Annalise - 8th Harvestwatch 1383
Emerald Expanse, Trifectorate Confederacy
"In the deep woods the briar shows its thorns and the wolf shows its teeth, yet both are honest in their hunger. It is the soft voiced traveler who offers bread and asks no name that fells more wanderers than fang or blade."
- Helena Dragonbreaker, in a Guide to Duskmere Volume 1
Grey again.
Every time I thought the world had wrung itself dry, another gauze of fog crawled out of the hollows and wrapped the pines. It beaded on Uncle Garrick's braids and turned the scars around his wrists raw pink, but the old orc wouldn't complain.
"March quiet," he grumbled, meaning don't sing.
So of course I started humming.
First a hum, quiet, like dipping one's toes into a river without committing to the depths below. The mist didn't mind. It swirled over boot tops, almost curious. Garrick's shoulders rose in a that way that means I hear you, but he keeps trudging, spear haft strapped to his bandaged forearm, eyes darting between trunks for trouble that hasn't dared rear its face since the coming of the mist.
I let the hum grow words not drill marching words, but song. Something light enough to float, bright enough to cut the murk:
"Cloudbreaker runs where thunder hides, a house high wolf on lightning strides. His prowls free 'cross the plain, He leashes wind, he milks rain…"
Garrick snorted. "That old lullaby doggerel?"
I grinned at his back. "Old, yes. Doggerel, never." My fingers brushed the violin's neck, coaxing a ripple of chords that shivered the mist. Oak and gut string answered like sunrise under blankets. "It's history, expeditionary."
He hated when I called him that a rank that he kept hidden as much as possible, but orcs told stories around small fires, and I listened even when they thought I slept. Garrick War Hail, once an expeditionary in the Great Expedition led by the Dragonbreaker herself. He had seen more beyond the Great Tifan Wall during that five year period than most people would see in their lifetime.
Although I didn't think he would be able to fight well from here on out. He lost both hands during the Great Fall. He fought beside my father, Amos, for the first forty eight hours before he took this wound . He brought me out onto a teleportation circle before the wall could fall.
Garrick held a lot of sway. Held. When he had his hands at least. He went to the haven council and instead of receiving his wisdom and acting upon it, they labelled him a coward for running and exiled him from the city. Luckily, Garrick had friends, but it was week long journey through the Emerald Expanse. We were fortunate to encounter this strange mist after two days of travel. It seemed to ward off any dangerous beasts.
However, the mist was unnerving. It moved as if watching us and Garrick had gotten ready for battle three times in the last hour. The song steadied us. Mist thickens, but the rhythm kept my legs honest.
"…A grieving man sought Cloudbreaker's grace. To win back breath from death's embrace. He brought no sword, no threats, no roar. He bowed, he bargained, he left with more: The breath of life in a crystal jar, won with respect, won without war."
The last note echoed out into the mists like a wolf. Like a Fenrir. Like Cloudbreaker. A wolf great enough for storms to roost in his fur, old enough to tell tales of the first dawn, wise enough to speak the tunes of the wind. Or at least that's what the rumors have claimed. I loved that. Something stronger than swords or spells, but not cruel just proud.
The melody settled over us like a shawl. Garrick's footsteps eased; his breathing evened. When the last chord faded, the mist dampened any applause, but I imagine the pines clapped their needle hands.
He grunted. That's his thank you.
"You're welcome," I answered, rolling into a new tune something with more bounce, less legend. We kept walking, two shadows in soft gray.
The mist began to thicken and obscure the sky, evolving from a thin haze to a heavy fog. Our footsteps seemed to be swallowed by its murk. Garrick halted; one stump raised.
A dire wolf lay across the trail. A horse tall, mountain muscled, and perfectly still mass. No wound, no scent of rot. Dire wolves were powerful beings, able to tear through a line of trained soldiers in one fell sweep. Garrick began to cautiously inspect the beast. He looked back up at the dense fog around us with a cautious gaze before uttering.
"It died of suffocation."
In the open air? My stomach began to churn with unease, my fingers finding comfort in the violins' fret reflexively. "Can you figure out why?"
"It stopped moving here," Garrick pointed at tracks with practiced eyes, "Began to thrash in place. Then it fell dead."
Garrick eyed the woods with a wary gaze, "Let's go." His voice tense as he began to move quicker than before. I swiftly followed him.
"Have you seen something like this before?"
"No." Garrick snaped, "Keep your eyes up."
We moved faster, fog pressing against us like wet wool. It was thick and getting hard to breathe. I swore the shadows carried the echoes of our footsteps a heartbeat too slow.
Then clean air. Fog thinned as if sliced, revealing a clearing no larger than a tavern common room. A soft crackle of a fire filled the emptiness, while the smell of herbs and grilled meat made my stomach rumble. At the clearings heart was a small fire burned down to ember stars, neat piles of ash swept aside, bedrolls rolled square.
Garrick's arm snapped across my path. He scented smoke, saw footprints, heard something I did not yet.
A figure glided from the gloom. Tall, lean, coat black as evening inked with crimson thread that catches no light, yet it gleamed. His eyes, a dark bloody crimson, fixed on Garrick, then flicked to me.
"Travelers," he said, voice flat and calm as slate reflecting a winter lake.