?"

Ake smiles, and Taft opens up the joke to the rest of the discontents.

"I was just tellin' Ake that they're camped up on the Ridge. They knows what the Tower is, I s'pose, but they sure don't knows where to lay their heads about here! Gonna need a bigger fire than what they have by the time the night's though, judgin' by this Sou'Easter coming in!"

..

Approaching the gathered village, Vasil sees a universal emotion: fear. It plays out differently across the faces of the villagers. The majority wear it around their tired eyes, exhausted and helpless. They want the easy solution, and who can blame them?
For others, fear turns to anger and indignation. These villagers know that their solution is the correct one. Neither side is really listening to the other, though they accuse the other side of exactly that. Arriving at the back of the crowd, Vasil leaves Oyvind near to a fire for warmth. They have discussed their opinions together, and are of one mind on the issue.
I will back you. He had told Vasil, which does carry some weight. Oyvind could have been a village elder, if he had chosen so, but the death of his wife had been a hardship from which Oyvind had never quite recovered. So, though his age, calm demeanor and wisdom were respected, his distance, and close association with an outsider weighed against that.
Either way, having someone at his back is reassuring to Vasil as he begins to move through the crowd. Slowly, patiently, he waits his turn.

Once at the front, he listens for a time. The sides are going in circles. There is a pause. Heart heavy, and a gut full of lead, Vasil makes himself known. He does his best to affect a calm demeanor.
The Tower means us ill. I do not trust them.
He pauses, waiting for the heads to swivel, and comprehend who is addressing them.
Speaking again before his turn is swallowed, Vasil asserts himself, But we must proceed with extreme caution. These people will not hesitate to kill every man's woman and child in this town, and I believe they have the means to do so.
Feeling the ripple of fear caused by his words, Vasil looks to see the reaction from the crowd. It is the majority he must win, not the indignant arguers. He wonders to himself, am I one of them?
As Vasil goes to speak further, a voice calls from his left,
There were only 5, and we are many. When they come back, let's hang em by the fuckin' necks!
A group of his peers rose in agreement. You suspect alcohol is involved. Liquid courage and bravado.
Vasil addresses the man who spoke. Yes, we are many,
and there is great advantage in numbers, but we do not know their numbers. We saw only five. They were well armed and armoured, disciplined, and had the look of hardened killers. When did you last swing a blade, Dorin?
This is not like slitting the throat of a trussed pig. These men will fight back. Hard. How many of us even own fighting weapons? We have butcher's knives and pitchforks. Hunting bows designed for the soft flesh of unarmoured deer. Our arrows may not penetrate, our pitchforks are made to fight hay, not man. I stand here to advise caution. Rash action will see us all dead.

Dorin the butcher yells back, What makes you so sure, outsider? Know something we don't? He spits the words, offering a heavy implication.

Addressing the crowd, more than the individual, I know this much; men with blades do not walk into a village and threaten death with such calm certainty, if they are not sure of their abilities. Threats are to be taken seriously. Unless they're Bram after a few too many drinks!
Vasil immediately regrets the joke, and glances to see how the crowd takes it.Out of the corner of his eye, Vasil sees Bram react to this slight, going red, fists balled.

Knowing he has limited time until confronted, Vasil closes,
I urge caution. Send word to the spirits, we desperately need their help. Send a man to [the next closest village] and see how they fair. I suggest we wait. Tomorrow when they come, we kneel in false submission, and bide our time until we are ready. We cannot win tomorrow, but if we build our strength, maybe soon.

Shadow growls again, a deep, thunderous growl. Its lip curls upwards, baring a flash of sharp, white teeth.

"Stay your claws" Riverswift caws, realising its predicament. "You are not in danger from The Tower". At the obvious lie, Winter's Third Bite growls again.

"You are in much danger from The Tower." The raven admits, its beak drooping in shame. "It is growing fast, and leaves many bodies in its wake."

"It needs not a large army, for it sends a few soldiers, clad in disgusting cowhide, and spirits with them. Spirits whose flesh cannot be pierced by mortal steel or burnt by mortal fire." At this, Winter's Third Bite's tail thumps, and it licks its snout, the Wolf knowing that spirits cannot be so harmed. "Having quashed any rebellion, the soldiers put all the spirit wardens and Channelers to the sword, claiming that they cannot love both their previous spirits and The Tower."

