LotS: Frost Moon Chapter Thirteen - Bearer of Bad News

• Posted by SpottedFawn December 3, 2016 - Filed in TSC: Long Story - #"#TSC:Long"  #" "TSC: Long Story"  - 1,489 views

  Bearer of Bad News 

  

   

  His blood called to the wolves of the forest. He caught grey shapes flitting through the trees, fresh blood-scent no doubt seeping into the air though he’d wrapped the wound in cured leather and cloth. There were other things to be concerned over, however; his mark bothered him. It didn’t sting or burn but there was nevertheless something about it that felt disconcerting. A culmination of events that left him in a strange place. His contact with the dog-fiends at the Hall, ’meeting’ Mor’vahka...Kjeld did not feel himself.

  
  Something had left an emptiness behind.

  
  A hollowness.

  
  Or maybe…

  
  A small mining settlement provided Kjeld the opportunity to warm himself by their campfires and properly see to the sword-wound. It was not a deep cut, but had bled profusely. Kjeld was certain he was bringing the wolves right to Morthal’s doorstep, and they would not thank him for it.

  
  Surrounded by cold-smacked faces and workers pushing carts of ore into the sunlight around the entrance of Rockwallow Mine (though it stood gaping like an open mouth) put some warmth back into his soul.

  
  The activity, the obvious signs of life and the normalcy of the simple but solid settlement reminded him so much of his village. The ebbing of adrenaline gave way to a heavy ache in his chest, homesickness competing with despair for what he had encountered at the Hall.

  
  Kjeld did not mention the destruction. He did not know how to put it into words, nor did he wish to cause alarm. Maybe that was selfish of him, choosing to cling to this bucolic scene of life in Skyrim, simple folk working hard to earn a living. He would tell the Jarl once he reached Morthal. That would have to be enough for now.

  
  Singling out the balding man who seemed in charge of Stonehills, Kjeld was then pointed towards the swamp-dwelling town somewhere along the road just ahead.

  
  There were few people interested in his thanks, and only one or two really stopped to regard him with anything like interest—rather than make a fuss, he left as quietly as he’d come in, ignoring the persistent urge to stay near the fires, near life, when the road ahead did not always promise either.

  
  As he completed the last leg of his journey, Kjeld began to notice none-too-subtle changes in the wilderness. His sense of caution found itself renewed in the twisted branches of the trees now making up the landscape, and the air seemed to take on a different quality. He had not realized how crisp and clear the air was — until it wasn’t. The cheery snowberry bushes and cold-weather flowers lessened until he could find none, even if he left the path. Mushrooms and other bulbous fungi had moved in, and even the birdsong was different here.

  
  There were longer calls, mournful keens and chittering that did not sound altogether bird-like. The sunshine was still almost painfully bright upon the snow, but the shadows felt… longer here, and he scented wet, fetid earth on the wind.

  
  Suddenly, wolves seemed like a small problem, while larger unknowns lurked in the marshes beyond.

  
  Kjeld nearly missed the entrance to Morthal.

  
  There was no magnificent gate, or colossal bridge, or even a tower to distinguish the town from the gray-and-moss landscape. Instead, a single circular brazier, the embers burning abysmally low, marked the top of an incline leading into the town.

  
  Kjeld stopped midway down the slope, his brow furrowing as he looked at Morthal in all it’s... simplicity.

  
  The colossal architecture of Windhelm had spoiled him.

  
  It looked like the grim parody of some happier place, where children could play outside in the sunshine, water didn’t slosh coldly against the cracked docks, and the torches weren’t burning during daylight hours due to fog.

  
  A guard house was the first building on the right, and he identified the Jarl’s homestead on the left by the tattered banners bearing the crest of Morthal. His shadow melded with that of the Jarl’s longhouse as he moved closer, and he noticed the guards for the first time stationed on either side of the steps.

  
  Their expressions were unwelcoming.

  
  “State your business, traveler.” Said one.

  
  “The inn is near the bridge.” Said the other, trying to guess his purpose.

  Kjeld processed this information with a grim nod.
  “The Hall of the Vigilant was destroyed. Seemed wise to let someone know.”

  
  The guards swore, and their expressions melted away as they shared a furtive glance.

  
  “You’d better come inside, traveler. Jarl Idgrod will want to hear of this.”

  ♦♦♦

  
  The light struggled for purchase in the Jarl’s longhouse. It was a sturdy building despite its location over soft, wet silt and swamp-mud, and the long stone hearth (as long as a banquet table at Jarl Ulfric’s palace) lent the place a solidity. As if this hall had stood here much longer than Kjeld would have guessed. It was comprised of two floors with stairs on either side, modestly furnished, with the firelight tickling the chins of several animal heads mounted on the walls, and a raised stone platform at the far end which held the Jarl’s chair.

