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((Wintermarch 9:41 - Just outside of Highever; Open to anyone in Highever))
Conrad’s first winter in Ferelden had left him caught between dismay and delight. Never had he imagined that so much snow could exist in the world, let alone linger for months on end! And the cold! The Teyrn of Highever ensured that all within the castle and city had adequate shelter, food, and clothing, but Conrad knew that there were nobles elsewhere in Ferelden who did not offer similar care to those they should be sworn to protect. Still, he soon discovered that the natives of this most southern of kingdoms had long since learned to deal with the long and often harsh winters, mostly by staying inside and close to a fire, and dressing properly when it was necessary to venture out.
And so Conrad had learned, spending many hours studying or reading beside the fire in his quarters, or bundling up for his healer’s rounds in multiple layers, complete with fur-lined, waterproof boots on his feet and a heavy woolen cloak, also fur lined to waist level, that took the place of his lighter green cloak, which he saved for less frigid months. This one was a bright red, which, as Ferren had explained, would make him easier to find, should he collapse in the cold or be buried in an avalanche. And the flowers and kittens embroidered into the trim around the hood and front? Those had been decreed by Riane, who had insisted that her father have the cloak made for him as a Satinalia gift. In addition to keeping him quite warm, it had the added effect of softening the instinctive reaction to his scarred visage, particularly among women and children. And if the men guffawed, their jesting had grown more good-natured over time.
Five years since his arrival in Ferelden, he had grown more attuned to the changing seasons, and while most of the southern and central lands in Ferelden were still firmly in the clutches of winter, its northermost holding had begun to thaw: snow melting in the sunniest areas and green things beginning to creep above the ground. It was a good time to gather the earliest medicinal herbs - many could be purchased from apothecaries and merchants, but his Anderfels thrift made it hard to ignore plants growing under his nose. Then too, the act of gathering: ambling about the land, harvesting what was needed, taking care to leave enough to regrow, was a pleasant pastime. In a few more weeks, spring would take hold, replacing the snow with a verdant blanket that still made his head spin with its brilliance and rich fragrance, but for now, it was enough to step carefully through the melting snow, avoiding the mud, his eye searching the areas that had been fruitful in past years.
And turning frequently to keep track of his charge. Riane had been eager to accompany him after being properly bundled up by the Teyrna and showed no inclination to discard her warm cloak and mittens, but she was far less averse to mud than he was. He had been wise enough to get the snowball fight out of the way early, though that had been far from an onerous chore. Play and its simple joys had been something set aside early in his own childhood, now given back to him by this tiny, laughing girl-child who could find wonder in the sun caught in a dew-speckled spider web and magical shapes in the clouds.
In this case, the play had settled her, and she walked near him, her small face intent in her search, exulting in finding the plants that she recognized and questioning him about those that she didn’t. Her intelligence was keen for one so young, and he seldom had to tell her more than twice.
“What is this?”
Conrad looked around from where he was harvesting leaf buds from a cottonwood tree; infused in oil, they made a salve useful for aches. In a few more days, the furled leaves could be picked and dried to make a tea for the same purpose. Tucking his harvest away into his gathering bag, he moved to inspect her find, noting with approval that she was refraining from touching it, as he had told her was best when encountering an unknown plant. She had her own tiny gathering sack: a Satinalia gift from him two years earlier, when her father had decided that she was old enough to accompany him on his gathering forays.
“Ah!” He crouched beside the patch of feathery, light green fronds growing in clumps. “A very good find. This is yarrow.”
“Yarrow,” she repeated with due gravity. “They look like the carrots that cook has in the garden,” she proclaimed.
“That they do,” he agreed, "but there is one way to identify them with surety.” He had always spoken to her as he would with any adult, only simplifying concepts to match her understanding. He pulled back the top of one mitten to reveal a glove whose fingers extended only halfway, leaving the tips bare. Clever design. Pinching off a frond, he rubbed it between two fingertips, then held a finger for her to sniff.
She did, then wrinkled her nose at the pungent, medicinal scent. “That doesn’t smell like carrots,” she told him.