The raven turns its head at this, leaving one eye staring directly at the giant wolf's two glaring ones. "But we both know that this is a lie. Those spirits are scared, and so is their master, The Tower, for Channeling is akin to the power you have. And Channelers may pierce the skin of these Spirits."

"The few meat-bringers who have walked East from here go to the near-ocean-cliff). There they encamp with the rest of their more-than-a-few meat-bringers. They have been told that this town is weak, and that between them and their two less visible friends they can make much food for the Ayes. The Tower is not there. The Tower makes its way more slowly, building structures and tying our food onto spikes as it comes."

So done, the Raven flies off, with a start "Riverswift will not forget you cornering me, Winter's Third Bite. Even the largest shadows flee the light".As Vasil's starts his speech, Freyr seems ready to celebrate him. As the Outsider continues, the Shrinetender shakes his head. "You speak of what you know little. If we malign the spirits, they will not protect us from the storms, our old bargains so broken. We may speak to them, at noon tomorrow, if they arrive, but it would be at their own bidding, not ours. And were we to turn to worship this" Freyr spits "wretched thing, even in play then we would divorce ourselves from those self-same bargains."

Bram seems stung by the sting. Emboldened, and red-faced, from anger or from drink you cannot tell, he raises his head and roars. "You, Baz gaar, you are the cause of this town's woes. It is you who is to blame for what is happening. I would sooner burn down this village than have you spend another moment in here. This Tower is strong, and we would do well to honour it, if it will protect us from plagues such as you."

The Hunters sat with Taft draw breath through their teeth at this point. Each of them has been listening to the Master Guide, and believes that perhaps there is some merit to following him. But as the Outsider reminds them of the horrors of conflict, their resolve had wavered. Now their discussions are split again, some incensed by Bram, but others empowered by his rage.

Iofr, an aged swineherd and Elder, seems to agree with the small, but growing, faction, who all offer the same solution: surrender, and in surrendering, be shielded again. He stoops, and can be heard discussing the need for a consensus, and you can hear him suggesting that those who disagree with that solution should therefore be considered people of Kallbacken no more.

The wolf watches the raven leave, leering. It would be so easy to jump up and nab that pesky bird... but Shadow knows that the Ayes Above are a useful source of information, and it can't risk losing their favour. As easy as it would be to snap the Raven between powerful jaws, it just wouldn't be worth it. Shadow snorts, shakes its head, and then leaves, padding silently towards the village.

Shadow finds its way to the village square just as Vasil finishes his speech. It slides up behind Taft, nudging its favourite human with a cold, wet nose. "I have spoken to a raven. The situation is worse than I feared, but may be salvaged. The Tower fears Chanellers because they can hurt it. It hunts them. And will soon come after my pack too, I am sure." It pauses for a moment, panting and glancing at the heated discussions around the square. "These humans are scared. Telling them may be dangerous." Its eyes close in thought. "The Tower's pack rests at the near-ocean cliff. They are ordered to hunt your town. The Tower stalks closer slowly... Building, the Ayes said. Perhaps we could hunt them before they hunt us."

Vasil sees Winter's Third Bite slink up behind the crowd, and whisper to Taft, the hunter. These two are no friends of his. Taft, though less egregiously hostile as Bram and his ilk shows his mistrust in more subtle ways. A way of watching Vasil, along with the social exclusion that comes with small-town xenophobia. He didn't seem a bad sort overall. Perhaps, in time he would learn to see past his prejudice. Wishful thinking Vasil supposed.

Behind Taft sits the wolf, fur as black as shadow - a name he had heard others affectionately refer to it by. What was it's name? Winter's Second Snarl? Vasil eyes the huge beast warily as he approaches, the pain in his leg flaring in his mind. Vasil reaches for the sword on his hip - it's not there, that was another wolf, another time. He may not trust this wolf, but it may know more than ignorant and scared villagers.

Standing close to Taft, so as to place a buffer between himself and the wolf, Vasil largely ignores the man, speaking low and calmly. Wolf. he states, with a nod as a form of greeting.
Winter's Third Bite nods in return.
I come to you for perspective. These frightened villagers know nothing outside these walls. You and I are from without. What do you know of this Tower? I do not trust their intent. To fight blindly, or to join with them, these people will die, I feel this. I have made my home here, I do not wish to see it in ashes.

