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

Shadow's fur prickles. It considers baring its teeth and growling at Sulo. Instead, the wolf closes its eyes and tries to find patience and understanding for men and their petty ways. It turns to Iofur. "The spirits are indeed with you now, and I eat any who become malicious or threatening. I am a Spirit Hunter of the Ancient Forest Wardens as well as a protector of your village. You need not show your belly to this thing yet; my pack and I would help you to reject this threat."

Taft gently motions for Sulo to sit.

"I do not wish to lead. We must walk together as one, as we always have."

Once Sulo sits, Taft clears his throat.

"Iofr, your words are wise. Thank you. Waiting for time to pass might be a good idea. But we have already heard that it is not possible to wait. Our friend, Winter's Third Bite, has watched the devastation. He has spoken to the Ravens, who say they will kill the Channelers outright. He has seen this himself, in the adjoining villages.

Tomorrow, if we do nothing, I will be dead.

So will you, Greta Windspeaker. And you, Frafhrd, for your talents. And your children."

He looks around the room and his eyes well up with tears as he makes eye contact with each of the Channelers in the room, young and old. Some of them are babies. This silent accounting takes time, and the entire village is forced to watch as Taft bears the grievous reality of each member of his community that might be dead by this time tomorrow.

Wiping his wet face with the back of his sleeve, he finally resumes speaking.

"I know the hunt. I know when it is good to wait. But we are not hunters now. We are hunted. And we will die unless we move."

He puts his hand on Shadow's shoulder and nods to him, in thanks for his support. Then he bows his head, to show that he is finished.

To Vasil's surprise, it seems the anti-Tower side of the debate has the upper hand. The opposition still grumble and complain, but a compromise can be reached. Vasil hears talk of staging an ambush in the village tomorrow. Enough time to make a weapon.

His mind is racing. This is not much time to plan an ambush.Vasil speaks quietly to Winter's Third Bite,
The banner they left in the yard. It does not feel right to me. I am not skilled in the ways of magic, or spirits, but I feel as though it watches me.

Sulo and Iofr nod to each other at Taft's words. Sulo says "The guard will stand with you, but not tonight. It is late, and we are not as used to the woods as you, Taft. Tomorrow, or when they come to our village, you will have your chance".

Iofr sags visibly, his age clearer now than ever. "I will not stand with you, but I will prepare whatever you need for when you stand. I hope you forgive an old man for not raising the swineherd's stick when there are so many people more able bodied. Instead, let me make roast hog for everyone. Tomorrow we must celebrate a coming victory."

As the community breaks into groups and start talking about plans and other concerns, Taft puts his arm around Iofr.

Whatever you do will be appreciated. Thank you. But get some sleep, too. It is late.

To a few hunters who are following him for plans, Taft says,

"It is late. I think we should all rest while we can. Let us not act too suspicious - the banner in the centre of town may be more alive than we imagine. Come morning, we will leave on an early hunt, and prepare a suitable ambush spot between here and the Ridge. I am thinking about the bog, where the g'wit'kan grass grows. But let us look together, and agree together. For now, I think we should rest."


Alva gestures for Taft to head home, but the hunter nods over to Freyr, one of the town's most esteemed Channelers. "One more thing before we sleep, my love. If the Tower is afraid of Channelers, I think we need to bring them with us tomorrow for the ambush. At least, we need to bring as many as are willing."

On his way back to the shop, Vasil asks around for someone willing to dig a ditch, fill it with spikes, and cover it in such a way to be less obvious. Vasil suggests placing it near the proposed ambush site.

The ditch(es) need not be deep enough to swallow a man,but only to break an ankle, or spear through his foot.
Able to provide steel wire from his workshop, Vasil suggests hanging this wire tightly at ankle and throat height in key locations.

Taft and Alva weave through the thinning crowd toward Freyr, their son's husband, and pull him aside...

Eirikr is trembling on the inside, incredibly worried. Should they be attacking this Tower, whatever it was? It threatened to kill Freyr, as well as anyone who refused to bow to it. Seeming on the verge of tears, he heads over to where Freyr, Taft, and Alva are, holding Freyr's hand once he got there. He didn't know what to do. But no one was going to threaten Freyr. Not by any means.

Taft nods to his son and gives him a warm smile. His love for his boy (as he still refers to him) is unshakable.

Turning to Freyr, he nods and gives a small hand-signal which signifies deference from one channeler to another.

