LotS: Frost Moon Chapter Six - Resolved

• Posted by SpottedFawn February 5, 2016 - Filed in TSC: Long Story - 2,362 views

  

  Resolved

   

   

  The world came back to him in a violent dash of white light and the burn of salt water in his nose and eyes. Kjeld sputtered like a drowning man, his body almost unresponsive—legs kicking in leaden jerks—and his arms were nothing more than dead weight, seemingly detached from his body altogether.

   

  H-Help.

  
  A second wave crashed over him, washing away the darkness as he stared, bewildered, at a sneering elf holding a bucket, and the icy shore of northern Solstheim just beyond.

  
  Kjeld coughed, his raw throat stinging as bloodied sea-water dribbled down onto his drenched shirt. Horkers… elves… Baldor…
  Groaning, Kjeld tried to wipe the stinging water from his face, but thick ropes chaffed his wrists, and his shoulders strained with even the weakest pulls.

  Oh. He realized, with a distant feeling of alarm. He was tied up.

  Shit.

  Where was he? A small glance around revealed a tall mast with bound sails, a wide dock running down onto the graveled sand on the opposite side of the deck, and the dissident scream of seagulls gave him all the information he needed.

   

  “So the blacksmith finally awakens.”

   

  Kjeld looked up, and his eyes watered from the bright orange light of dawn, until he recovered enough of his senses to recognize the face behind his unwelcomed wakeup call.

   

  It was Lord Kyron.

   

  Any wrathful or refusing words were immediately stifled. A glaring memory of his paralysis was fresh in his still-foggy mind, and he did not respond, merely conveyed his dislike for the mer with one cold, agitated look. Verbal lashings wouldn’t get him untied—and even if it did, it wouldn’t be for good reasons.

   

  Kjeld scrunched his eyes shut, a headache throbbing between his brows that had probably been put there by Mithlas’s boot heel, his face still feeling tight and sore as it mended.

   

  Let’s get this over with.

   

  “Let me speak to Ancarion.”

   

  Lord Kyron’s eyes narrowed, the haughty mer lingering as if searching for an excuse to put him in his place. Kjeld held his breath, chewing on what little patience he had left for these elves. A handful of tensed seconds passed, and Kyron walked to the starboard side to find Ancarion.
  No longer under scrutiny, Kjeld let himself wince, taking in painful breaths through a ruddy, bruised nose. The nasal passages weren’t so clogged with blood that he couldn’t draw air, and it didn’t feel broken; though fortunate news, that wasn’t enough of a consolation to warrant much celebration. Troubled waters were still too high to navigate.

   

  Sometime during his involuntary sleep, Kjeld had been brought to this ship, his back slumped against the railing, his arms wound through it and tied into place.

   

  He loathed the feeling of his chest so exposed. That wasn’t the beast in him, reviling a fatal disadvantage. That was any rational man who knew of all the wretched ways he could die in the next few moments—least of all a stab through the heart. A gust of wind swept across the deck, plastering Kjeld’s soaked shirt tighter to his frame; he shuddered, and the movement woke fresh aches and previously unknown pains all over his body. He was in worse shape than he’d thought.

   

  He’d likely been dragged along the shore all night, with nary a care for every rock and splintering branch the elves dragged him over along the way.
  How many miles had they traveled, since that slaughter on the beach?

   

  And should he dare hope for a rescue?

   

  In an attempt to gain some kind of foothold on his surroundings, a furtive survey of the Northshore Landing revealed the presence of three more elves besides Kyron and the yet unseen Ancarion.

   

  Unlike the elves Kjeld had seen at the hunting lodge, some of these mer were dressed in foreboding black robes, and there was a strong sense of hierarchy over those that did not. They were spread out along the dock and near a fishing shack that served as a makeshift base of operations.

  
  Twenty yards beyond the elves milling about the dock, was a sheer cliff-face of ice and rock, cracked straight down the middle but offering no hopes of escape. In the split, water gushed in narrow two-leveled falls, tumbling down over rocks and boulders where it streamed into the Sea of Ghosts.
  Not even if he had the ability to scale those walls of ice, would he chance it. The elves could paralyze him again, his back an open target, and he wouldn’t survive the drop. His curse made him more durable than others, but even he had his limits.

  
  I could steal the ship. Thought Kjeld with despairing humor. Sail it back to the village. That was the sort of suggestion Reidar would make.
  Kjeld’s observations did not go unobserved, as they were. With a vindictive look, one of the leather-clad elves quickly abandoned his comrades, his boots clacking against the wooden dock as he boarded the ship without word.

