"Strange monsters?" Bastian mused quietly to himself, brow furrowed. "Creatures intelligent enough to take the cargo? This doesn't sound like any ordinary raid."
Monsters attacking caravans wasn't rare in the north, but they were usually wild, driven by hunger or desperation. They didn't steal cargo, they destroyed it or ate whatever they could find. For them to carry off goods implied something more dangerous and calculated.
The village chief scratched his head, his face pale with worry. "What are we going to do? Without credit, we won't survive the winter. Our children…"
The elf leader's face softened slightly, though his hands were still tied by the reality of the situation. "We'll do what we can. But right now, we can only trade for what's available. There's no extra to offer on credit, not until we can recover our losses."
The chief's shoulders slumped, and around them, the giants who had been hopeful just moments before now looked grim. Bastian, watching it all unfold, could feel the tension in the air. This wasn't just about food or toys anymore. It was about survival in a land that was growing more hostile by the day.
An entire caravan from the south wiped out? That was no small matter. Who in their right mind would dare mess with the elves? Bastian's thoughts raced as he watched the tension in the village square grow thicker.
The village chief, Brody, was still fumbling with his words, trying desperately to persuade the elves to extend credit. The towering frost giant, earnest but a little too straightforward for delicate negotiations, hadn't quite grasped what the elves were really after.
"Village Chief Brody," Bastian finally spoke up, stepping forward from the edge of the crowd, "since Elder Sokos lost his caravan, they won't agree to credit. But if we help them recover what's lost, then they might reconsider."
His voice cut through the confusion. Bastian kept his tone simple and direct, the way the giants liked it. He knew that trying to smooth over the situation with flowery language would get nowhere.
Sokos, the elf leader, finally looked relieved, as if a huge burden had just been lifted from his shoulders. He wouldn't have to keep explaining himself to the slow-moving frost giant. But then his gaze shifted toward Bastian, and his momentary relief vanished. His face turned cold instantly. A half-elf.
Yet Bastian remained unfazed by the elf's sudden coldness. He was used to it. This was far from the first time he had stepped in during a negotiation between the elves and the giants, always translating the hidden meaning behind the elves' words. It was practically his unofficial job by now.
"Of course," Bastian thought, with a small, knowing smirk, "the monster that took down an entire elven caravan must be powerful. Sokos is probably thinking, 'Our race is far too noble to risk lives on a hunt, so let those stupid giants handle it for us.'" The elves rarely hid their arrogance. The northern branch was especially notorious for their disdain toward anyone who didn't speak their language.
It wasn't just the giants who struggled with the elves' aloofness. Leaders of various northern tribes were often forced to learn the convoluted Elvish language just to maintain the fragile peace, something Bastian had noticed during his many encounters.
Brody's face brightened with hope as he turned to Bastian. "Oh! A solution! Good! We'll gather the hunters immediately and, "
"Wait a moment, Village Chief," Bastian interjected quickly. While Brody was a dependable leader, his overly straightforward nature could easily lead him into disadvantageous situations. Bastian had seen it happen before, and now wasn't the time to rush. "According to the rules of the North, if we help them, they owe us something in return. At the very least, we should ask for our previous debts to be cleared."
At this, all eyes turned toward Bastian, particularly the eyes of the elves. The tension was palpable, but Bastian remained calm, his expression unwavering. He knew what this meant: these elves understood Giant language perfectly. They just refused to speak it, adding another layer of condescension to their dealings.
After a moment, Sokos, now visibly irritated, spat his response, "Fine. Bring back our goods and the bodies of those monsters."
He gave Bastian one last contemptuous glance before turning his back on the half-elf, clearly eager to be done with the conversation. Sokos didn't bother with any pleasantries. The matter had been settled, and he had no desire to spend another second in Bastian's presence.
Bastian simply smiled to himself, saying nothing as the elf walked away. He had learned long ago that silence was often more powerful than words.
As the elves dispersed, murmuring among themselves, Bastian knew that this wasn't the end of the matter. Recovering the goods would only be the beginning. He could sense that this small negotiation, as seemingly simple as it was, had just set the stage for something much larger and more complicated.
But for now, he would let the giants celebrate their temporary relief. The deal had been struck, and for the moment, they wouldn't have to worry about the cold and hunger. But Bastian knew, deep down, that their relationship with the elves had just grown even more tangled.
***
In the midst of the endless snowfield, the icy wind howled as Bastian perched on the peak of a towering cedar tree, his eyes scanning the distant horizon. The world stretched out in a vast, frozen expanse, shimmering under the pale winter sun. His breath fogged the air as he exhaled slowly, anticipation building.