  
  If he had not already seen the noble halls of the Palace of Kings, he would have been more impressed.

  
  It was quiet save the crackling hearth, with indiscreet doors leading into rooms Kjeld has no business with. The longhouse also appeared empty, until his eyes adjusted to the shadows and the vague suggestion of candlelit-sconces on the upper levels. It wasn’t the dark that made him uneasy, though; there was a pregnancy to the air, expectancy of the people inside the longhouse—as if the steward, the housecarl and the guards—were forever expecting bad news.

  
  “Who are you?” asked a stone-faced man stepping into the hearth glow. The lines on his face looked well-worn, and he was a few days unshaven though his voice was sharp as a razor. “Why have you brought him here? If it’s about the wailing, then we’re already aware.”

  
  “News from the Hall, Aslfur,” said the guard on Kjeld’s left.

  
  The steward’s shrewd eyes scrutinized him the way a cat scrutinized a new type of spider. Determining his threat level. Kjeld had no patience for the bravado and suspicion of Skyrim’s countrymen. Not after his encounter with Mor’vahka.

  
  Kjeld repeated what he’d told the guards, this time mentioning the Oblivion-hounds and the corpses, the words sticking in his throat like hard bits of gristle.

  
  Aslfur swore.
  “Wait here. I’ll wake the Jarl.”

  
  The steward then entered a room near the throne, the shadows shivering in the rush of air from his departure, candlelight distorted.

  
  And will the Jarl need to call together the whole town? Kjeld stifled any expression of exasperation. He did not consider himself much of a storyteller, nor did he want to repeat the brutal details of what he had seen. And, for reasons he dared not discuss aloud, any conversation involving detailed mention of blood made his skin prickle uncomfortably, mouth always running dry.

  
  “Those were death hounds you saw,” exclaimed one of the guards in a hushed breath. “You’d better not’ve attracted the fiends here.”

  
  “Death hounds?” Kjeld’s shoulders tensed. And what about the wailing?

  
  The guards shivered. “Death hounds mean vampires, stranger. Even the Damned have pets.”

  
  A death hound sounded like a creature that came with a curse. What a fiendish name! Were they harbingers of ill will? Or were they the cause? Kjeld had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that they might be both.

  
  Before Kjeld could be further educated on the horrors of this world, the light flickered again as an old woman strode to take her place upon the worn green throne of Morthal.

  
  Kjeld caught the woman’s eyes—piercing in the fireglow—and bowed. His gut insisted he do this, and though Kjeld had always been taught to respect his elders (especially in a village where life expectancy was short and those that endured were indeed wise) but he felt compelled to bow for another inexplicable reason.

  
  “My husband tells me you’ve arrived from the Hall.” said Jarl Idgrod Ravencrone. Worse so than Aslfur, her face was heavily aged, though if the lines were signs of hard times, then she had endured many.

  
  “Aye. It was destroyed. I saw bodies everywhere. Death hounds. Bits of… people.”

  
  Unexpectedly, the Jarl sighed. “I warned them. Was there anyone at the Hall? A cat with a white mark on his face?”

  
  Kjeld grunted, surprised. He’d purposefully left out any mention of Mor’vahka. The cat had given him the impression that revealing his whereabouts without his permission would end bloody.

  
  “Aye, he found me in the Hall.”

  
  “Good. Then he is looking into it. Where are you from? And what is your name?”

  
  “Solstheim, Jarl Ravencrone. And my name is Kjeld White-Paw.”
  He didn’t look behind him. He wasn’t interested in the guards’ mutterings and looks of judgment.

  
  “Welcome to Morthal, Kjeld. You will be with us for a while.”

  
  He wanted to protest that he would stay no longer than necessary, but something told him to hold it. She seemed to know something that he didn’t… There was an aura from this Jarl that reminded him of Storn. A wisdom that stretched beyond the knowledge of the old. A sight.

  
  The longhouse was quiet again, though Jarl Idgrod shared a brief word with Aslfur that none could hear before she dismissed him.
  “It’s good for Morthal to have a blacksmith again. You may go.”

  
  Kjeld immediately glanced at Aslfur—but what the Steward had to say had nothing to do with him, judging by the way the man disappeared into another side room, giving orders to whomever was within.

  
  How did she know that?

  
  The guards showed him the door, and either it was an imagined change or they were spooked of all this talk of the Hall, but there was a coldness to the helmeted men that escorted him back out into the mist. Was the rest of the town going to be like this? Skaal Village was isolated, but they did not lack warmth. They did not lack compassion. Suspicion was not in their nature, but here it seemed to ooze up out of the mud and silt, festering in the waters.

  
  His lips met in a grim line. With any luck, Mor’vahka would finish ‘hunting’ soon, though the way Kjeld’s journey was going right now, he wasn’t holding his breath for any such good fortune.