  
  Kjeld drew in a sharp breath, watching the elf stride right for him. What does he—

  
  All the air fled from his body as the elf’s foot came in vicious contact with Kjeld’s chest. He saw stars, rendered breathless by the force of it. The ropes restraining him were pulled so tight that he could not even properly hunch, left to utter a winded wheeze as he struggled to put the breath back into his lungs. Bastard!

   

  “Elandil! Enough,” said someone Kjeld did not see, but he wasn’t fully listening. The confusion had cleared; Elandil.

  
  That was the elf from the lodge—the one he’d punched in the face without an ounce of reserve. The mark on his shoulder prickled, roused now that he had recognized this new threat. If the elf had half a mind to break his ribs, he could. Even with a large passage of time since he was first paralyzed, Kjeld felt weak, almost ill, as if his limbs did not want to cooperate unless forced.

  
  But he wouldn’t give this mer any show of cowardice. He wouldn’t beg to be spared any approaching torture. Straightening as best as the ropes allowed, Kjeld stared, flinty-eyed, at his attacker.

  
  Elandil stared back, the end of his nose not quite perfectly center within his menacing tawny face.

  
  Kjeld knew little of these elves, but he knew they were stoic as a default. At least, they should’ve been. Apparently he had a way of bringing out their wrath like no other.

  
  It was mutual.

  
  The voice, cold and clipped with command, belonged to the approaching mer that swept across the deck like a shadow devoid of a mortal anchor. With robes that were primarily black, it became clear as the light fell upon the hooded figure that the Thalmor had been unable to resist a little opulence; small golden details hemmed the high black collar, and Kjeld was willing to bet his best knife that the gold fastenings on the front of the mer’s robes were made of real gold. The end result was as impressive as it was threatening.

  
  This was, Kjeld had no doubt in his mind, the image he was supposed to picture when someone said the name Thalmor.

   

  Elandil backed away, and Kjeld forgot about him just as quickly as he had the first time, his attention captured by this looming figure on the deck in front of him. Ancarion. The hood was up, and Kjeld saw little of him apart from a sharp, pointed chin and a scar running through the elf’s lower lip as if it were one long stitch from a needle and thread.

   

  “You told my mer that you knew how to forge Stalhrim, yet an incident on the shore indicates that you have rescinded your agreement with us. Is that true?”

   

  Kjeld was fortunate enough to have picked up a book or two in his lifetime, so the word rescind did not sound nearly so alien to him as he’d expected. That didn’t make answering any easier. He looked at the Thalmor’s uniform, his eyes following the gold piping around the hood before dropping down to the heavy golden swordbelt wrapped around the mer’s waist. He stalled.

  
  If he complied, then what? These murderous sons of skeevers would have weapons with which to continuing murdering. If he refused, would they kill him and consider it a lost cause? Or would they return for Baldor and take out the ‘inconvenience’ on the rest of the village?

  
  Was he willing to be a martyr for the Skaal? Their beliefs were his beliefs. Their secrets were his secrets. Baldor’s secrets were his to keep, as any loyal apprentice. With a rising sense of conviction, and reviving fear in his heart, Kjeld faced Ancarion.

  
  “I will not help murderers. You’re wasting your time if you think the Skaal will ever give you what you want.”

   

  He braced himself for another assault.

   

  But the Justiciar only laughed, and it chilled him deeper than any mountain wind or wintry ocean gale.

   

  “You are in no position to refuse, blacksmith. Either you comply, or you will become a lesson to your precious village. How dearly do you want them to pay for your stubbornness?”

   

  Kjeld’s heart squeezed tight in his chest. “They won’t,” he said, looking into the face shrouded by the hood. “You don’t understand, elf. You can kill me, you can torture me—you can burn my village, but the secrets of Stalhrim will never be yours.” Kjeld drew in a rattling breath. Time for the truth, or as near to it as he dared tell. “I don’t know how to forge it. And neither does Baldor. Those secrets died with our predecessor, Hrothmund.”

   

  Reidar did not have a monopoly on lying. It was the first name off the top of his head, and he wanted the elf to believe it so intensely, he had to force his gaze away or risk revealing his bluff through sheer desperation alone. Kjeld stared past the elf’s shoulder, looking absently to the falls whooshing nearby. A strange brownish shape had appeared at the mid-level, almost completely hidden in the shadows of the high-reaching cliffs above. He very nearly mistook it for a bird, until it crept closer—a bow and arrow clutched in its hands.

