Part 1 - The Well

It was Niten’s turn to take the first night watch, standing beside his cousin Feigur. The otherwise silent night was broken by the whistle of cruel wind, slicing through the barren plain. It bit at his exposed ears and gnawed at his spirit.

It was not so long ago, perhaps two harvests, that he had felt the hometown winds of the Dalurheim Vale sweep his then mighty mane. His name, ‘beast’ in his native tongue, was granted by his manling peers for his shaggy outward appearance. Though he had given to shaving for his journey in the wilder lands, a custom of his tribe, he had decided to keep the name. Those along his path saw no irony in this, as his great spirit and short temper were reason enough to maintain it. It was those qualities, along with his skill at arms, that had earned him the acceptance of Elding’s growing warband. Feigur’s inhuman strength of lung had not hurt either, an attribute that had found him holding the warhorn.

Like the pebbles on a beach, it was the way of such warbands to be passed around the landscape, driven northwards, then southwards. A warbands compass is the whim and intuition of its leader, as they seek the attention of higher powers. Just days ago that dynamic had shifted somewhat, as all members felt a common whisper calling them southwards, unprecedented in living memory and myth.

Niten felt oddly tired, too tired. Today had not seen a full day's march before halting to make camp. The gods had gifted a rare resource, an old deep well, and the warband had seized the blessing. The well was flanked by leafless twisted trees, reaching for the sky in defiance of the conditions. Suddenly, the fire dropped as if by its own will. Niten and Feigur heard an eerie moan through the fog.

‘Eager’ Elding Stryksson was known by many for his impatience. In battle he was single-minded, and initially had no great desire to lead, only to secure first blood. As a skilled horseman with keen sight and a keener arm, he was gifted by the gods to succeed at his wish, and other warriors had flocked to follow him. Reflecting on recent developments, he slipped into an uneasy rest.

Violently, Elding fell from his sleep back to the ground. Stunned, he was no longer inside his tent, nor could he even see the camp. Unnerved, he found himself frozen for an uncountable period. The sky sparked violently, alive with his namesake and this shook him back to himself. Emboldened, he raised his arms and cried out, feeling a power dancing in the lights. Turning around he saw that he was standing before the well near which they had made camp. The level was brimming where previously it had lay deep. His gaze drawn beneath the surface, he saw all manner of places at once: green planes; deep caves; mighty cities; and lands beyond. Although he didn’t know how, he felt certain that in that moment that he was seeing through the eyes of the gods. Their gaze lay not on the wastes, not for now.

Feeling controlled by a will outside of his own, he cupped the liquid with his hands and, with a gasp, felt a searing burn. He opened his eyes, though was not aware of having closed them. The camp was again where it should be, the well was as it had been, and he heard a thud of footsteps. Declaring himself to his sentries, he wiped bloody hands across his chest. “Wake the others.”

The above is a first draft. Will revisit, and link to images of terrain/attempt art later in the month.