“It does not, nor does it taste like carrots. However,” he continued, brushing off his fingertips, “in a tea, it reduces fever, and in a poultice, it helps bruises to heal more quickly, neither of which carrots can do. So -” he rested his hands on his knees, surveying the patch, “if you will pick half of the plants here, when we return, I will show you how to prepare them.” At eight, she was the same age that he had been when he had first begun learning from his father, and he thanked the Maker that the lessons that he taught her were far gentler. A Teyrna might never have need of such knowledge … or she might. No knowledge was ever totally useless, and she loved to learn, already reading well above her years.
She assented eagerly, and he left her to her task and stood, returning to the cottonwood, then froze as all around birds exploded from the trees, the underbrush, the dry grass, wings beating furiously to carry them into the sky toward the east, the entire sky briefly darkened by their passage.
“Conrad!” Riane had run to his side, clinging to him in alarm and staring upward. “What is it?”
“I … do not know,” he said softly. Birds often responded thus to danger, but no predator could have spooked so many into flight at once. When the dim thunder of thousands of wings and the rattling of disturbed trees had faded, a silence fell that was unlike anything he had experienced since coming to Ferelden. No crickets, no sound of rabbits or squirrels in the forest, obviously no bird songs. Even the light breeze had stilled. The world seemed of a sudden to be holding its breath, and despite the blue sky and bright sun overhead, Conrad felt a nameless foreboding rising in his chest. He had his dagger at his belt, but no other weapon. “Perhaps we should return -”
Then he saw it.
Almost it could be mistaken for the glare of the sun from the snow, this shimmering in the air perhaps thirty paces from where they stood, but as he squinted, the shimmering intensified, becoming more distinct. This was no reflection.
“What’s that?” Riane asked, her voice bright with curiosity. Conrad shook his head slowly without taking his eyes from the odd phenomena and restraining her with a hand on her shoulder when he felt her step forward.
“Do not approach it,” he warned her, and could not help but smile at her indignant huff, even as his mind churned furiously through all that he had learned from his father, his studies. He had encountered nothing like this in his own experience, but had not Johann once told him -
The shimmering flared suddenly into an eldritch green light, and arcs like lightning flickered to the ground and flared in turn before resolving into four forms: two indistinct humanoid shapes that glowed the same sickly green as the light that had spawned them; one cadaverous looking, its shape cloaked in rags of deepest night; and the last, a gangling beast that strode on sticklike limbs. Conrad sucked in a sharp breath as memory finally came into focus.
Then Riane screamed, no shriek of delight, but a wail of pure terror.
Conrad did not wait to see the monsters’ reaction to the sound. Before the echoes had even begun, he scooped up the child and ran, holding her tightly against his chest, his eyes seeking his footsteps in the snow and mud: the path he had taken to get them here, and the one that would lead them home. He could see the higher battlements of the castle above the trees; not too very far, and yet it had never felt further away. His cloak was poorly suited to such headlong flight, and when he felt it snag - whether on a branch or a demon’s claw he knew not - he tightened his hold on Riane with one arm and reached up with the other to release the pin without breaking stride.
An unearthly howl rose behind him, filling his ears and sinking into his soul, tapping a well of despair that rose to fill him in an instant. His efforts would be useless. He would fail Riane, fail the Teyrn, just as he had failed his father and all the innocents he had abandoned to the madness in Hossberg -
Riane screamed again, a shrill, miserable sound that cut through the despair like a knife. He had not yet failed her, but he would if he gave in to the feeling that was urging him to fall to his knees, surrender to the inevitable. He bellowed a wordless shout of defiance; he knew it would likely frighten Riane even more, but it was the only way to reclaim himself. He redoubled his speed, bursting from the treeline and sprinting toward the road that led upward to the town that spread around the castle on the hilltop.
“Open the gate!” he roared as he drew near. “Open the gate!” A round the clock watch was maintained at Highever, even in peace; Rendon Howe’s treachery remained a raw memory, but in the cold months, the heavy gates were closed and barred, allowing the sentries to keep watch from windows in the towers to either side and warm themselves by a fire in between their patrols atop the wall. That they remained alert was evidenced by their quick response: the gates swung outward as startled heads popped up along the wall.
“Close it!” he shouted as he drove through the gap that was just wide enough to admit him. “Close it now! To arms!” The baffled looks that he received suggested that his pursuers had given up the chase and were not visible, but he would not risk that this state of affairs would continue. “To arms!” he shouted again, and continued running until he staggered through the gates of the castle. The Teyrn must be warned!