   

  Reidar!

   

  By the All-Maker, how was he here? How had he gotten there, in the waterfall?

   

  “What is your name?”

   

  Kjeld’s attention snapped sharply back to Ancarion, the already harried pound of his heart furthering into an almost chaotic tempo at the situation threatening to unfold before his very eyes. In the name of all that was sacred and precious to him, he prayed that Reidar had not come here alone.
  “Kjeld, son of Liev White-Paw.” He answered stiffly, very nearly moving his lips in a prayer to the All-Maker that a disaster was not about to arrive.
  But then the elf did something strange.

  
  That cooled indifferent tone, quietly manipulative, coldly authoritative, faltered.

  
  “Leiv White-Paw? You are the son of Liev White-Paw?”

  
  Kjeld stared at him, wondering why that had warranted a repeat twice.

  
  “Yes. Why?” Why should this elf, of all beings in Tamriel, recognize that name?

  “Did you know my father?”

   

  Ancarion ignored his question. “We were not aware that that beast had bred.” The Justiciar pulled a sword from its sheathe, the golden metal glinting in the sunlight with cruel intent.

   

  Kjeld froze, watching with a rising urge to shout as the blade-point drew level with his chest.

  
  “Are you some wretched mongrel thing, an abomination, same as your father?”

   

  For the life of him, Kjeld did not recognize the voice that came out of his own mouth.

   

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He said darkly. “So get that sword out of my face.” Those insults stung worse than salt water in fresh cuts.
  The scar on Ancarion’s mouth warped as his lip curled; the tip of the blade pressed into Kjeld’s sternum.

   

  Thwick!

   

  An arrowhead thudded into the oak-wood deck with purpose, and both Kjeld and Ancarion stared at the eagle-feathered fletching still twanging from force of impact.

  
  Ancarion spun around, and Kjeld leaned sideways to see past the hooded mer.

   

  There rushing from out of the falls were eight iron-clad warriors. Axes, swords and maces gleaming in the fresh sunlight, warpaint smeared across cheeks and foreheads, expressions full of wolfish cunning and warrior ferocity as they surged upon Northshore Landing.

   

  Reidar nocked another arrow from his place on the falls.

   

  “Get away from my brother, or this next one’s between your eyes!”

   

  The warriors of Thirsk stood equal and fierce to the Thalmor, nearly two to every elf, and Kjeld, fresh from the soul-chilling exchange with Ancarion, gawked at them with nothing short of disbelief. H-How?

   

  The sound of lightning cackled wickedly from the hands of many elves, and Kjeld saw fire manifest in the palms of others—was there no end to their sorcery?—again his heart clenched, too soon to celebrate.

   

  Careful! For the love of the sun and sky, he wouldn’t forgive himself if anyone died trying to mount a rescue. Trying to save him. He squeezed his eyes shut, gathering his strength - hardening it, compacting it into something that would will his limbs to move.

   

  Otto, his dark skin glowing in the sunlight, strode forward, shadowy arms laden with his signature Shamshir in one hand and a shield of Redguard design in the other.

  
  "Let Kjeld go," shouted Otto, "and then leave this island or your life is forfeit."

  
  Kjeld struggled with his bonds, pulling with all his strength to twist himself free. He would rip through the railing, if he must. He would no longer be their bargaining chip; he’d be damned if he left his family pay the price for his capture. Kjeld's jaw clenched, feeling the ropes burn into his wrists, but he was rewarded by the sharp splintering of wood.

  
  With a savage yell and twisting heave, Kjeld tore through the railing and staggered upright.

   

  Lord Kyron and Elandil started for him—killing spells in their hands and murder in their eyes. But Ancarion, sword still in hand, halted them with a single icy look. That golden sword, glimmering red as though enchanted with the fires of Oblivion, disappeared back into its sheathe.

  
  "I can see that this is no idle threat." Ancarion raised his chin, a refusal to surrender to the change in status quo, though he spoke otherwise. "Very well. We will depart the island once we have loaded the ship. No weapon is worth dying for,"
  Ancarion’s tone sharpened. "Not even a weapon forged from Stalhrim."

   

  With pride in his kin and companions, Kjeld’s chest swelled in spite of the frailty he felt.

   

  “Not so fast,” With a thrust of his hand, Kjeld grabbed the front of the Justiciar’s coat. "The map."

