If the wolves did not take his life, surely this frost would. Stroud Rhain let the grim thought eddy within his mind like a good brew, hoping the thought would warm his mind if his body would not, rubbing his sheepskin gloves against each other one final time Stroud unraveled the thick ropes of Mercy’s reins from his right arm and gave her a gentle nudge with his heel to usher her to quicken her pace, the young destrier gave off a sharp exhale of smoke from her nostrils in annoyance but quickened her pace as ordered. She would make a fine steed for some young lordling one day; Stroud was certain of it, if the lad would have the patience to bear with her stubborn moments. Stroud kept a weary eye towards the forest clearings that flanked the stone footpath, ‘twas a blessing the winter had shed the leaves off the trees, it made spotting what darted between their thick trunks easier, but, as with all blessings, there bore a curse between it’s gifts; this godforsaken storm. The Falls was known to have snowfall at odd portions of the day, even during summer, but this storm blanketed the earth, it fell the livestock around the stead’s, it shriveled old farmer Malfrey’s crops which he attests has never happened since his great grandfather had first tilled the earth on Falls’s frozen soil.
‘Serpents hailing from the East’ a man said as Stroud fitted Mercy’s saddle pack days earlier at a merchant’s rest inn. ‘Wings that blot out the sun and breaths that carry the spirits of the fjords trapped within their monstrous gullets.’ His eyes told a tale all on their own; this was no frauds spindled tale to bring excitement to the otherwise middling lifestyle of the Fallian people, there was legitimacy in the eyes that his words could not have ever whispered.
And with dour news bearing weight upon his already heavy shoulders, Stroud set forth to the foothills of Whitemere, his birthland.
It was not long before Mercy gave another whinny and came to a halt, her hooves kicking at the snow below her iron shoes as if unsure of the path ahead. Impatient with Mercy’s random bouts of stubbornness, Stroud gave Mercy’s thigh a harder kick yet the proud destrier did not heed her master’s command, this time snapping the reigns against the long of her back Stroud gave a sharp cry to try and scare the young steed into motion, once more, the stubborn horse did not move.
Cursing her pride Stroud slowly unmounted from the steed and reached into the saddlepack procuring a small wineskin, Stroud’s head snapped back sharply as he swallowed a portion of the skin and reveled in the temporary warmth that ran like fire across his throat and into his belly. Forest White Wine plucked and churned for three days in a small hut off the borders of Whitemere, near the mountains that led to the stark lands of Gerdhardia. Gregory Yole, the winemaker’s son would occasionally bring his cart of Forest White Wine to the market stalls of Whitemere, but ever since the storms ferocity grew harsher so few did Gregory’s trips into Whitemere became, soon all deliveries ceased all together to much disappointment to the Bartley twins which still remain as Yole’s best customers.
Mercy shifted her snout and gave Stroud a wayward look, to which he returned with one of his own.
”Do horses drink wine, Mercy? Tell me true.” To which the destrier swished her pale pallid tail in reply, her foreleg digging a small hole in the snow.
“Well I dare say that it nay be true, for were it be the Bartley twins would slaughter every one of you within miles of Whitemere.” Stroud told Mercy quite a matter-of-factly before squeezing the skin shut and placing it back into its pouch on the saddlepack. Once again finding himself rubbing his fingers together Stroud turned and gazed up at one of the steep mountains that loomed over the pathway like a dormant titan. This was one of the many mountains that formed the border of the lands of Gerdhardia, not many traders flowed through the mountain passes, even before the storm began, some spoke of cloaked rangers bounding across deep valley’s, their steeds as black as the night and as swift as the north wind, others speak of wayward souls trapped in the ruins of a long lost kingdom. This was all spindled tales of course, half the people down south of the Falls with a sensible head about their shoulders knew that the steep highlands beyond the mountains belonged to the mysterious House Gerdhardt, their riders making trades with the outlying kingdoms every now and again, but for the most part they kept to their own but they were certainly a strange bunch, their people never seen without one of their signature black cloaks wrapped around their shoulders or without a hood obscuring their faces, sometimes Stroud did not blame the townsfolk for making up such fanciful stories, the people of Gerdhardia were indeed a strange folk.
Mercy immediately began to whinny as she brought up her forelegs in fear; the ground began to shake so violently the snow clumped upon the skeletal tree’s surrounding the pathway scattered and fell, making the world dance and swirl in a maelstrom of sound and violent movement where there was once nothing but solace and eerie silence. Stroud was nearly thrown to the ground by Mercy as the crude ropes of her reigns dug into his arms causing his frostbitten skin to peel away in twisting directions as Stroud struggled to calm his steed. An ear-piercing roar seemed to silence them both as a great shadow lumbered beyond the mountaintops, its call making Stroud’s blood run cold. It’s wings sent powerful gusts of wind whipping into the ground below, scattering snow in a powerful flurry that seemed to dance and swirl into a mystical dance before falling flat upon the earth once more as the beast passed, taking advantage of Mercy’s distracted state, Stroud jumped unto her saddle and urged her onward, his heel kicking deep and his control over her reins harsh as there was only one thing that lay in the north beyond these mountains…
It was heading towards Whitemere.