Tirost/Logs/WotWC-Prologue
Withering of the Wolf Clan - Prologue
A warm glow filled the bar room of Arnack's Tavern, along with the pleasing melody of a lute and bodhran, played by men so ancient, they looked as old as the tavern itself. Estlefen sighed with relief as she took a seat at the bar. Fresh soil caked her moccasins, and she grimaced slightly at the twinge of arthritic fingers as she pulled a few Kronars from her purse, and shouted hoarsely above the din of the tavern, "Barkeep! Mead!"
"'Ere you are, Ms. Estlefen," replied the barkeep, passing her a dark wooden mug. Her tongue ran over her lips, before she took and savored her first sip. "Giggling Glythtide, that's good!" she said grinning.
"Always best in the Spring," said Lymira, smiling to see the enjoyment of simple pleasures playing across the face of the aging farmer.
"You should try the rabbit stew, Ms. Estie," said Bullo, the barkeep's son of no more than ten years.
"En why's that, lad? They's some skinny varmints, though savory, I'll grant 'ee," teased the barkeep. Bullo stuck out his tongue at his father, and laughter spread among the company, amid the cheers and groans of the barbarians, rangers, farmers and trappers who had placed bets on whether it would be Guthro or Voruka who'd win the night's arm wrestling tournament.
Among those neither cheering nor laughing was a crooked man with mismatched eyes. He sneered, spat on the floorboards, and left the tavern. Anlaen passed. Stars and moons wove their course through the heavens into the dead watches of the night. Through the roads the man wandered, until he reached the new sprouting and freshly planted fields. A scowl black as Katamba fell over his features to see the small shoots of green starting to peek up from the rich soil in the dim red light of Yavash.
An owl hooted in the distance, and the man with mismatched eyes scanned the road leading back to Trefan Ulf, but saw nothing save a small fox moving north in search of an unsecured hen house. A low voice carried on the breeze, and a crooked grin spread across the man's features. "It's time," came a cold voice in his mind. His hand rose reflexively to his gwethdesuan.
"Aye, Mistress," he muttered aloud, wandering into the center of the field. As soon as he halted, a bag of glass vials seemed to shimmer into existence in his hand.
"Get to work."
The crooked man bent his back and trudged, spreading the vials' dreadful contents across the fields in the intricate pattern designed by his mistress, while the low murmur of incantations occasionally met his ears.