Vasil sees Bram nearby. He looks drunk, and in a sour mood. Vasil's ill advised jibe had enraged the man, who is now glancing around the crowd, spoiling for a fight.

Taft nods in agreement with Shadow's proposal, but doesn't have a chance to reply before Vasil approaches. He is curious at how the blacksmith obviously ignores him, and wonders if he has been too hard on the outsider.

In an attempt to ease the situation, he speaks to Vasil. He steps aside to from a triangle with Shadow, so the wolf may also listen. Though he is aware of Vasil's discomfort, he is blunt and does not know how to invite debate. As a seasoned guide, he is used to being an authority when he speaks. When you are leading a hunt, there is no room for discussion.

"Vasil. Shadow says that they are afraid of the way we work with the Wind. We must attack tonight. But the town is in chaos. Nothing will be decided in these small discussions, and with drunkards shouting. We must convene and resolve this in the Formal Way."

Taft nods towards the Shrinehall. The Formal Way is a set procedure for resolving conflicts, which involves a public round discussion between a select group of villagers within the Shrinehall. As the most experienced hunter, Taft is included in that special membership, as are Alva and Freyr and several others. Other members of the village are welcomed, as the situation requires, and Shadow would certainly be allowed to participate in this case. Vasil, notably, would probably not be permitted to speak during such a ceremony. Drunkards are not allowed to enter the Shrinehall under any circumstances, so such a meeting would exclude Bram.

As Alva walks over, looking flustered, Taft places his hand gently on her back.

"Alva. This is only getting worse. Do you think it is time to call a meeting in the Shrine Hall and resolve this in the Formal Way?"

..

Alva nods, and she licks her lips, ready to call the gathering to order.

Shadow watches the dynamic between Vasil and Taft with great interest, sniffing the air around the blacksmith curiously. Vasil had always avoided the wolf before, and it is happy to have a chance to meet him properly. Once it finishes memorizing his scent, it looks up at Vasil, saying to him, "There are few in the pack, fewer than a score. Enough hunters could make the kill. Perhaps my pack could help. You could help too. But if we don't hunt them, they will kill all the channellers and leave them for the Ravens to eat." The wolf snarls at the thought of villagers being killed. "This can not happen."

Alva agrees with Taft's suggestion to meet in The Formal Way, in the Shrinehall. She bustles off and starts arranging things with the crowd. She faces resistance from a number of parties, and the people grow more fractious, until the village suddenly falls silent:

Winter's Third Bite walks in from the periphery and slowly pads towards the crowd. There is a hush, and the people of the village part to make a path for the great wolf as they approach. The creature has never been so bold, and its massive presence is enough to awe everyone.

The wolf saunters slowly into the Shrinehall and sits, waiting. The people of Kallbacken murmur for a few moments, then filter into the hall and assume their rightful positions, seated on the ground in a circle around the centre of the hall. The wolf sits with them.

....

After a long uncomfortable silence, Taft speaks. He uses Shadow's full name, out of respect and formality.

"Welcome, Winter's Third Bite. You bring us news from the forest. You tell us that the people are many, but for now there are only few. You tell us that they fear our ways with the elements. You have spoken to the Ravens, who tell you that The Tower will kill Freyr, the spirit wardens and all the Chanellers as soon as we concede. They do this out of fear.

If we do nothing, our village will die. Our chanellers are our Elders and our protectors. They are our promise and a recognition of our agreement with the land, the sea and the air. Without them, we are departed from the soil. We are nothing.

Winter's Third Bite, you urge that we attack now. To me - you speak for the forest, and the land that sustains us. If we let ourselves be overrun by the Tower, we will die in many ways. We will die from grief of the deaths of our chanellers. We will die because we will have broken our contract with the Air. And we will die because we have broken our trust with you, my friend, and our connection to the Land itself."

Taft is surprised at the words leaving his mouth. He speaks from the heart and doesn't know what will come next.

"We need to attack tonight. We need to work together. Like a herd of bi'kal our safety is in togetherness. When we are separated, that is when we can be chased down and eaten."

...