Snow melted within a mile of the village.
Blizzards meant little, as heat from Hardok's raging fiery towers consumed the atmosphere, for miles on end.
However children laughed, playing with wooden swords, making wooden shield walls, pretending to be fireborne soldiers. One child, rounder than the others, was 'Carl the Gluttonous, and another wiry lad was 'Isaac the Cruel Bastard.'
Onlookers cheered them on, villagers with fairer skin than most, or helped decorate fine oak cut houses with red or white ribbons.
"A celebration ushering in the spring," Paul said, leading himself and Al to hut for themselves. "I'd hoped we'd make it back in time, but they've yet to start the bonfires without me."
It was much larger than he remembered.
Instead of a handful of huts, there dozens. Houses, all at least two stories high, with tight thatched roofs, the tavern was at least twice as large as before, and there was a hall where villagers entered with bowls, pots, or barrels.
Paul opened the door to a hut with a fireplace, a fur skinned bed, a kitchen with a range, two chairs before the fireplace and a sofa between them.
"Make yourselves at home," he said, pointing to the rear window. "Just a little farther yonder is a hot spring. I'll make certain its yours for at least an hour after dusk."
Alone with Al, they collapsed onto the bear skinned covers.
Not a word between them, though she smiled. He cracked a small grin, then fell asleep without a moments notice. She woke him up just after dusk, a bottle of wine in hand, and he followed her out to the woods. Less than a hundred paces beyond the tree lines and steam rose, a pond with a cliffside with a small flowing stream from the mountains.
Upon stepping inside the spring felt to be a sea of soothing fire. It didn't burn them, instead caressing them, and neither of them said a word for the entire hour. No one else arrived as the hours went on, bonfires roaring and villagers singing. Odors whiffed by, something he wasn't familiar with, but Al grew a curious look.
"Interesting," she said, handing him the wine bottle.
He took a sip. "Smells good."
"Would've caused some trouble in the old world," she said, taking a sip herself. "Depending where you were."
They drank the bottle dry.
Leaned against one another, they staggered back to the hut, where they laid by the fire until morning.
Paul arrived, welcoming them to join him for breakfast. Though he was eager to see what kind of work Dresmund had, and make for the tunnels, his growling stomach had other ideas.
There was bacon, chicken, pork feet, the latter making Al hold a hand over her mouth, eggs, fresh baked bread, ale, and cakes.
"I must thank you again friend," Paul said, touching his shoulder as he bit into a hog thigh, "for none of this would be possible without you."
"You found us on our last breath," he muffled, mouth full of pork.
Paul raised a finger. "Indeed! Strange is the way of the gods, in this, and our old world."
A full belly, and ale warming his nerves, he asked, "You feared the god in your old life?"
Paul grew a puzzled look, then smiled. "My ancestors worshipped many gods, those who lived the land later to be known as a united under the one god. I followed those gods first, then after losing my sight I almost considered giving up on life until the Lord himself greeted me."
Villagers waved to Paul, many wishing a good morning.
Some shook his hand, learning of him as the Hero of the Ogrelands, and he added the title to the long list of everything but his own lost name.
"Shortly after gaining back a different kind of sight," Paul went on, "I was diagnosed with an uncommon disease, and after four years of fighting I lost the battle, just a few days before my birthday."
A concerned look, Al said, "I'm sorry."
Paul shook his head. "Much appreciated, but I would go so far as to say it was the will of the Lord, or rather, the lords of this land. Had I not awakened in that swamp, a dark cold hell you know so well, I wouldn't have encountered my friend here."
A hand on his back, Paul whispered a silent prayer, a hand on a similar sword cross Nathan and William carried.
"Can't seem to make up your mind," he said, pouring himself more ale, "which gods you want to serve."
"I serve all that's good in the world friend," Paul said, tucking away his cross. "Whether the Lord exists or not, the eight lords of the land of kingdoms, and soulless, or the gods my humble people danced to throughout the night, I walk with all that is, and has been good to me."
"You think the Lord," Al said, tapping her mug, "doesn't exist here?"
While leaning back, Paul sighed, "I often wondered, but came to the conclusion it doesn't matter who it is precisely. Whoever it is they've remained consistent, bringing me out of dark places where I was sure to be doomed."
"But, why allow you to be there in the first place?" Al asked, gusts rattling windows.
"I wasn't the best person by any means, especially in my younger days. One thing I've learned is no matter how small or how much time's passed, a sin is a sin, and we all pay the price."
The air was thick, and some hall goers looked to the ceiling.
"He's a bit more chipper than usual," Paul said, pulling out a pipe. "Please friends, you're more than welcome to a bit of the earth's precious grass."
Al rolled her eyes. "Perhaps another time."
"If you plan on making for the mountains," Paul said, sweet and fruit-like odors rising from his pipe, "I'd recommend giving your bodies time to readjust. Also, if he awakens here anytime soon, have a word with Eric. He's been going back and forth from, Hardok's you say, lair since his arrival."
They left the hall for Dresmund's shack, a stone walled dream for a forage master.
A short stubby short haired man, Dresmund took measurements for both of them free of charge. Iron was the best there was, though he knew there were some rocks with steel ore deeper within the rocky passes.
"Have to slay Hardok first, or find a way past him," he said, recalling his first journey through. "Though it was hard enough with the three headed warm who was up there before."
Dresmund snorted, "You'd think something so powerful'd be elsewhere. Nothin' here but us survivors, and the soulless wetlands itself a bit farther."
He and Al exchanged a look, then thanked the smith before returning to their hut.
For the next few days he practiced with his club as she crafted an oak short bow. With a bit more skin on their bones, and a refamiliarization with warmth, they returned to Dresmund for a full suit of armor. Al's was lighter, as she requested, and Dresmund crafted a hundred arrows for her along with a wolf skinned quiver. The smith gave him a massive iron sword, so heavy he needed two hands to wield it, and he'd never been more eager to recover his old strength.
"Be careful," Dresmund warned. "There's an old sayin' about ye' of no souls."
"We know," he said, strapping his scabbard to his back.
At dusk, villagers ushering in the final day of welcoming spring, they made for the woods.
Well over a hundred paces beyond the hot spring, he led them to a darker place within the newfound soulless settlement.