Chapter 1
“Stories are the windows of culture, the glass through which anyone can peer through and understand the collective feelings of society. A myth may be fiction, or perhaps it might be real, but it is the telling of it that gives it power, that curious nature a story has to present an idea and enrapture an audience.”- The Bitter Bards Cure, Kredic Thatch.
A mournful wind sent ripples through the treetops of a snow-tipped sea of trees, passing by the snowcapped homes of the small northern village of New Bristi. creating a long continuous rustle, an almost calming sound to those not feeling the icy fangs of the winds that brought it. Thankfully for them, most find them inside on this frigid night, taking their rest from a day spent doing what they could to ready their small hamlet for when the real strike of winter would arrive. Most locals slept in their homes, but some spent their meagre coin upon light reverie in the local bar. The bar was run by a young man, Harvey, and he was happy to see the bar be rather slow tonight, he was on his own for the night and could only pour drinks so fast. So it was much to his dismay when he heard the heavy wood door push open one more time, letting a chilling wind circulate through.
“Shut the door! Cold enough in this damn place without you letting the heat out.” The bartender grumbled towards the doorway, it promptly shut closed. But it didn’t take long for Harvey to notice the hush that had taken to the patrons, he looked up to the bar to see not a local but a stranger. Strangers aren’t overly common in town, not frowned on, there simply isn’t normally any reason for outsiders to make their way to the isolated snow ridden town. The woman standing at the door wasn’t too remarkable, somewhat short, couldn’t be standing any taller than 5’6”, her brown hair was roughly cut just below her ears and was parted to show her fair-skinned face and light blue eyes. She was dressed warmly in cheap furs, and the only particularly remarkable about the woman was the case of scrolls strapped to her back. She makes her way up to the bar and sits.
“...Looking for drinks?” Harvey asks after a few odd beats of silence stretch out between the two of them.
“Anything is fine please.” She smiles, the bartender pours some simple mead out for them, namely, the only thing the place has in stock in the first place. The woman cradles the cup reverently and raises it to her lips, a smile as she takes it in. “Thank you, sir, it’s been a long walk.”
“I can only imagine, closest towns a days walk, why come up when the sky is being particularly cruel?” Harvey asked, somewhat incredulous at this odd arrival. “If you came a few days later snow would stick you here for a bit, so what fool’s errand calls for this poor timing?”
“Research.” She said simply. “I’m studying folklore origins, I plan to write a book on them one day.”
“You’ve gone and risked dying, over stories?” Harvey asked, somewhat baffled at the matter of fact nature with which his new patron presented her task.
“Yes, it’s not so strange to be interested in the topic you know, and I heard your people had a very interesting tale.” She said, leaning on the counter as she begins sipping the drink.
“Didn’t know any word of us travelled too far, who are you?” He began to wash a few mugs, still keeping an eye on the newcomer.
“It doesn’t unless you have a trained ear for this stuff, call me V.” V smiled at the bartender before taking a long drink, almost finishing the mead. “And I have the finest senses for good stories.”
“Alright alright, I’m Harvey…” He takes a sigh before leaning against the back wall. “So what story is worth freezing over that you’re hoping to find?”
“Well Harvey, that starts with a question, does your hamlet largely subsist off hunting?” She leans back and finishes her drink. “Because I didn’t see any farms on my way here.”
“I suppose we do, what does that have to do with the story?” Harvey says.
“Well, stories usually reflect their society after all, so a town largely made of farmers would likely involve farms or at least elements of them into their tales, or a town that mostly has hunters for their food-” V stalls, prompting Harvey to finish, much in the fashion of a professor.
“Would make stories about hunters, but what story are you looking for exactly?” Harvey asked, somewhat annoyed with how she had phrased that with him.
“There’s a well-known tale out there, it gets changed a lot, but I recently traced its first version to your town. It’s called the hunter and the wolf.” V procures one of the many scrolls from her pouch and sets it down. “Am I mistaken?”
“Not quite, the story rings a bell but I don’t follow your questions. What’s that story have to do with anything, even if it’s from here?” Harvey says, slipping the now clean mugs beneath the counter.
“I wanted to hear the original, from the people who first wrote it.” V presses, leaning forward eagerly.
“Do I look to you to be someone who wrote an ancient children’s story? I hardly even remember how it goes.” Harvey shakes his head.
“Well, who would remember then, I’d like to speak with them,” V says, an impatience now seeping into the words of both parties.
“Prim, closest thing to a librarian we’ve got here, she’s asleep by now. I can offer you the spare room if you really must stick around.” Harvey reluctantly offers, he could already tell V would be somewhat obnoxious but wouldn’t wish a night in the biting winds on anyone.
“I’ll take that please.” She reaches into a pocket and sets down a silver crow. Harvey raises a brow at the Vacellan coin, but takes it anyway, noting that this woman was some ways from home.
“It’s over there, it’s not much, we don’t usually have people around who don’t live here.” Harvey points to a door in the back of the room. V nods thanks and walks over to it, opening the door to reveal the room to be quite small with one bed laden with furs and one stuffed pillow. A small counter is nailed into the wall by the bed, she sets her bags and scrolls down on it before preparing to lay down and get relaxed, excited for the day to come. Harvey ponders his strange guest before making sure her door was locked, he then closes up the bar and makes his way to his room, bundling up in preparation for the bitter chills. Outside the winds continue to whistle and prowl through the open streets, carrying only the slightest hint of howling and sickening thuds. From just beyond the hamlet a silent figure observes, watching the still streets before slipping back into the snow sheeted trees.
