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.
Garrick squared off. "Hail."
I leaned around his shoulder with my brightest smile. The crimson eyed man's companions sit around the fire: a veiled woman carved in stillness; a young lady maybe twenty dark hair sheathing a face frozen half between frost and thaw; and behind them, a litter on hazel poles.
Upon it, a horned woman twisted in fever dreams skin the color of moon washed ash, sweat silvering her brow. I'd never seen a changeling adopt that form, but her sister matched it. With dark crimson horns curved like a ram's, a second woman stood over the first, tail flicking with small defensive snaps.
Garrick introduced us first: "Garrick War Hail, veteran. Lady Annalise Kane, healer." He pushed the title onto me like a shield;
"Ran Zephyr," the man replied. The name hisses like frigid air racing down a chimney. He nodded to the veiled woman and the girl "my wife, and my daughter, Sylvia" then gestured at the litter. "The patient is Dalia; her sister, Nox, stands guard."
The man, seemingly having finished judging us, walked over to the fire pit. Mist rolled aside to clear two perfect seats.
I walked over to Nox and stuck out a hand, "A pleasure to make your acquaintance."
She stared at me with wary eyes that flicked between me and my hand. Without taking it, "Do you need something?"
"I may have a chance to help your sister. I practice magic by utilizing music." I brushed past her outburst, "I may be able to heal her."
Nox's eyes narrowed. "For what in return?"
"Can it simply be because I'm kind?" I offered hopefully.
"Nobody is like that." She uttered.
"Then you have to help me with one minor task that you have the ability to refuse."
She hesitated, mulling over my offer, "Deal."
I pulled my violin over my shoulder and strummed the soft chord that matches a body's pulse major third lifted by a , sweet and expecting dawn. Hum first, then let words drift:
"Rest, traveler, rest, Day will bloom when night is done…"
Magic wasn't always showy. It doesn't always crackle or bind. Good magic hummed like a lullaby's second verse, weaving between blood beats until bodies listen. The note settled into Dalia's skin, and her brow smoothed. Her breathing evened. A small but undeniable victory; I beamed.
Zephyr knelt by the coals, cupped his hands, and coaxed the kettle into a gentle hiss. "The needles here carry citrus on the back note," he noted, half to himself. "They are good for health, while tasting sweet. A rare combination."
A swirl of fragrant steam rose as he filled two wooden cups. He handed the first to Garrick. The orc's bandaged forearms fumbled; the cup nearly tipped before I slid a palm beneath.
"Steady," I murmured.
Garrick grunted, embarrassed. "Still learning new grips." He raised the cup in salute toward Zephyr. "My thanks."
Zephyr inclined his head. "A soldier deserves warmth more the most." He met my eyes next. "And a bard deserves a voice." He offered the second cup. I accepted; the brew tasted like winter pine warmed by hidden honey.
A rough cough drew my gaze. Nox stood over her sister, fingertips brushing Dalia's cooling forehead. "Your song helped," she said voice rough, unpolished, seemingly surprised at the kindness it was expressing, "Thank you."
I smiled. "Kindness is practice. I try to practice a lot."
Garrick cleared his throat. "Travelers we heard names. What about stories to fill the air." Garrick took a deep sip from the cup. "We fled the Great Tifan Wall seven days ago. The siege…" He looked down blankly for a moment as if relieving it. "No wall left to stand."
Zephyr lifted a carved eyebrow. "You were on the wall?"
"Sixty hours in the thick," Garrick answered. "Lost these " He raised the stumps, "saving a good friend."
I set my cup down. "My father was still fighting as the runes slagged. He'll be fine though. If anyone can carve their way clear, it's him. He is the greatest swordsman on Duskmere."
A silence settled over the camp for a moment before Ran Zephyr broke it. "Then may the wind carry him the rest of the distance."
He tapped two fingers against the kettle, as if measuring his words. "For my part, I come from Caelanth beyond the Azure Reach, east of every chart I've seen here."