Conrad’s first winter in Ferelden had left him caught between dismay and delight. Never had he imagined that so much snow could exist in the world, let alone linger for months on end! And the cold! The Teyrn of Highever ensured that all within the castle and city had adequate shelter, food, and clothing, but Conrad knew that there were nobles elsewhere in Ferelden who did not offer similar care to those they should be sworn to protect. Still, he soon discovered that the natives of this most southern of kingdoms had long since learned to deal with the long and often harsh winters, mostly by staying inside and close to a fire, and dressing properly when it was necessary to venture out.
And so Conrad had learned, spending many hours studying or reading beside the fire in his quarters, or bundling up for his healer’s rounds in multiple layers, complete with fur-lined, waterproof boots on his feet and a heavy woolen cloak, also fur lined to waist level, that took the place of his lighter green cloak, which he saved for less frigid months. This one was a bright red, which, as Ferren had explained, would make him easier to find, should he collapse in the cold or be buried in an avalanche. And the flowers and kittens embroidered into the trim around the hood and front? Those had been decreed by Riane, who had insisted that her father have the cloak made for him as a Satinalia gift. In addition to keeping him quite warm, it had the added effect of softening the instinctive reaction to his scarred visage, particularly among women and children. And if the men guffawed, their jesting had grown more good-natured over time.
Five years since his arrival in Ferelden, he had grown more attuned to the changing seasons, and while most of the southern and central lands in Ferelden were still firmly in the clutches of winter, its northermost holding had begun to thaw: snow melting in the sunniest areas and green things beginning to creep above the ground. It was a good time to gather the earliest medicinal herbs - many could be purchased from apothecaries and merchants, but his Anderfels thrift made it hard to ignore plants growing under his nose. Then too, the act of gathering: ambling about the land, harvesting what was needed, taking care to leave enough to regrow, was a pleasant pastime. In a few more weeks, spring would take hold, replacing the snow with a verdant blanket that still made his head spin with its brilliance and rich fragrance, but for now, it was enough to step carefully through the melting snow, avoiding the mud, his eye searching the areas that had been fruitful in past years.
And turning frequently to keep track of his charge. Riane had been eager to accompany him after being properly bundled up by the Teyrna and showed no inclination to discard her warm cloak and mittens, but she was far less averse to mud than he was. He had been wise enough to get the snowball fight out of the way early, though that had been far from an onerous chore. Play and its simple joys had been something set aside early in his own childhood, now given back to him by this tiny, laughing girl-child who could find wonder in the sun caught in a dew-speckled spider web and magical shapes in the clouds.
In this case, the play had settled her, and she walked near him, her small face intent in her search, exulting in finding the plants that she recognized and questioning him about those that she didn’t. Her intelligence was keen for one so young, and he seldom had to tell her more than twice.
“What is this?”
Conrad looked around from where he was harvesting leaf buds from a cottonwood tree; infused in oil, they made a salve useful for aches. In a few more days, the furled leaves could be picked and dried to make a tea for the same purpose. Tucking his harvest away into his gathering bag, he moved to inspect her find, noting with approval that she was refraining from touching it, as he had told her was best when encountering an unknown plant. She had her own tiny gathering sack: a Satinalia gift from him two years earlier, when her father had decided that she was old enough to accompany him on his gathering forays.
“Ah!” He crouched beside the patch of feathery, light green fronds growing in clumps. “A very good find. This is yarrow.”
“Yarrow,” she repeated with due gravity. “They look like the carrots that cook has in the garden,” she proclaimed.
“That they do,” he agreed, "but there is one way to identify them with surety.” He had always spoken to her as he would with any adult, only simplifying concepts to match her understanding. He pulled back the top of one mitten to reveal a glove whose fingers extended only halfway, leaving the tips bare. Clever design. Pinching off a frond, he rubbed it between two fingertips, then held a finger for her to sniff.
She did, then wrinkled her nose at the pungent, medicinal scent. “That doesn’t smell like carrots,” she told him.