"Thank you for holding the ceremony in your lodge, Freyr. I'm glad we came to an agreement. I am ashamed to say that it has taken this event for me to realize how many Channelers I have around me. I have been taking it for granted. Usually we are integrated in the life of this town, but now I feel that we are... distinct, in the increased threat the Tower poses to us.

I seek your advice on how the Channelers should meet the Tower tomorrow. I will be leading an ambush at sundown, near the bog. Winter's Third Bite tells me that the Tower fears Channelers. I think it would be advantageous to have a group of us as part of the ambush - not only for our command of the Wind, but for the moral difference it may make.

What do you say? I speak to you as a leader, and one who knows the Wind more than most of us. You are a loved member of my family, but in this question I approach you as my superior and defer to your judgement."

Vasil, having successfully found willing and able ditch diggers directs them to Taft for further direction, passing on his advice for optimal placement and depth.

He returns to his workshop, the forge still hot from his earlier preparations, stokes the flames, and begins work. Carefully, patiently, he forges a blade of good hard steel. A blade to defend his home. A blade to defend the village that saved his life.

After the debate, the wolf had slipped away, pausing only to hear the blacksmith whisper friendly words to it. The man's words pleased it very much; it had padded away with its tail wagging gently and its tongue lolling happily out its mouth.

First, it walked by the butcher's, smelling the meat in the air. The butcher, who was hard at work over an animal the humans would feast on that night, eyed Shadow with distrust. The wolf pulled its ears back, lowered its eyes respectfully, and slunk off. It had made off with a whole deer once as a yearling, and had learned very quickly that stealing was the worst idea ever around humans: they all became very noisy and angry, and Shadow had bared its fangs at them, worrying they were going to eat it instead. If not for Taft's diplomacy, it might not have survived that particular mistake. Five years later, the butcher still acted suspicious when Shadow came around her stall, though she'd be the first to scratch its belly anywhere else. Shadow never stole from the village again... But still, it couldn't resist sniffing the delicious scents every time it passed by.

Now, it wanders into the village square, drooling and licking its chops. As soon as it steps into the square, it's painfully aware of the ugly, unnatural banner stabbed into the middle of the square, like a tooth in the neck of a deer. Shadow's fur stands on end. It stands very still for a moment, tail stretched out straight and still behind it. Then, the wolf instinctively finds the shadows at the edge of the square and blends in. From this shadowy position, it observes the banner. Is that thing really watching the village, or are the anxiety and paranoia of Shadow's human friends rubbing off on it? The only way to find out is to check.

Shadow sniffs the air, trying to detect any trace scents still sticking to the banner. Then, it closes its eyes, pricks up its ears, and listens in the same way it was taught to listen for spirits.

It hears nothing unusual. It smells nothing unusual. The wolf sneezes and opens its eyes. Looks like it's time to get serious.

Shadow tenses for a moment, and then leaps upwards, onto the roof of the building next to it. It takes a deep breath, breathing in power and motivation as it breathes air. Lungs full, it points its snout to the sky, and lets loose a long, undulating howl followed by a bark.

Freyr smiles, an expression which seems far more at home on his handsome features than the sombre thought and anger you’d seen in the Shrinehouse. "Father, you need not make any deferral to me. Only Frigg and myself are skilled enough with the Wind to call it in anger, but it’s song will be loud enough the woods will reverberate." He laughs at this, and you see the depth of his pain at seeing the village threatened as it has been. "When it comes to battle, we know little. But we trust the spirits, and the wind will buoy our own spirits, too"

At this point, the conversation stops as an almost ear-splitting howl emerges from the gigantic jaws of Shadow. Winter’s Third Bite’s howl is surprising enough that several villagers scream, and at least one man passes out. There is something otherworldly in its cadence. It rather pauses the conversation.

The wolf's voice echoes around the village and far beyond. The people in the village pause for a second on the edge of fight or flight as Shadow's primal bark touches something deep and wild still within them. The dogs of the village don't join in this howl, but they all dash to the square to watch, drawn towards this greater cousin of theirs singing a song they can't quite understand. And outside the village, a couple of miles away, the ears of another great wolf prick up. It lifts its face to the sky and sings too.

After brief, fitful, starts of sleeping by everyone, the sun rises.

Winter’s Third Bite meets its packmates, called as they were by the Primal Howl, outside Kallbacken. Autumn’s First Howl, towering over the other wolves, growls its acknowledgement of Winter’s Third Bite, and from the glaring of its teeth makes its position clear.