   

  Ancarion's eyes flickered to his own cloak clenched in Kjeld’s fist, and then without a word, he pulled the folded paper from his clothes and shoved it into Kjeld’s torso. The Justiciar deftly pulled free.

  “Get off my ship.”

   

  He felt nearly delirious, his head swimming from standing up too quickly. Yet he kept standing.
  “With pleasure.”

  Traipsing across the deck to reach the dock, Kjeld's relief was short-lived. As Otto came forward to collect him, and Reidar scrambled down from the falls, Kjeld's meager strength began to wane. He stumbled down the wooden steps, nausea and vertigo striking him like blows from a club. He feared he might hit the ground again, face first.

  But then there was Otto and another Thirsk warrior, holding him tight beneath each arm and walking him towards the waterfall.
  As he drew near, dizzy from a near-tumble, Kjeld saw a dark crevice behind the heavy curtain of water, undoubtedly unexplored by elves who had no taste for the cold.

  Kjeld chuckled weakly. "Tunnels." He realized. Who knew?
  

  ♦♦♦

   

  The fire burned steadily in the shaman’s hut. Kjeld knelt beside it, bare-chested and watchful as wisps of pale white smoke curled searchingly around him. He could not see Storn’s face for the shaman was behind him directing the flow of smoke, looking for any lingering maladies of the flesh and soul. Storn had to repeatedly coax the smoke away from the tattoo on Kjeld’s shoulder.

   

  Frea observed quietly from her chair.

   

  It had been a full day and a half since their harrowing adventure with Baldor and the Thalmor. Kjeld had returned, barely any strength left, and been ushered into Storn’s hut upon arrival. Together, the shaman and the shaman’s daughter had seen to the worst of his injuries, and for a time the hut had been filled with the golden light of healing energies.

   

  This was, Kjeld was pleased to know, his final health-check.

   

  Baldor had already returned to the forge and carried on as if nothing happened, with Morwen toiling in Kjeld’s place until he was fit enough to return. Though he would have no lasting scars from this experience, it was still weighing heavily upon his mind.

   

  “You have been mended in full, Kjeld.” Storn lowered his hands, and the smoke dissipated. “But I would be cautious in the future.”

   

  “I’ll try my best to avoid arrogant murderous elves.” Said Kjeld as he rose to his feet and reached for his shirt.

   

  “He doesn’t mean the elves, Kjeld.” Frea interjected, handing him the garment.

   

  “No, I do not.” Storn too returned to his feet and stood beside him. Kjeld could all but feel the shaman’s eyes targeting the mark on his shoulder. With a graven face, the shaman laid a hand upon Kjeld’s back, as if lending a soothing touch to the monster that paced inside.

   

  “That mark will prevent you from changing shape—but each time it halts the progression, it takes a great toll on your strength. Your spirit. Relying on that mark forever would be unwise.”

   

  Kjeld dressed in silence. He did not want to believe Storn Crag-Strider, but he was no fool, and this was a conclusion he had already arrived at. The scent of blood hovered at the edges of his sensory memory, and he took a deep inhale of the smoky, herbal air of the shaman’s hut to wrest control back into safe hands.

   

  “Thank you, Storm,” murmured Kjeld. “I’ll be careful.”

   

  He glanced to Frea, anticipating a gloat now that he was finally heeding their words, but her expression was neutral. At least it wasn’t as cold as he’d been expecting.

   

  “I will take care of it.” Kjeld forced a smile. It pained him to see her so indifferent towards him. For whatever it was worth, he still wanted her to know he would try an alternative. That he was beginning to see the mistake he had made. “But there’s something Reidar and I have to do first.”
  Frea’s eyebrows lifted. “Please say this has nothing to do with another dark seal, Kjeld.”

   

  “No, nothing like that.” Bandages did not cure the illness, only stopped it from getting worse. He needed something better than bandages.
  “I’m going to get rid of my curse, but I can’t do it here.” Said Kjeld.

   

  And his curse wasn’t the only thing he wanted answers to.

   

  Storn caught on quickly. Kjeld could see the realization in the old man’s eyes, which were as blue as Frea’s but seemed infinitely more wise; they shared a look, and Storn nodded approvingly. Before either one could press him for details, Kjeld thanked the father and daughter again and left the hut; Rakki’s excited barks greeted him, and the little husky stood up on her hind legs to place her front paws on his stomach, trying her best to lick him.