I'd only ever heard of it. A land of humans, elves, and dwarves that comprised a massive empire. I'd heard from my father they were fighting a long war against beast people. Much like us in a way.
"Caelanth? They call it the Empire of Radiance, don't they? Streets of gilded marble, wheat oceans that could feed a continent "
His smile was thin,
My cup paused halfway to my mouth. "Oh." Curiosity dimmed, empathy kindling in its place. "Is that why you left?"
His reply was gentle. "Not quite. I was born there. Raised there. I wanted more than anyone for the Empire to regain its old glory, to prevent its fall. I tried my hardest with every trick I had and lost everything in the end."
His voice gained a slightly sorrowful edge, the air around us stilling. "I left because there are things one loves more than power. And sometimes the price of keeping both is … untenable."
Another silence drifted over the camp, before Zephyr broke the frozen atmosphere, "Where does your journey take you now."
"An old friend promised me sanctuary in . I promised to pay in sweat and steel." Garrick said, "She and I spent our youth together adventuring. But after she came back from the expedition our paths separated."
The embers swirled in the fire pit, odd for there was no wind. Zephyr spoke, "My road leads there as well. I have… business with Helena." He turned the phrase like a blade examining its own edge. "An old hunter told me that River Serpent Trail will halve our travel to seven days, if we keep the pace."
Garrick nodded, more comfortable now in his profession, "The hunter told you well. I know this area. The South bank's firmer ground; north floods this time of year."
"South then. If you can guide us, I will shepherd the wind to keep the worst rain and beasts from us." Zephyr's crimson eyes held no boast, just fact.
Garrick's lips twitched the closest he had come to a smile in the last week. "Wind cover is welcome."
Across the fire the daughter, Sylvia moved for the first time, as if she had worked up the courage. She produced a parcel of dense rye. "Bread?"
Her voice was like smooth silk, almost a lilting melody. If she were to be a singer she would be welcomed in any court.
I tore a chunk and passed it on. "Ballad fuel. Thank you, Sylvia"
Zephyr's wife still veiled, silent grabbed a pot hidden among the embers and poured stew into traveling bowls and set them before each of us. The aroma of earth root and onion enveloped the clearing.
I ate quickly, then tugged Garrick toward the lantern's edge. "Herbs first, lecture later." He sat while I unwound the old bandage. The flesh around the rough stitches looked angry.
"Comfrey again?" he asked.
"Comfrey, honey, and willow bark." I smoothed the poultice. My father used to make this to put on my scrapes when I was younger and was one of the few concoctions I knew. Garrick let out a sharp hiss as the poultice hit the wound. "Better than rotting off," I muttered.
"Better than rotting off," he echoed, nodding his gratitude.
When bowls were empty, Zephyr lifted two fingers. The surrounding fog began to compress over us like a dome, muffling the world. The owl cries and crickets grew distant. Soft blue lights floated overhead like tame fireflies.
I eased the violin into the crest of my neck. "Lullaby, or legend?" I asked the circle.
"Legend," Sylvia whispered, then darted a glance at her mother.
I winked at her, strumming gently. This time Cloudbreaker padded, not charged wolf song hosted for sleeping hearts. Garrick's big shoulders sagged; his breaths synced with the slow pulse of sound. Sylvia curled against the veiled woman; Nox settled cross legged, ever watchful, but her eyelids betrayed her, dropping. Zephyr sat apart, eyes half lidded, lips moving as if counting each drifting spark of mist light.
The last chord hung, a suspended note fading into silence. I let it breathe, then folded over the violin, cheek against smooth pine. The ground was a soft moss, the mist a cool blanket.
Somewhere beyond the ring a wind prowled, but it carried no howl tonight almost as though a house high wolf paced the perimeter, keeping lesser fears at bay.
Sleep found me, pine needle tea still sweet on my tongue, humming a tune for a new dawn