“It does not, nor does it taste like carrots. However,” he continued, brushing off his fingertips, “in a tea, it reduces fever, and in a poultice, it helps bruises to heal more quickly, neither of which carrots can do. So -” he rested his hands on his knees, surveying the patch, “if you will pick half of the plants here, when we return, I will show you how to prepare them.” At eight, she was the same age that he had been when he had first begun learning from his father, and he thanked the Maker that the lessons that he taught her were far gentler. A Teyrna might never have need of such knowledge … or she might. No knowledge was ever totally useless, and she loved to learn, already reading well above her years.
She assented eagerly, and he left her to her task and stood, returning to the cottonwood, then froze as all around birds exploded from the trees, the underbrush, the dry grass, wings beating furiously to carry them into the sky toward the east, the entire sky briefly darkened by their passage.
“Conrad!” Riane had run to his side, clinging to him in alarm and staring upward. “What is it?”
“I … do not know,” he said softly. Birds often responded thus to danger, but no predator could have spooked so many into flight at once. When the dim thunder of thousands of wings and the rattling of disturbed trees had faded, a silence fell that was unlike anything he had experienced since coming to Ferelden. No crickets, no sound of rabbits or squirrels in the forest, obviously no bird songs. Even the light breeze had stilled. The world seemed of a sudden to be holding its breath, and despite the blue sky and bright sun overhead, Conrad felt a nameless foreboding rising in his chest. He had his dagger at his belt, but no other weapon. “Perhaps we should return -”
Then he saw it.
Almost it could be mistaken for the glare of the sun from the snow, this shimmering in the air perhaps thirty paces from where they stood, but as he squinted, the shimmering intensified, becoming more distinct. This was no reflection.
“What’s that?” Riane asked, her voice bright with curiosity. Conrad shook his head slowly without taking his eyes from the odd phenomena and restraining her with a hand on her shoulder when he felt her step forward.
“Do not approach it,” he warned her, and could not help but smile at her indignant huff, even as his mind churned furiously through all that he had learned from his father, his studies. He had encountered nothing like this in his own experience, but had not Johann once told him -
The shimmering flared suddenly into an eldritch green light, and arcs like lightning flickered to the ground and flared in turn before resolving into four forms: two indistinct humanoid shapes that glowed the same sickly green as the light that had spawned them; one cadaverous looking, its shape cloaked in rags of deepest night; and the last, a gangling beast that strode on sticklike limbs. Conrad sucked in a sharp breath as memory finally came into focus.
Then Riane screamed, no shriek of delight, but a wail of pure terror.
Conrad did not wait to see the monsters’ reaction to the sound. Before the echoes had even begun, he scooped up the child and ran, holding her tightly against his chest, his eyes seeking his footsteps in the snow and mud: the path he had taken to get them here, and the one that would lead them home. He could see the higher battlements of the castle above the trees; not too very far, and yet it had never felt further away. His cloak was poorly suited to such headlong flight, and when he felt it snag - whether on a branch or a demon’s claw he knew not - he tightened his hold on Riane with one arm and reached up with the other to release the pin without breaking stride.
An unearthly howl rose behind him, filling his ears and sinking into his soul, tapping a well of despair that rose to fill him in an instant. His efforts would be useless. He would fail Riane, fail the Teyrn, just as he had failed his father and all the innocents he had abandoned to the madness in Hossberg -
Riane screamed again, a shrill, miserable sound that cut through the despair like a knife. He had not yet failed her, but he would if he gave in to the feeling that was urging him to fall to his knees, surrender to the inevitable. He bellowed a wordless shout of defiance; he knew it would likely frighten Riane even more, but it was the only way to reclaim himself. He redoubled his speed, bursting from the treeline and sprinting toward the road that led upward to the town that spread around the castle on the hilltop.
“Open the gate!” he roared as he drew near. “Open the gate!” A round the clock watch was maintained at Highever, even in peace; Rendon Howe’s treachery remained a raw memory, but in the cold months, the heavy gates were closed and barred, allowing the sentries to keep watch from windows in the towers to either side and warm themselves by a fire in between their patrols atop the wall. That they remained alert was evidenced by their quick response: the gates swung outward as startled heads popped up along the wall.
“Close it!” he shouted as he drove through the gap that was just wide enough to admit him. “Close it now! To arms!” The baffled looks that he received suggested that his pursuers had given up the chase and were not visible, but he would not risk that this state of affairs would continue. “To arms!” he shouted again, and continued running until he staggered through the gates of the castle. The Teyrn must be warned!
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