   

  “Silly beast,” he scratched her affectionately behind the ears and around the neck, looking past the dog’s gray and white head to the middle of the village. He spotted his brother, Reidar’s back to him, as he conversed with Aeta and Nikulus near the cutting shack.

   

  “He’s still bragging about his ‘valiant’ rescue, huh?” Kjeld snorted, but it was halfhearted. He still thought his brother was a horker-headed little fool, but at least he was a fool who didn’t get himself—or worse, everyone they knew and loved—killed. It was his brother that had roused the warriors of Thirsk, and it had been his brother who’d gone first into the icy tunnels leading to the falls. Reidar had come through for him.

   

  “Reidar!” Kjeld shouted. “Come here!”

   

  Reidar broke away from Aeta and Nikulus, approaching with a vulpine smile—and a large hunting knife, which he tossed and caught deftly. His smile carried a knowing curve as Kjeld recognized it.

   

  “My knife! You found it!” He’d thought it lost for good in the endless ash and snow of the island, or that it had been pocketed by some lucky wandering vagrant. Kjeld reached for it eagerly.

   

  Reidar grinned and held the knife away. “No, my knife. I figured I’d keep it if you died!”

   

  Kjeld scoffed with feigned irritation, a mischievous light in his eyes. “No, Helmi gets the knife if I die—you get all my books.”

   

  Reidar pulled a look of comical disgust, handing it over.

   

  “Egh. You never change.”

   

  “I try not to.”

   

  Kjeld examined the blade fondly, feeling as if a piece of his identity—or a missing tooth—had been returned to him.

   

  “So what did Storn say?” asked Reidar.

   

  “Fully healed, thank the All-Maker.” But that wasn’t all he had to say.

   

  Kjeld gestured for his brother to follow as he started walking for the bridge in front of the waterfall. “Come, I need to talk to you.”
  Reidar’s face twisted, obviously anticipating a lecture. “Better not be what I think it is,” he grumbled, making no attempt to hide his dislike.
  Kjeld could hear him dragging his feet behind him, and chuckled under his breath.

   

  You never change either.

   

  A day and a half spent recovering had given him more than enough time to ruminate; over his curse, over their father, over the letter from Windhelm—which seemed so long ago, now. Enough time to realize that Solstheim, their village, had run out of answers to give him.
  When they reached the bridge—that constant rushing water a soothing sound in Kjeld’s ears—he stopped. With a strong sense of finality, Kjeld faced his younger brother: “We have to go to Skyrim.”

   

  Reidar stared at him. “Who are you and what have you done with Kjeld?”

   

  Kjeld smiled grimly. He knew he’d react that way. Apparently it was impossible to imagine he might actually want to leave the village.
  “I’m serious. We need answers. As Leiv White-Paw’s sons, we have a right to know why the Jarl of Windhelm wants him to be a part of his war council—and why the Thalmor seem so nervous when they hear his name.”

   

  Though these words would hardly come tumbling out of his mouth any time soon, Kjeld admitted that Reidar had been right about before. Leiv’s legacy mattered—and if ghosts of their father’s past would continue to find them, they needed to understand why.

   

  Throughout Kjeld’s speech, Reidar’s expression had filled with fire, his wanderlust reignited as if Kjeld’s words had been firesteel, and the seventeen years of pining for new shores had been the kindling. He could barely stand still.

   

  “So we respond to the letter in person, then? Ha! This is going to be the start of a real adventure, mark my words! Can you picture us standing before the Jarl of Windhelm, Kjeld?” Reidar couldn’t control his mouth, trying to talk and grin at the same time. “Maybe Ulfric will let us join his cause. I bet it’s what Da would’ve wanted.”

   

  The exasperation showed in Kjeld’s eyes. Would he ever outgrow this need for unnecessary danger?
  “Careful Reidar, don’t make me change my mind.”

   

  Reidar wasn’t listening; he was staring across the coastline to the open waters beyond, picturing things Kjeld could scarcely imagine.
  “I can’t believe this. We’re actually going to Skyrim.”

   

  It was pretty unbelievable. If he hadn’t already made up his mind, the sheer amount of unknown elements awaiting them in their mother’s ancestral land would have severely impacted his decision. If fate had not played out in this way—Baldor’s kidnapping, Kjeld and Reidar’s various brushes with death, that letter—Kjeld would have contented himself to staying in the village as long as he could. But he couldn’t hide any more; and Kjeld didn’t want to just chain his demons behind a Daedric Containment Seal, he wanted to vanquish them.

