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“A far grotto?” The dwarf crunched loudly as he bit into his bread roll again. “I have been in and out of them, and every rune and symbol on the walls has been rewritten a hundred times in a thousand languages. No one has ever been able to translate what they say.”
Arnin hesitated, choosing his words carefully.
“That is certainly true, honorable Alba-udun,” he said in a low murmur, causing the trio to exchange glances. “And you have every right, honorable Lathea, the Shooting Star, and so does your husband, the Sage Arteus, to not trust me.”
“We don’t trust you only because,” Lathea cut in, “you wear chainmail under your hides. Do you know how many natives of this area wear metal?” She paused for a moment. “Exactly. Because even enchanted armor made from the finest artifact steel will freeze to your body so hard in the first blizzard that you’ll have to rip it off along with pieces of your bones.”
It was clear from Arnin’s incredulous look that he believed that what he had just heard was an exaggeration, which revealed him to be a stranger to these parts. Then the stranger turned around and examined the tavern’s guests. Apart from their weapons, none of them had anything made of steel or iron among their clothing or personal effects. Only furs, tanned skins, and tanned leather.
“But I got here all right, and it’s a real...”
“A real what?” Albadurt interrupted for the umpteenth time, then picked up another mug of mulled wine from the table. “If you call that a storm,” he waved his mug at the window, spilling some of the wine, “then man, have I got some bad news for you. That’s not a blizzard, it’s a snow hare’s fart. There’s going to be a blizzard next week. It’ll be so harsh that your balls won’t just retract into your body, you’ll cough them up along with your lungs if you don’t take all that steel off, may the Hammers of my Ancestors forgive me.”
Arteus nodded.
“Which leads us to one simple conclusion, honorable Arnin,” the wizard continued. “You are not from here. But you know about the Deep Grotto and its writings, and you’re trying to give us the impression that you know our identities.”
“Honestly,” Arnin coughed into his fist, “the identities of the Heaven Foxes are known to a lot of people in the Outlands. Your role in the fall of the Raven Sect is no secret.”
“Of course, honored guest,” Lathea nodded, leaning slightly on Arteus’ shoulder. “But we’re only geographically in the Outlands at the moment.”
“I understand.”
“If you really understand,” Arteus placed his hand next to his staff, “allow me to take the time to explain myself, or else whatever sect, hidden or otherwise, clan, or guild name you speak, we will be forced to react to your presence in a very unpleasant manner, and-”
“f*****g wizards,” the dwarf burped. “You need to learn how to make actual jokes. Tell it like it is: we’ll beat that venerable man until he’s black and blue.”
Arnin exhaled.
“I’m really not from around here — you’re right about that — and I apologize in advance for lying to you, but there are certain circumstances that prevent me from telling you the whole truth,” the stranger looked directly into Lathea’s eyes for some reason that did not please Arteus, and not even because it made him jealous.
“Then our conversation is over,” he said bluntly and dryly.
“Wait,” Arnin said a little louder, and then he looked around the tavern, as if to make sure no one could see them, and then he took off his gloves, rolled up his sleeve, and put his hand on the table, pulling back his chainmail. “I am not a native in the sense you’re referring to with that word. And I am not from the families or clans of the Outlands. I am the one true kind of native.”
“There are no organizations in the mountains,” the dwarf hiccupped. “What kind of bullshit are you...”
He didn’t finish speaking, and Lathea almost grabbed the spear beside her. Arnin’s hand gradually changed its appearance until it looked like something between a wolf’s paw and a human hand.
“My name is Arnin, son of Gark’aler,” the stranger’s tone now sounded more like a growl, and his gaze never left Lathea’s face. “And I need to speak with Hadjar.”
Arteus shifted his gaze from the clawed hand to his wife’s neck, where the whitish scars given to her by Fedenrir’s children still lingered.
Damn it all…
Chapter 1733
A man who seemed to defy Time itself stood on a rocky peak. His body was lean and sinewy, every muscle shaped not by the gentle caress of nature but by the relentless forces of the wild. This was a man who had fought battles not only against intelligent beings, but unimaginable phenomena and elements. His body was a testament to a life filled with the struggle for survival.
His face was framed by a thick, black beard, its color drawn from the deepest shadows. Long strands of gray hair flowed down his back, kissed by the wind whistling through the rocks, as if the storm brewing in the distant mountains recognized him as its kin.
His skin bore the marks of countless battles, each scar a reminder of the iron will that had guided him through adversity. These scars had become his armor, a shield forged in the fires of tribulation, a tangible testament to the strength he had forged with his own two hands within the crucible of unrelenting conflict.
He stood on the mountaintop, sword in hand, its blue blade adorned with the hovering silhouette of a Quetzal bird. His eyes were firm, his gaze cutting through the air like steel. He also looked ahead with the calm detachment of a seasoned warrior, one who had gazed into the abyss itself and never succumbed.
With a fluidity and grace born of centuries of practice, he moved through the intricate patterns of his swordsmanship, each swing, parry, thrust, and lunge weaving a verse in an ancient song of steel and blood. The wind danced around him, icy tendrils intertwining with his hair, paying homage to a Master whose visit was nearing its end.
There was a serene grace in his every subtle step, a deadly elegance that spoke of the countless hours he had devoted to the art of the sword. His movements flowed like a river, more elusive than the touch of the wind on nature’s canvas. In this warrior’s stances, such a harmony of strength and precision seemed innate, as if it were something he had been born with.
There was a quiet intensity in his eyes, a smoldering fire betraying the relentless longing that had brought him to this land. After all, he was not a poet, nor a musician, nor a father, nor a husband — just a warrior who had been tempered in the flames of endless battle to become something more. A man who never stopped striving to forge his own destiny in a crucible of conflict as old as the universe itself.
- Writer
