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The villagers of Cymer Lloc settled in around the fire, ready for the tale.

Blair stepped forward, looked into the flames, started in a quiet voice. The villagers leaned in to listen. She began with the approach to the village of Ir de Crannog, the party debating whether they would find anyone living.

A story is so much better when you feel the anticipation, the uncertainty. The villagers traveled with the party across the frozen lake on the cold creaking wooden walkway. They scaled the wall, encountered the lizard folk, fought bravely and defeated them.
As the story and the night went on, the villagers pulled their cloaks tighter. Whether the fire was dying or the priestess was causing the room to become colder for dramatic effect they could not tell.
Their mouths fell open as they learned of the wooden barrier conjured by Valindra. They cheered at the tales of Solara and Ainorei taking down lizards. Chuckles rose from their throats to imagine Dill scrambling onto the thatched roof to scout the hiding creatures – then whoops to hear of him smiting them down as they emerged into the frozen village square.

No one wanted the night or the saga to end, swept up as they were in the raw and brutal tale.But the rhythm of the poem began to slow, and Blair lifted her gaze from the embers to look into the faces of the people of Cymer Lloc.

The last phrase stayed in their minds and has oft been repeated by the locals when telling visitors of the lizard invasion to the North:

Formed by tribes and villages far
O’er the frozen Llychau Mawr, to
Ir deCrannog warriors came, then
Vanquished evil. Winter’s Bane.

Whoever is watching us? Whoever just decided to take her face and warp it to their own ends? To make me watch as she burned away to nothing a SECOND time?

That was your last mistake.

I'm going to find you. I'm going to take everything you have. I'm going to take everyone you have. There is nowhere in the heavens, the hells, or any other plane that will save you from me.

Pray, if you are the sort. Run, if you are able. But while you do so? Keep this one little thing in mind.

You won't escape the inevitable.

And so it is. Winter's Bane has saved a second village from the tide of evil and woe that has descended upon the settlements of Northern Wealas. First, it was I’r De Crannog, rescued from the predations of lizardfolk driven in from the cold to attack the hamlet. And nows this. But this is so much worse.

Running her eyes among the snow-swept and abandoned huts of Caer Mared Valindra takes it all in, the great mound of partially burned bodies, the shallow grave barely scraped out from the snow, the corpses of children still clutching the poppets given to them as gifts by the so-called “Ragged Lady” who visited this hamlet just days before The news of the “Ragged Lady” traveling up the Severn Valley bringing pestilence and death to the settlements strung out along its length has filled her with dread and urgency. This last detail sickens her the most, the fact that the Ragged Lady has used children as the vehicle to spread whatever eldritch plague she has conjured. Valindra's anger smolders in her chest like coals.

What sort of plague is this that kills the living so swiftly yet causes its victims to rise from the grave? The elf shudders at the thought of it. Like most living folk, Valindra has an inherent loathing and fear of the undead, but as a servant of the Great Oak she feels an especial abhorrence for them. The violation of nature’s laws that they embody, the twisted mockery of life that is neither life nor death, stands as an affront to everything she has sworn to revere and protect. Until now, she has had scant experience with these twisted things, but she fears this will soon change. So be it. She is only too happy to return more of these grave-risen wretches to the dim hell that spawned them.

The situation appearing to be in hand, Valindra begins to relax. She unstrings her yew bow and carefully stores the flaxen bowstring in her pouch to keep it dry. Squatting on her haunches, she unstoppers a leathern bottle of water and quenches her thirst. Though not terribly hungry, the elf nibbles a bit of brown bread baked in the simple hearths of Caer Adara; she will need her strength for the parlous journey ahead. They all will.

Delicately brushing away the crumbs from her fingertips, she smiles, finding the bread surprisingly good. Over the last two years, she has developed a growing acceptance of human food, but this has deliciously surprised her. The baker in Caer Adara has skill, she thinks, a small pleasure that briefly distracts her from her brooding. This small goodness reminds her that light can always be found in even the deepest darkness. She is grateful to the unknown hand that baked this bread and reminded her of this.

Under her breath, she softly whispers a simple elfin prayer for him and for them all:

Or 'waith bain nura Anor
A panlû elin cuinar
Ú-pedithon 'i-aur gwann'
Egor nai îl 'namarië'.

[Above all shadows rides the Sun
And stars always dwell.
I will not say 'The day is done'
Or to the stars 'farewell'.] *




The winter gloaming has begun to deepen, and the wind gusts suddenly from the ice-locked Bay of Shields to the south. Valindra draws her mantle of wolf pelts more closely about her shoulders. They have a long, hard march ahead of them, and will need to push on without rest through the frozen hill country to the north. They must reach I’r Gogledd Crannog, some four or five leagues northward, before the Ragged Lady has a chance to work anymore of her foetid necromancy there.

It will be cold; they will be tired; bugbears very well may still roam the hills; but the anger she feels burning within will sustain her through what may come. Valindra rises and turns to join the rest of the party. Let the hunt begin.

* (JRR Tolkien)