   

  “Are you sure this isn’t about the werebear thing?”

   

  “What?” Kjeld was jolted from his thoughts, blue eyes set wide with astonishment.

   

  “You’re not that great at keeping secrets. Just after Ma died, you started acting strange. I thought you were handling it badly…” Reidar grimaced. “We all did, but… You weren’t the same. I didn’t have any proof until you came home with that weird mark on your shoulder.”

   

  Kjeld’s ears burned bright red. He knew. This whole time, he knew.
  The words came tumbling out, tripping over themselves as Kjeld adjusted; “When did you see it?”

   

  He’d been so careful. In the summers, he swam with at least an undershirt on to hide the mark, and he was always awake and dressed and at the forge long before Reidar stumbled out of bed. He’d been so careful.

   

  Reidar smirked. “Remember when you fell out of that tree, getting Finna’s shawl? Your coat tore on the branches.”

   

  My coat tore on a tree branch. For blood’s sake, of all the reasons to be discovered... He made an embarrassed throat-clearing and a no-nonsense rebuttal.
  “Right. Well, I want to go to Skyrim to find a cure, as well. Or at least a way to control it.”

   

  Reidar nodded, taken to twirling the ebony axe in his hand again, the dark metallic edge glinting in the sunlight.
  “When do we leave?”

   

  “As soon as Helmi’s baby is born, then we go.” He didn’t feel good about missing such an important moment, besides—

   

  “She’ll beat us half to death if we leave before then,” Reidar grimaced, as if already envisioning their sister’s fiery she-dragon wrath descending upon them at the mere thought. “So we should stick around for a few more days.”

   

  “Two weeks, maybe longer.” Kjeld corrected. How fast did Reidar think babies were born? “Can handle the wait?”

   

  Reidar folded his arms, gloating supremely. “I can handle elves, I think I can handle this.”

   

  Kjeld gave his arm a good-natured shove. “I can handle elves.”

   

  “Tchh, you got tied up and paralyzed—I didn’t get caught!”

   

  “Only because I surrendered!”

   

  Their banter would likely carry on until someone interrupted or Kjeld grew tired of the sound of his brother’s voice (which wouldn’t take long), but his heart was lighter than it had been in months. There was something relieving about sharing his burden with Reidar. Albeit, if he’d still had a choice, he would have kept the truth of his dark curse to himself—and there were still details and memories linked to it that he wouldn’t dare share with another soul—but he’d underestimated his brother’s intellect. Reidar wasn’t exactly the person he turned to with his grievances or when he was in need of advice, but just having him know was… a relief.

   

  It was settled. They would leave Solstheim, seek out answers in Windhelm, and Kjeld would do all he could to cure his unwanted affliction. Kjeld looked to the ocean, watching the light dance and flicker across the surface of the waves; it wasn’t difficult at all to picture a ship with black sails setting off for some other unknown land, carrying its menacing cargo of elves to foreign shores. Ancarion’s words had stuck with him; he wasn’t going to be a ‘wretched mongrel thing’ or an ‘abomination’ like his father. He would prove that elf wrong.

   

  Reidar wasn’t the only one whose patience would be tested in the coming weeks. Kjeld was already steeling himself up to endure the wait. He hoped that the time would fly by; there was plenty they needed to prepare for.

   

  And yet, if Helmi’s baby were born tomorrow, it still wouldn’t seem soon enough.

   

  ♦

  

   

  End of Frost Moon: Part I

  The Brothers Skaal will return in Frost Moon: Part II

   

  

  Here you have it, folks! The first completed section for Frost Moon! Thank you to everyone who has been following along thus far. Part II promises to be quite a bit longer than this one, but I'm certain I will be well into Part III by this time next year if not sooner.

  There's going to be a small break before Part II gets underway, however, I'd like to outline the plot a bit more extensively before I jump right in, and I have college courses starting on Monday the 8th of February. So I'll be a bit busy until I adjust to the new schedule. But no worries, I'll try not to keep you guys waiting!

  One of the reasons I began Frost Moon was to develop a writing habit, to get used to producing semi-decent content on a weekly basis. :) So far I've kept up with it, so I'm VERY glad about that! One chapter a week means I've been posting for six whole weeks! That's crazy for me to think about. It's really nice to have an audience, it means I don't get to slack off whenever my inner shirker starts to speak up.

  Again, thanks for following along thus far! Hoping to tentatively get the next couple of chapters out to you guys in the second half of the month.

  ~Spottedfawn