With a swift, practiced motion, Bastian extended his right arm. The light red leather glove he wore began to glimmer, faint particles of flame dancing on its surface. In his hand, clenched tightly, was a small, black wooden carving of a falcon, its fine details etched with care.
"Go," he whispered, his voice low but commanding, "find the prey hidden in the shadows."
As if in response, a pale silver light flickered along the carving's surface. In the blink of an eye, the wooden falcon sprang to life, transforming before Bastian's eyes into a majestic bird of prey. Its wings spread wide, and with a powerful beat, it launched into the sky, disappearing into the cold, crisp air.
Yet even as the falcon soared higher, its wooden counterpart remained on Bastian's arm, though now it seemed just a shade dimmer, as if a piece of its essence had taken flight alongside its living form.
The falcon's cry, silent to the ears of most, echoed in Bastian's mind as the phantom creature ascended, rising steadily above the snow-covered plains. The vastness below was a sea of white, and only a creature like this could navigate it with ease, scanning the desolate landscape for any signs of movement.
Ordinary birds would freeze in the relentless cold of the northern spine, but this one, bound to its master by magic and will, circled tirelessly. Its sharp eyes pierced the snowfield, seeking out any trace of life that dared to stir below. Each circle expanded its search, but time was short.
Within a minute, the falcon's form began to waver, the edges of its shadow flickering like a fading memory. Finally, it vanished entirely, dissipating into the thin air. In that same moment, a soft glow appeared in Bastian's glove as the bird's essence returned, spent from its brief journey.
From the ground, Drax, Bastian's companion in the hunt, craned his neck to peer up at him. "Anything?" he called, his voice muffled slightly by the wind.
Bastian shook his head as he leapt gracefully from the tree. With a deft flick of his hand, he slowed his descent, landing lightly on the snow without a sound, not even disturbing the delicate layer beneath his feet.
"No luck," Bastian replied, brushing a stray snowflake from his shoulder. "It doesn't seem to be here."
Drax sighed, pulling his cloak tighter around him. "Figures. This year's colder than usual."
Bastian accepted the thick cloak Drax handed him, grateful for its warmth. He reached into his pouch and pulled out a small flask of milk wine. With a wave of his right hand, the glove's enchantment flared briefly, heating the drink. He took a long swig, the hot liquid spreading warmth through his body.
"In this cursed cold, nothing beats a good drink," Bastian muttered, savoring the moment. The warmth of the wine was a rare comfort in this barren, frozen land.
Drax watched him with a mixture of skepticism and amusement. "If that magic of yours actually works, we might be the first to find those monsters."
Bastian glanced at his friend, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips. Ordinary men couldn't see the spirit falcon, and even though Drax was a trusted friend, there was always doubt in his eyes.
"It's not magic," Bastian said, shaking his head. "I'm no witch doctor like Odessa, nor an elven mage. Just a little trick I picked up along the way." He looked out into the snowfield, feeling the presence of the falcon still with him, somewhere in the back of his mind. "A useful trick, but a trick nonetheless."
Drax chuckled softly, the sound lost to the wind. "Well, trick or not, let's hope it leads us to something soon. I'd rather not spend another night out here freezing my bones."
Bastian nodded, his eyes scanning the horizon one last time. "We'll find them," he said quietly. "We have to."
Though the Dragonborn have inherited fragments of ancient magic in their bloodline, and both elves and Dragonborn are naturally inclined towards sorcery, Bastian was not what one would call a proper spellcaster. Magic, as he had come to understand, was not something that simply coursed through your veins, it was a craft that required years of study, practice, and an inheritance of knowledge.
For Bastian, with no formal teacher or lineage to guide him, he could only be considered a "wild wizard" of sorts, one who had picked up odd magical talents here and there, without fully mastering the arcane arts.
His enchanted leather coat, which summoned warmth even in the harshest cold, the fire-starting gloves, and the carved wooden falcon that hosted an eagle spirit, these weren't products of grand spellcraft, but rather the result of imbuing simple objects with the elemental forces around him. Bastian's skill lay in awakening the latent "souls" within the materials he worked with.
Yes, the soul. To Bastian, everything had one, not just the living. The clairvoyant eye he possessed could glimpse the spirits even in objects, seeing beyond the physical form to the essence within. His creations, mere trinkets to a true mage, came alive with a touch of magic because he could see the potential in them, coaxing out the dormant spirit.
But even with his talents, Bastian knew his works paled in comparison to true magic. Real spellcasters could bend the world to their will, weaving complex enchantments and manipulating the very fabric of nature. In contrast, his creations were simple, practical, and limited by the materials at hand. Still, his "gadgets" were surprisingly popular among the elves, a fact that never ceased to puzzle him.