"The Primal Forest Wardens are here to hunt Spirits. They will not stand with or against either human side, but will only attack their ancient foe. This is the right path."

After brief, fitful, starts of sleeping by everyone, the sun rises.

Winter’s Third Bite meets its packmates, called as they were by the Primal Howl, outside Kallbacken. Autumn’s First Howl, towering over the other wolves, growls its acknowledgement of Winter’s Third Bite, and from the glaring of its teeth makes its position clear.

"The Primal Forest Wardens are here to hunt Spirits. They will not stand with or against either human side, but will only attack their ancient foe. This is the right path."

Vasil takes to his workshop, methodically crafting a weapon of war. In his previous life, before Kallbacken, his work has been more varied. Though there was overlap - mending wheels and maintaining tools, Vasil had to arm his caravan with weapons to defend themselves. He remembered his training, even if he was a touch rusty.

Working the bellows and anvil, he forge welds iron to steel, focusing the harder metal along the cutting edge. Heating and hammering, Vasil works the ingot across the horn, creating the socket - left open for now. He narrows the neck, and takes to forming the blade, drawing and extending the metal, as it grows thinner towards the tip.
Vasil takes a good, long piece of Ash wood - too nice for a shovel or broom - and cuts it a fraction taller than himself. He prepares the wood for the socket, and heats the metal gently, softening the metal enough to work, but not to destroy the wood. The shaft is placed inside the socket, and hammered closed. Vasil checks his work for straightness and balance, makes some adjustments, and continues.
The forging process is over reasonably quickly, leaving him ample time for the lengthy grinding and polishing to come. The blade is tempered, cut and refined. Oyvind watches, snoozing intermittently, and brewing tea periodically. He enjoys watching Vasil being his old shop to life. As a lifelong craftsman, he takes pride in the quality of work demonstrated today. Vasil is focused, hunched over the Whetstone, making steady, careful strokes.

Eventually, it is done. Exhausted, covered in sweat, coal dust and metal filings, Vasil emerges from his shop, squinting away from the bright sun beginning to rise from the East. In his hands, the spear. Polished ash shaft, darkened by a generous coat of Tung, leading to a bright, mirror polished blade, catches the morning light. The spear he names Odzáil, drawing from his native tongue. Translated literally, Castle's Ward, or, defender of my home, as Vasil intended it. He smiled. The work was good.

Once his eyes have adjusted, Vasil takes a long deep breath of the morning air. He takes a long lingering look around the village, and still wearing his thick leather Smith's apron, Woolen hat, and sturdy marching boots, Vasil walks towards Taft's house. He really hopes they've got some food.

Eiríkr spends the day with Freyr patrolling the city. Everyone seemed to be in a state of shock about what was going to happen, with the assault and all. The atmosphere is solemn, cold, and dark. Not things that he enjoyed. Before he goes to bed, he holds Freyr close, saying, "I don't want to lose you."

Taft takes a few friends 'hunting' the next morning. They are careful to outfit themselves normally and to refrain from speaking around the Tower's flag in the centre of town.

Once outside the walls, they head to the East. They take the main trail, which leads to The Ridge where the tower is encamped.

Thirty minutes from Kallbacken, the trail descends through a thick patch of low, windswept pines, then opens out upon a wide bog.

The group stops here and looks out upon the bog.

They all know this is the best place to set an ambush from. There is only a single trail made of fallen logs that leads across the exposed bog, and stepping off the logs would leave their prey in knee-or waist-deep muck and water. The pine thicket is dense, and it would be easy to conceal Channelers and others here. There is cover in the forest, and only grasses, moss and lilies in the bog.

The hunters scan the terrain silently - all are considering these things without saying anything.

Taft finally speaks.

"The only problem is that it might be too obvious of an ambush point. But I have a thought. Those of us that are good with bows could hide within the bog, on their flanks. Once they're close, we can fire at them. Their only place for cover would be the forest. They will run for cover, and other villagers with spears and other weapons will be waiting for them. The Channelers can hide behind our warriors, and they could retreat to town if everything fails. The wolves can move through the forest better than any of us. As long as they can discern friend from foe, they will wreak havoc."

"Their only cover is these long reeds, but if we choose our positions in the bog now, we can cut some reeds carefully enough for open lanes of fire. As we do when hunting b'kun. Except the b'kun know the land better than these foreigners."

He smiles. They group circles around, and starts cutting firelanes from their flanking positions to the trail.